local fleet, fish were the one item in ample supply.
Gilla sighed. She had enjoyed their affluence – enjoyed putting meat on the
table and experimenting with the spices imported from the north. But they had
subsisted on coppers for more years than she liked to remember, and few enough
of those. She was an expert on feeding a family on peas and promises. They would
survive the Beysib as they had survived everything else.
Alfi’s short legs were carrying him determinedly towards the door to Lalo’s
studio. Gilla scooped him up and held him against her, still squirming, and
kissed his plump cheek.
‘No, love, not in there – Papa’s working and we must leave him alone!’
But it was odd that Lalo had not at least called a welcome when he heard her
come in. When he was painting a sitter, Vashanka could have blasted the house
without his noticing, but there had been no commissions for some time, and when
Lalo painted for pleasure he was usually glad for an excuse to break off for a
cup of tea. She called to Latilla to take her little brother into the children’s
room to play, then coaxed a fire to life in the stove and put the kettle on.
Lalo still had not stirred.
‘Lalo, love – I’ve got water heating; d’you want a cup of tea?’ She stood for a
moment, hands on hips, frowning at the shut, unresponsive door; then she marched
across the floor and opened it.
‘You could at least answer me!’ Gilla stopped. Lalo was not at his easel. For a
moment she thought he must have decided to go out, yet the door had not been
locked. But there was something different about the room. Lalo was standing by