Voyage From Yesteryear

“They’re priceless,” Celia commented dryly from her chair. They had been, literally, but the irony was lost on Mrs. Crawford. Veronica caught Celia’s eye with a warning look.

“They must be, mustn’t they,” Mrs. Crawford agreed blissfully. She shook her head. “In some ways it seems almost criminal to take them, but…” she sighed, “I’m sure they’d just be wasted otherwise. After all, those people are obviously savages and! quite incapable of appreciating the true value of anything.” Celia’s throat tightened, but she managed to remain quiet. Mrs. Crayford fussed with her pile of boxes. “Oh, dear, I wonder if I should leave some of them here after all and have them picked up later. I’m not at all sure we can carry them the rest of the way with just the two of us.”

“That would be quite all right,” Celia said.

‘We’ll manage,” Veronica promised. ‘They’re more awkward than heavy. You worry too much.”

Mrs. Crayford glanced at the dock display on the room’s companel. “Well then, I really must be getting along. I did so enjoy the trip and the company. We must do it again soon.” She heaved herself to her feet and looked around. “Now, where did I leave my coat?”

‘I hung it in the hallway,” Veronica said, getting up. She walked ahead and out the door while Mrs. Crayford waddled a few feet behind. “Don’t bother bringing anything out, Celia,” Veronica’s voice called back. ‘I’ll come back in for the things.”

Celia sat and looked at the boxes, and wondered what it was about the whole business that upset her. It wasn’t so much the spectacle of Mrs. Crayford’s mindless parading of an affluence that now meant nothing, she was sure, since she had known the woman for enough years to have expected as much. Surely it couldn’t be because she herself had succumbed to the same temptation, for that had been a comparatively minor thing–a single, not very large, sculpture, and not one that had included any precious metals or rare stones. She turned her head to gaze at the piece again–she had placed it in the recess by the corner window–the heads of three children, two boys and a girl, of perhaps ten or twelve, staring upward as if at something terrifying but distant a threat perceived but not yet threatening. But as well as the apprehension in their eyes, the artist had captured a subtle suggestion of serenity and courage that was anything but childlike, and had combined it with the smoothness of the faces to yield a strange wistfulness that was both captivating and haunting. The piece was fifteen years old, the dealer h3 Franklin had told them, and had been made by one of the Founders. Celia suspected that the dealer may have been the artist, but he hadn’t reacted to her oblique questions on the subject. Were the expressions on those faces affecting her for some reason? Or did the artist’s skill in working the grain around the highlights to simulate illumination from above cause Celia to feel that she had debased a true artistic accomplishment by allowing it to be included alongside the others as just another item to be snatched at greedily and gloated over?

Veronica came back into the room and began picking up Mrs. Crayford’s boxes. “It’s all right. You stay there, Celia. I can manage.” She saw the expression on Celia’s face and smiled. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I know–awful,

isn’t it. It’s just a phase. She’ll get over it. “I hope so,” Celia murmured.

Veronica paused as she was about to turn toward the door. “I’m beginning to miss being thrown out in the middle of the night. How’s your handsome sergeant these days? You haven’t finished with him, have you?”

Celia gave her a reproachful look. “Oh, come on… you know that was just a diversion. I haven’t seen him for a ‘while now, but then, everyone has been so busy. Finished? Not really . . . who knows?” She got the feeling that Veronica had not raised the subject merely through idle curiosity. She was right.

“I’ve got one too,” Veronica whispered, bringing her face

close to Celia’s ear.” “What?”

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