Fabian: An Artisan-Sorcerer Story: Artisan-Sorcerer, #5

By Adele Cosgrove-Bray

The Artisan-Sorcerer's sanctuary is in danger.

Fabian needs to discover the source of recent attacks but he's an art teacher, not a detective. And the one Adept who might help insists Fabian resolves this crisis alone if he wishes to keep his rank within their secretive magical order.

When the enigmatic Peacock King of the Caldy fae makes an offer beyond Fabian's wildest dreams, it could be a golden opportunity. Or it could invite disaster.

From a Liverpool high school to a subterranean temple, Fabian navigates a spell-binding world of magic, mystery and murder as he races against time to save the Artisan-Sorcerers from being dragged into an ancient war between two powerful paranormal enemies.

Free content: Stapledon Woods, a short story by Adele Cosgrove-Bray.
Free content: Book Club Questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adele Cosgrove-Bray
• Release date: Sep 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370368495

Adele Cosgrove-Bray

Adele Cosgrove-Bray is a writer and artist. Her writing has been widely published traditionally in magazines and anthologies, and she has also explored self-publishing. Her Artisan-Sorcerer novels have drawn an impressive cult following. Other activities include photography, gardening and walking with her dogs through the ancient woodlands of the Wirral peninsula in England.

Book preview

To the public they are artists creating beauty

in their shared Liverpool home.

In private, they are members of an ancient

occult order

riddled with intrigue and power struggles.

Can Morgan keep them safe in their turbulent world of dark magic?

*******

Contents:

The Artisan-Sorcerer Series

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

Book Club Questions

Short Story – Stapledon Woods

More Artisan-Sorcerer Books

About the Author

*********

Fabian: An Artisan-Sorcerer Story

Chapter 1

There has been a complaint, said Roger Soames. He leaned back in his PVC office chair and rhythmically tapped a cheap ball-pen against the crammed pages of his desk diary. Have a seat, Fabian.

Fabian eased himself into the burnt-orange club chair in the headmaster’s office. He had arrived for this appointment on time, only to be kept waiting outside for twenty minutes. The psychological ploy had failed to unnerve him. What kind of complaint?

The headmaster’s silver hair glinted with the steely shards of light spearing through gaps in the plastic window blinds. One of your students, Jenny Martell, has accused you of looking down her shirt.

Fabian drew in a deep breath. Jenny Martell was a royal pain in the neck, one of a trendy clique who believed they were the hottest honey-pots in town. Would that have been on Friday afternoon, when I told her to button up her shirt and fasten her school tie properly? She’d undone the shirt so her bra showed. This was during a class tutorial. Everyone was sat around a group of tables while I was handing back graded homework.

Soames dropped his pen onto the desk and smoothed the sleeve of his brown woollen jacket. I believe you. But times being what they are, I have to log her complaint and give you an informal warning. You’re a good teacher. You’ve done wonders with the art department. And you’ve an impeccable track record as an employee.

A warning? Fabian frowned. Surely things wouldn’t go that far on the word of one student.

Soames said, A verbal warning only. It won't go on your work record. Teenagers can be difficult, and Jenny Martell is never going to be nominated for any Student of the Year award. I’m not going to take this any further.

Fabian nodded, controlling his annoyance. So what happens now?

Soames didn’t meet his gaze. I’m going to assign a classroom assistant to the art department. There’s always going to be another adult around. I know it seems OTT, but this school can do without more bad publicity.

I feel like I’ve been found guilty of something I didn’t do. Fabian rubbed his palms on his knees. The office felt uncomfortably warm. He focussed his mind on maintaining inner calm, checking that his shoulder muscles were relaxed and that his breathing remained even.

Soames picked up the pen again and began waggling it between his fingers. He enviously noted Fabian’s toned, athletic frame and chiselled good looks. Combined with the long ponytail of thick, wavy blond hair, the neat moustache and goatee beard, and the ice-blue eyes, it was no wonder this thirty-something art teacher attracted the attentions of hormone-frenzied teenaged pupils. Soames said, It’s also a preventative measure to protect you.

Roger Soames had done his best to improve this tough city centre high school but at times it felt like a losing battle. Many of the students treated him like the enemy. To them, he represented the establishment, the system, the oppressor - not just an ordinary man trying to encourage them to work for a better life for themselves. And his hands were tied; there was no effective discipline in schools anymore. The pupils knew this and ran rings around the increasingly disillusioned staff. He had lost many good teachers to easier jobs with better pay and much less hassle.

Soames glanced at his diary. He had an interview with the police in an hour’s rime. They wanted more information about an assault on one of his staff. The press had already begun hounding him for the story. More bad publicity. His retirement date could not come round soon enough. Yet he felt shame in admitting that, like many others in his profession, he had had enough.

He threw the pen down again and looked levelly at Fabian. You’re a good teacher and a valued member of staff, and I’d hate to see your career damaged by malicious gossip. But your lifestyle could be used against you. People get suspicious. These are paranoid times.

Fabian was about to reply but Soames interrupted him. I know it’s nobody’s business but yours how you live, but there’s been talk. This arts and crafts community you live in, it’s attracting curiosity. Some of the staff are uncomfortable. They’ve heard the students talking. There’s gossip about drugs and orgies and strange rites.

Fabian sat straighter in the low-slung chair. From the outset, their community had striven to keep their secret activities hidden from public knowledge. Total privacy was vital for them. Fabian carefully kept his reactions under control. If you want me to take a drugs test, I will. No problem. Right now if you like.

Roger Soames shook his head. If the governors request that, I’ll push for drugs tests for all the staff. I don’t want to single anyone out. That only fuels further gossip.

Fabian stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles, deliberately maintaining a relaxed posture. What can I say? People will believe whatever they choose to believe. Though it would be interesting to know how these rumours began.

Forget about it, said Soames, waving one hand dismissively. People trot out nonsense at times. They watch too many horror films and soap operas, then confuse them with real life. I’ve been in education for over forty years and have heard it all before, both from students and from staff. Just watch your back, hey?

Thanks for the heads up, said Fabian, frowning slightly.

Ok, I think that’s all we need say about it.

Fabian rose to his feet, recognising that Soames had just called their meeting to a close.

They exchanged a few parting words before Fabian left the headmaster’s office. He walked past the school reception desk, aware that the clerical staff were very careful to look busy rather than meet his eyes. He deliberately kept his expression neutral but he could feel their gazes locked on his back as he strode calmly down the corridor. He determinedly shrugged off irritation.

The sounds of colleagues’ voices from behind closed doors, reading class registers, calling for homework to be handed in, or insisting the kids settle down to work, could be heard as he headed along the main corridor towards the art department. He could hear the uproar even before he walked into the studio.

Quiet! Sit down in your places. Now! He frowned to add weight to his command, standing his ground in the centre of the chaotic room.

A volley of groans and complaints rolled his way as the children loudly scraped chair legs over the floor, dropped bags and flung themselves into their seats with as much melodrama as possible.

Who is responsible for that? Fabian pointed to a spider plant which had been knocked over. Its ceramic pot was smashed, and trampled soil smeared the surrounding floor.

Sir, sir! It was like that when we got here.

It wasn’t us, sir.

We didn’t do it, Mr Masters.

There was no point in arguing. He could not prove a thing anyway. He wondered where his colleague was, as someone was supposed to have been covering for him while he was with Soames. Couldn’t this high school organise even that much? He bit back a sigh and said, Everyone, hand your homework in. Put it in a tidy pile on the desk outside the staff room here. Then sit down again while I take the register.

He walked into the small departmental staff room and slipped his briefcase into a locker. He had only been out of the studio for seconds but the noise levels were already rising again. There was a hastily-written note for him on his desk. The newly assigned classroom assistant was off sick with a cold. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Chapter 2

How did your meeting with Soames go? asked Jim. He rested his weight on a tall stool while preparing the community’s evening meal.

The kitchen was informally divided into two areas, one for dining and the other for cooking. The room felt warm and welcoming. Fabian dropped his briefcase beside a dining chair and began easing his arms out of his jacket. It had been a long day and he was glad to be home. I got an informal warning for something I didn’t do.

Seems harsh. Jim smoothed his carefully-trimmed beard, which was densely streaked with silver.

Tell me about it. Fabian walked round the breakfast bar to the sink and rolled up his shirt sleeves. As he washed his hands, he gazed out of the window at several raised beds of soft fruits and vegetables. Is the boss around? I need a word.

Morgan’s at the new site, meeting with health and safety officials, said Jim, as he deftly chopped two onions. The sleeves of his blue jumper were rolled to the elbows, exposing wiry arms traced with scars from a lifetime of hard labour. He added the onion to a large pan of minced lamb which was browning on the cooker. Bolognese sound good? Oh, and the garage will collect your car tomorrow.

Fabian nodded, drying his hands on a towel. He frowned at the reminder of the vandalism to his car tires which he had found this morning. It really had been a long day.

Cyril’s worse, said Jim, reaching for two red peppers.

Oh? Fabian poured water into the kettle. He was thirsty as well as hungry.

The doctor wanted him to go into hospital but Cyril refused. Nothing can be done anyway, other than to make him as comfortable as possible. Jim kept his gaze fixed firmly on the chopping board.

Jim and Cyril had been friends for decades. They’d worked together on trawlers sailing out from Mallaig, and toiled side-by-side when their remote crofts needed a second pair of strong hands. They had been to each other’s weddings and, years later, to the funerals of each other’s wives. And later still, when advancing age was already creeping up on them, their lives had been changed forever when Bethany Rose arrived in Knoydart, a wild and ruggedly beautiful, isolated peninsula on the west coast of Scotland. Jim and Cyril had been part of the small business enterprise she had created; and only for her would the two men have agreed to leave their beloved homeland.

Fabian watched the guarded emotions flit over Jim’s lined face. Does Bethany Rose know?

Jim nodded, turning away to add the diced red peppers to the pan of sizzling mince and onion. She’s with Cyril now.

Fabian began making tea for Jim and himself. Do you ever regret leaving Knoydart?

Aye, sometimes, said Jim, his Scots accent undiluted despite the years living in Liverpool. He gently stirred the pan’s contents. City life’s not for me. I miss the sound of the wind over open spaces. I miss the clean tang of sea air and the feel of raw earth beneath me; the roll and pull of the tides. He looked down at the leg which had been partially amputated many years ago. Ah, enough; I’ll be getting sentimental. You must visit Knoydart someday.

Fabian opened a drawer to get a teaspoon. I’ve a standing invitation from Kelvin to visit him there any time. It was an invitation he had no intention of accepting.

Jim nodded but said nothing. Kelvin Whalley had continued running part of Bethany’s business after she had left Knoydart. He offered walking, climbing and canoeing breaks to tourists. He usually visited Morgan’s household once or twice a year, which was quite enough for Fabian’s liking.

Jim set plates to warm on the cooker top. Renovating this old Georgian house and being a part of this community has been a pleasure. Hard work, but enjoyable. But times are changing; like your car tires being found slashed this morning. That would never have slipped through Cyril’s or my attention once. Now we both slept soundly through it. Not that anyone would expect... Not in Cyril’s condition.

Fabian eased himself onto a stool on the opposite side of the breakfast bar to Jim, who was trying to hide his real feelings behind his characteristic dour façade.

Jim wagged the wooden spoon as he made his point. Cyril’s not the only one who can’t do his job anymore. I’m not much younger than he is. Our skills as shamans have protected this community in the past, but he can’t do that now and I’m not far behind. We need new blood, Fabian. And fast.

Fabian sipped his tea. Jim was right. In addition to the rumours of drug abuse and ritual magic which Roger Soames had brought to his attention, this now made two issues that he needed to raise with Morgan.

When the small community took informal places around the kitchen table, Fabian and Bethany Rose served dinner. The mood was sombre. The six of them were thinking of Cyril, who was sleeping in his room just across the hall. At least the syringe driver meant his pain could be properly controlled.

Bethany carried a bowl of grated Caerphilly cheese to the table. She was a short but curvaceous woman with hip-length glossy black hair. She looked ten years younger than her mid-forties. Her beauty owed nothing to surgery but to her daily routines of yoga, meditation and other, more secretive practises.

How is Cyril? asked Cadi, twirling spaghetti round her fork. Her fashionably layered brown hair hung to the shoulders.

I don’t know, Cafell replied, her short 1920s bob swinging with the slight shake of her head. It was the twin’s differences in hairstyle which enabled casual observers to tell them apart, especially when they were dressed in the identical white tunic and black trouser uniforms of Renaissance, the beauty salon they co-owned.

Bethany said, Cyril’s slipping fast. The doctor told us he could go at any time.

There was an uncomfortable pause. No-one knew quite what to say without resorting to clichés or platitudes.

At least it’s been a short illness, said Cadi, quietly. Only a few weeks ago Cyril and I were weeding the strawberry bed in the garden together.

Cafell watched Bethany sprinkle cheese onto her Bolognese. Cafell’s own plate was only half full, and not one flake of cheese would pass her carefully made-up lips. She was determined to preserve her svelte, willowy figure. She turned her attention to her twin sister Cadi, and said, That’s often the way with stomach cancer.

Jim scowled, irritated by Cafell’s blunt manner. He had no appetite. The food felt unpleasant in his mouth. To change the subject, he looked to Rowan and asked, How was university today?

Fine, thanks, Rowan replied. His sandy-auburn hair flopped over his pale forehead, and he used one slender hand to brush it away from his winter green eyes. I was doing revision, mostly, in prep for the final exams.

Where’s Morgan? asked Cadi, as she reached for a glass of water.

He’s still out, Jim said. He phoned to say he’d be late. He pushed the food around his plate, pretending to eat.

Any problems with the new site? Fabian dabbed his lips with a napkin. The Bolognese was delicious; spicy and juicy, just how he liked it.

Jim shrugged. The boss isn’t likely to tell me. I’m just chief cook and bottle-washer.

You’re much more than that, Jim McAdam, and you know it, said Bethany, with a warm chuckle. You’ve virtually re-built this house.

Jim wriggled on his chair. Ah, nonsense. A few shelves here and there, a bit of DIY....

You built this entire kitchen! Bethany refused to accept his understatement. This place was a wreck when we moved in, and now look at it. You and Cyril did a wonderful job of renovating these old rooms.

You’ve made a real home for us all, said Rowan, who had grown fond of the dour old Scot. Jim had gone out of his way to help him settle in after Morgan had brought him into the community.

Bah! mumbled Jim, grinning and looking bashfully at the table top. Then he thought of Cyril growing weaker by the hour and his mood faded back to grey.

Frenzied barking erupted from the living room where the dogs had been dozing. Seconds later, the front door opened and Morgan was greeted by his two huge Irish wolfhounds, who were delirious with joy now he had come home. Morgan made a big fuss of Sage and Onion, who then happily padded after him down the hall and into the kitchen in the hope of further cuddles or food, whichever might be on offer.

The six people at the table looked expectantly at Morgan.

Morgan offered the faintest of smiles. The new site passed all health and safety checks.

Excellent! Bethany jumped out of her chair and rushed to Morgan, flinging her arms around his neck. He readily returned her embrace, nuzzling his face into the side of her neck.

Cadi smiled at their near-legendary love. She glanced at Rowan. He was smiling too, perfectly at ease with the three-way relationship which he, Morgan and Bethany shared. She felt envious; not of them personally but of their love. She wished that someone would love her that much.

Cafell studied her sister’s reaction then looked away, unable to hide her contempt. This was not missed by Fabian.

Cadi sat cross-legged on a thick rug in the lounge, plucking at a beautiful antique sopranino mandolin. Firelight from the Georgian sandstone fireplace brought out the warm colours of the instrument’s wood. Onion’s nose was resting on Cadi’s calf. The dog’s dark eyes gazed upwards, silently pleading for her attention. Every so often Cadi stopped plucking a medieval madrigal to gently massage the wolfhound’s fluffy grey ears. Each time she did this, Onion’s tail thumped happily against a leather armchair.

Rowan sat nearby, reading through course notes and checking details in the text books which spilled over a low table. There were several such tables in the room, each with a few comfortable chairs set around them as if this was a private club or a hotel lounge. One table housed a chess board, with a game halted in mid-progress. Rowan enjoyed the in-house tournament even though, as Bethany Rose liked to point out, Morgan always won and Fabian always came second. Rowan had been giving the other contenders some tough competition for third place, however.

Is my music distracting you? Cadi looked across the room to Rowan, who was clearly engrossed in his work. She plucked a few bars of another tune as she spoke.

Not at all. He didn’t raise his head, hoping that she would take the hint.

Time flies, don’t you think? I mean, Cafell and I opened our salon three years ago. That’s gone over so quickly.

Hmm, murmured Rowan, continuing to read. His university’s exams began soon. He was determined to do as well as possible.

I can remember the two of us viewing the salon for the first time. Dreary and old-fashioned, it was; a real granny’s shampoo and set joint. Faded flowery wallpaper and curling photos of dead actresses. But we knew it would be fine once we’d changed everything.

Hmm, mumbled Rowan again, frowning faintly. He pointedly turned a page of his notes and tapped his pen on the nearest text book.

Cadi strummed a few chords of another medieval madrigal, then said, It’s difficult sometimes, though, with Cafell and I both living and working together. Oh, I know the attic conversion is divided into two rooms, and we each have separate sides, but even so... People often think twins want to do everything together. Cafell and I look similar but we are two very different people.

Rowan sighed and continued trying to study.

I mean, for example, Cadi said, oblivious to Rowan’s deepening frown and the increasing tension in his shoulders, we don’t even like the same men. Cafell always goes for sophisticated business types, but I don’t. She always expects to get who she wants, but the man I like hardly even notices me.

Rowan glanced at her.

Her shoulder-length brown hair shook jiggled softly as she laughed, then she said, Don’t look so worried! I didn’t mean you. You’re too young. And I know you’re all Morgan’s. What’s it like, being his pupil? You know, so many people in our order would give their eye-teeth to be in your position.

Rowan sat straighter, paused, and then closed his books. He began stacking them together, as clearly Cadi wasn’t going to let him study in peace. This arts and crafts community was also a branch of an international religious order, whose occult practises he had begun to study; Morgan had taught him much but Rowan was still very much a novice. He simply said, I love being with Morgan.

Cadi watched him stand and gather his things. Hoping to provoke a response, she said, I think Cafell is a little jealous of you and Bethany Rose.

Why? He walked a few paces towards the door.

Cadi shrugged and played dumb. Oh, I’m probably wrong; she doesn’t tell me everything. I don’t tell her everything, either.

Then what exactly is your point? Rowan was irritated by Cadi’s chatter. She was the one community member that he struggled to get along with.

Cadi smiled and strummed a few more chords. I did tell you she goes for powerful business types - like Morgan.

Rowan paused in the doorway. A sharp retort was on the tip of this tongue but he bit it back, refusing to be drawn into some stupid squabble. He took a deep breath then left the room. He walked down the hall to the stairs, intending to continue studying in his own room. As he passed Cyril’s ground-floor room, he didn’t notice Fabian sitting beside Cyril’s bed, holding the elderly man’s frail hand while Cyril drifted in and out of consciousness.

Fabian, however, had heard every word of their conversation.

Chapter 3

Fabian rewound the CCTV footage. Nobody else was using the small office, so other than for the soft hum of electronic equipment it was quiet on the second floor.

The footage showed predictable images of his and Morgan’s cars parked on the gravel drive in front of their home. The lens captured the viciously-thorny berberis hedge growing beside the sandstone boundary walls. A second camera covered the side of the house, where access was blocked by tall railings and more berberis. A third camera guarded the back garden, with its fruit and vegetable beds, tool sheds and greenhouse. The monitor screen now showed the chicken coup with its fenced-off run for Bethany’s beloved hens.

When he had first accepted Morgan’s invitation to join this household, back when the two of them still lived in Nottingham, Fabian had thought Morgan’s security plans for his proposed community were over—the-top. Now he knew better. Aigburth was a lovely area, and the city of Liverpool had been statistically shown to be one of Europe’s safest cities, but Morgan had made powerful enemies within the order. There was no love lost between Morgan and Daniel Llewellyn, the head of the order in Britain. To say that Daniel was displeased when Morgan won the right to found his own branch of the order in Liverpool was akin to describing Everest as a bit of a climb. That the woman they both loved chose Morgan over Daniel was no surprise, but Daniel was also Bethany Rose’s mentor. He believed her rightful place was beside him. Bethany disagreed. Fabian knew Daniel too well to expect him to accept defeat.

As Morgan’s second-in-command, Fabian had crossed swords with Daniel before. It was not something he wished to repeat, but he knew this was inevitable at some point. It was only a question of when and how.

A blur of on-screen movement caught Fabian’s attention. He re-wound the footage to the start of that section then played it through at normal speed. The computer screen showed a slender figure of average height walking into view on Aigburth Drive, then hesitate at the sandstone gateposts while quickly looking around. The figure was dressed in dark jogging clothes, with a hood pulled up and a scarf over the lower half of their face as if they already knew about the CCTV cameras.

The sombre-clad figure crouched beside Fabian’s car. Then he or she rolled up a trouser leg and, with a gloved hand, pulled out a knife from a calf-sheath. It was not a blade designed for friendly camping trips. Without wasting time, the vandal ripped the knife into first one tire then the next. It was over swiftly, as if the act had been practised. The knife was returned to the sheath, the trouser leg was tugged straight again, and then the figure hurried away, pulling down the scarf only as the gatepost was rounded, leaving behind a blurred glimpse of a pale face.

Fabian tried to improve the image. No distinguishable features emerged from the blur of enlarged pixels. He couldn’t even be sure of the figure’s gender, though guessing from the shoulders and shape of the exposed calf it was probably male. The clothing was too baggy for certainty, however.

He sighed and leaned back in the office chair, staring angrily at the pale, unfocussed face on the screen. He focussed his mind and reached out, trying to feel for any psychic impression but, unusually for Fabian, he felt nothing. Perhaps his annoyance at the damage to his car blocked his subtle arts.

Why had his car been targeted while other nearby vehicles remained untouched? Fabian’s Renault Megane had been nearer to the road than Morgan’s glamorous Alpha Romeo Competizione, making an easier target, but the vandal hadn’t even tried to approach any other cars. The figure had hurried away in the same direction from which he or she had arrived, implying that this was a deliberate attack. Their movements had been swift and furtive, as if expecting discovery. Had the vandal known that the property was watched over by two shamans? Fabian’s frown deepened as he mentally calculated the small number of people who were party to this information.

Then he leaned forwards to store the footage on a computer disc before forwarding copies to the police and his insurance company. He felt sure the police could do little; there was not enough for them to go on; anyway they had bigger fish to fry.

Fabian heard the rattle of Bethany Rose’s antique sewing machine as he descended the stairs. He went into the spacious ground floor art studio where the air always smelled of oil paint, turpentine, drying clay and damp leather. The description of theirs being an arts and crafts community was no lie, even if it wasn’t the whole story.

In the middle of the studio floor were several tall artists’ easels holding paintings in various stages of creation. Bethany’s electric kiln was in one corner, and lining one wall were shelves storing in-progress pottery pieces and her motley collection of potter’s tools, air-tight tubs of underglazes and glazes. Plastic bags of clay were stacked beside an aged potter’s kick-wheel.

Strong security bars protected all the ground floor windows. Their shadows cast dark lines onto the drawn-down Roman blinds. Fabian’s scarred desk, where he made intricately-tooled leather masks, was sited near one of the large windows. The vats where he soaked new leather for almost two years in a pungent mix of water and oak bark were in the basement. Whenever he carried wet leather from the vats to the studio, the smell overpowered any other in the already fragrant room. Fabian loved the smell; he loved the studio. It was his favourite room in the house.

Bethany Rose looked up from her cast-iron sewing machine as Fabian joined her. The manufacturer’s name, Vickers, was painted in ornate gold lettering on one side of the curvy black machine. Morgan had offered to buy her a modern electric one but she insisted that this clattery old thing was fine and, besides, she could dismantle and fix this herself without having to call out an engineer.

The comfortably-worn swivel chair creaked as she leaned back in it. She was working on a traditional block patchwork design called Log Cabin, which was built up from thin strips of cloth bordering a red square. Two sides of strips were paler to compliment the red, while the other sides were darker to create contrast. Once many of these had been made, they were sewn together. As the process was repeated and the pattern grew, the visual impact was stunning.

Fabian folded his arms and perched on the side of her table. Another quilt?

She nodded, studying the fabric bunched in her lap. It’s for the opening exhibition. The new site will be ready before we know it.

He nodded, feeling a twinge of envy. I wish I had more time for my crafts. I’d love to go part-time at the high school.

That should be possible once we’ve got the new site up and running, hmm?

Fabian laughed softly. You’re starting to sound like Rowan.

She fiddled with a pair of tiny gold scissors whose blades were made to look like a bird’s beak. When I start saying ‘mandatory’ and ‘algid’ all the time, then I’ll sound like Rowan. Her smile let him know she was only teasing. She, Rowan and Morgan shared a very special bond, and Fabian knew the triad adored each other. Seriously, once the new site’s open, things will improve. Until now we’ve been limited to selling work online or at crafts fairs, or through sympathetic shops like the Antiquarian Emporium, and they always want a high percentage cut. But now, with the new gallery, we’ll have total freedom.

Fabian rubbed his palms on his jeans. Here’s hoping. Goodness knows we’ve been over the business plans with a fine-toothed comb.

Bethany shrugged and was about to reply when a sharp crack sounded against the front window.

What was that? she said, rising from her chair and turning to look.

At the exact same moment, the two Irish wolfhounds burst into furious snarling as they tore down the hall and leapt at the front door.

Fabian frowned and walked to the window, lifting the Roman blind out of his way. It sounded like something struck the glass. I can’t see any cracks but it’s too dark outside to see much.

From the kitchen doorway, Jim called out, What’s the matter with you hounds? Shush now, shush! You’ll wake Cyril with your racket....

Cafell joined Jim in the hall. I was in the lounge and heard the gravel crunching, like someone running away.

Fabian and Bethany Rose quickly joined Jim and Cafell in the hall. Fabian switched on the exterior security lights. Let’s take a look outside.

Sitting on the pale grey gravel beneath the studio window was a chunk of broken brick. A dent showed where it had struck one of the security bars.

This was no accident, said Bethany, rubbing her arms against the chilly night air.

A fair bit of force was used to dent this metal, said Jim, probing the mark with his thumb as if sensory experience gave him further knowledge of the damage.

We’ve lived here undisturbed for all these years, then first Fabian’s car tires, and now this. Bethany Rose gazed across the road to the park which was shrouded by dense shadows.

At that precise moment, a sharp gunshot rang out and the CCTV camera over the front door exploded into fragments.

Down!

Everyone threw themselves to the ground on Bethany’s command. Jim swore as the gravel bit into his palms. He had landed more awkwardly than the others due to his disability.

Fabian said, Jim, can you sense anything?

Give me a minute.

Fabian barked, We don’t have a minute.

Jim scowled and focussed his mind.