the fool for
Emily, drawing her out until she was pink-cheeked and giggling, convincing her
to put her fine pale hair in a bun and calling: "Come on Tink !" as they raced along the line of sticks to
confirm the length of each punch.
It wasn't until they'd eaten a second breakfast, and Pan had
led Nick and Shaun off to investigate the food opportunities of the Bondi
Pavilion, that Madeleine had a chance to speak to Nash. He and Fisher had paused, as they all did
eventually, to watch her sketch.
"Can I look–?" Fisher asked, pleasingly surprised
and interested, and she handed the sketchpad to him, glad she'd taken the
precaution of removing a couple of sheets before heading out.
Madeleine studied their faces as they turned over pages,
stopping particularly at the portrait of Noi sleeping to say impressed
things. Compliments were something she
struggled with. Either she thought them
over-effusive, a lie with ulterior motives, or she dismissed them as the
opinions of people who didn't know what they were talking about. Better than the alternative, of course, but
she never expected real appreciation.
She found herself thinking about Mrs Tucker, something she
hadn't managed to do since she'd understood the amount of death a cloud of dust
might bring. Mrs Tucker, who had been
substitute art teacher for all of two weeks when Madeleine was in Year Ten, who
had asked Madeleine to stay after class on her last day there and had
mercilessly deflated an over-inflated bubble of pride, pointing out issues of
composition, and Madeleine's complete absence of backgrounds. Cutting her to bits for deliberately avoiding
areas she was weak in, for acting as if she had nothing to learn.
Mrs Tucker, a scrawny, wrinkled, grey-haired woman, the
'wrong demographic' for survival. She
had given Madeleine the contact details of a talented university student
willing to tutor cheaply, and left not the burgeoning art genius who had stayed
back expecting praise, but a beginner, a pretender, overwhelmed by how far she
had to go. Madeleine could only hope
she'd been outside the dust zone.
And of course there were now new people to worry about, ones
she didn't have the luxury of ignoring – nor even wanted to. Proving Madeleine's expectations wrong once
again, Nash made several comments which showed he had a very good
understanding. And Fisher – Fisher
looked at her as if she had become suddenly real to him.
"I'm jealous," he said, handing the sketchbook back
with a solemnity which lent the words weight. "I can't do anything like that. It's a revelatory skill, isn't it?"
"Revelatory?" It wasn't a word Madeleine associated with her work.
"You see Noi as beautiful, and when we look at these
images, we realise that beauty as well."
"If we managed to miss it before now," Nash added,
mouth curving.
Madeleine, suddenly very glad she'd taken out most of the
sketches of Fisher, moved hastily on to another uncomfortable topic.
"I heard from my cousin before we left today. He'll be back this evening." She pushed on through the beginning of their
congratulations. "He's a Blue, but
he said that he doesn't create energy, he needs it. That two other Blues have been keeping him
alive."
She kept her gaze steadily on Nash as she spoke, and saw how
his face closed.
"A revelatory skill," Fisher repeated. Rather than disturbed, he sounded almost
pleased. "Also a skill which
involves paying attention to people. Is
your cousin returning home? We're
finding that it takes all three of us to keep Nash up – at least, without
needing to frequently rest. Though he's
highly stained, which must impact on the need."
"Can Greens gives you energy as well?" Madeleine
asked Nash, and flushed at the flat, accusatory note in her voice. "Is this why there's been so many
stories?"
"They can." Nash sounded resigned, then straightened, as if refusing to let himself
be ashamed. "Shaun's a good friend
– he volunteered to allow me to check. It's a different kind of energy." His
Emily, drawing her out until she was pink-cheeked and giggling, convincing her
to put her fine pale hair in a bun and calling: "Come on Tink !" as they raced along the line of sticks to
confirm the length of each punch.
It wasn't until they'd eaten a second breakfast, and Pan had
led Nick and Shaun off to investigate the food opportunities of the Bondi
Pavilion, that Madeleine had a chance to speak to Nash. He and Fisher had paused, as they all did
eventually, to watch her sketch.
"Can I look–?" Fisher asked, pleasingly surprised
and interested, and she handed the sketchpad to him, glad she'd taken the
precaution of removing a couple of sheets before heading out.
Madeleine studied their faces as they turned over pages,
stopping particularly at the portrait of Noi sleeping to say impressed
things. Compliments were something she
struggled with. Either she thought them
over-effusive, a lie with ulterior motives, or she dismissed them as the
opinions of people who didn't know what they were talking about. Better than the alternative, of course, but
she never expected real appreciation.
She found herself thinking about Mrs Tucker, something she
hadn't managed to do since she'd understood the amount of death a cloud of dust
might bring. Mrs Tucker, who had been
substitute art teacher for all of two weeks when Madeleine was in Year Ten, who
had asked Madeleine to stay after class on her last day there and had
mercilessly deflated an over-inflated bubble of pride, pointing out issues of
composition, and Madeleine's complete absence of backgrounds. Cutting her to bits for deliberately avoiding
areas she was weak in, for acting as if she had nothing to learn.
Mrs Tucker, a scrawny, wrinkled, grey-haired woman, the
'wrong demographic' for survival. She
had given Madeleine the contact details of a talented university student
willing to tutor cheaply, and left not the burgeoning art genius who had stayed
back expecting praise, but a beginner, a pretender, overwhelmed by how far she
had to go. Madeleine could only hope
she'd been outside the dust zone.
And of course there were now new people to worry about, ones
she didn't have the luxury of ignoring – nor even wanted to. Proving Madeleine's expectations wrong once
again, Nash made several comments which showed he had a very good
understanding. And Fisher – Fisher
looked at her as if she had become suddenly real to him.
"I'm jealous," he said, handing the sketchbook back
with a solemnity which lent the words weight. "I can't do anything like that. It's a revelatory skill, isn't it?"
"Revelatory?" It wasn't a word Madeleine associated with her work.
"You see Noi as beautiful, and when we look at these
images, we realise that beauty as well."
"If we managed to miss it before now," Nash added,
mouth curving.
Madeleine, suddenly very glad she'd taken out most of the
sketches of Fisher, moved hastily on to another uncomfortable topic.
"I heard from my cousin before we left today. He'll be back this evening." She pushed on through the beginning of their
congratulations. "He's a Blue, but
he said that he doesn't create energy, he needs it. That two other Blues have been keeping him
alive."
She kept her gaze steadily on Nash as she spoke, and saw how
his face closed.
"A revelatory skill," Fisher repeated. Rather than disturbed, he sounded almost
pleased. "Also a skill which
involves paying attention to people. Is
your cousin returning home? We're
finding that it takes all three of us to keep Nash up – at least, without
needing to frequently rest. Though he's
highly stained, which must impact on the need."
"Can Greens gives you energy as well?" Madeleine
asked Nash, and flushed at the flat, accusatory note in her voice. "Is this why there's been so many
stories?"
"They can." Nash sounded resigned, then straightened, as if refusing to let himself
be ashamed. "Shaun's a good friend
– he volunteered to allow me to check. It's a different kind of energy." His
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