The Artisans by Julie Reece

that’s more museum than home, but it can’t be helped. I haven’t seen my cat in almost twenty-four hours, and I’m nearing panic mode. I’ve been everywhere, from the mill to greenhouse, in and out of drawing rooms and bedrooms, and any other kind of room you can think of. As of eleven-thirty, there were only four places I hadn’t checked, and as I leave Gideon’s study, I’ve just marked another off my list.
    That leaves the attic, cellar, and west wing. Awesome. The thought of dealing with ghosts in the attic is too much tonight, same with the cellar. When Jenny mentioned those places, her voice was severe with warning. Either will be my absolute last resort. Idiotic cat. Probably curled up on some chair in a room I’d recently searched, laughing his kitty heart out. No way could I assume that, though. He’s my baby.
    That leaves me with one choice.
    Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner! The west wing it is. I head up the stairs as quietly as possible. Not that I can’t go days without seeing Jamis, but the one time you hope to avoid Mr. Crabby Pants … bang! There he’ll be.
    Other than our ‘moment’ in my workroom, the guy has barely spoken to me since I got here. He glowers at me with his beady little eyes through a couple of slits in his face. Jerk wad. I picture him as Gideon’s snooping little stoolie, watching me, reporting back to his master. Jenny keeps telling me what an honorable, loyal little stoolie he is, but other than the time he brought me cool stuff, I haven’t seen anything admirable. At all.
    I veer to the left and sneak into the west wing through double mahogany doors. The air inside the vast hallway feels bristling and eager with no lights on. “Edgar! Come here, sweetheart. You’re scaring mommy.”
    No meow answers from the black. I feel along the wall for a light switch finding nothing. The lamp I bump into on a buffet, however, makes a great substitute. My fingers twist the knob under the shade and glorious, if dim, light shines forth, enough to see by. “Okay. Operation: Where’s My Damn Cat is a go.” The hall is ridiculously long, with doors to the left and right that go on forever. The task of finding one silly feline inside is daunting.
    “One room at a time, Weathersby, let’s go.”
    The first three doors lead to elaborately decorated bedrooms. They appear neat, but dusty, as though no one’s used them in years. There’s a distinct smell in this wing of the house: pleasant, woodsy, though none of the fireplaces are in use, and tart, like black licorice. Edgar’s not in any closet or under the furniture. Where is that darn cat? In the fourth room, I flip on a small table lamp. It’s a sitting room, or maybe a library. There is a truckload of books in here.
    An old camera sits on a tripod in the center of the room near an ornate armoire. The camera’s middle looks like a leather accordion with two wooden boxes on either end. A big brass lens sticks out the front. I wonder if it’s the same camera I saw downstairs on my first visit. I think it is.
    Maybe Gideon collects them. Dozens of pictures fill small silver frames all over the shelves. The same little boy with blond curly hair smiles out from most of them. He grins from a bed or wheelchair in some. In others, he’s older, leaning on a pair of crutches. My mind wanders to the lion-head cane Gideon holds. The idea it’s just for show seems doubtful now.
    I lift another framed picture. A young Gideon sits in a high back chair with a book in his lap. There’s a crow on his shoulder with sleek, glossy wings, a childhood pet perhaps? How cool is that? Standing with Gideon in the photo is a tall man. Dark hair flows to just above his shoulders, but the same beautiful features make his identity unmistakable. Nathan Maddox, Gideon’s father. I replace the photo on the shelf.
    A quick sweep of the room produces no cat. I do however spy a painting over the large fireplace. This is clearly not a photo but a portrait