The Grotesques by Tia Reed Page B

pencil running top to bottom. Not something she had noticed yesterday. She crouched to finger the crack, wondering what could have caused such damage in solid stone. Her fingers contacted a sticky dampness. She withdrew them to find the tips covered in blood. Her eyes shot to the ledge. A dark stain spread beneath the crack.
    She sprang back, keeping her hand at arm’s length as though her fingers were poison. Don’t be silly , she told herself. Don’t be stupid . Stone can’t bleed . Genord had to be playing a disgusting, sadistic game. She found enough anger to overcome her fear. One-handed, she rummaged in her bag, sweeping keys and a bar of chocolate, which she definitely deserved after this, aside to uncover a half empty packet of tissues. She unfurled one and wiped her hand. Intending to swab the wing, she moved forward. As she bent over the statue, a hand shoved her shoulder. She lost her balance. Her legs slid out from under her. She grabbed the foot of the grotesque as she fell against the ledge. Her head struck the edge. Old church bells chimed as she spun to a hut where a black-haired boy whittled at wood for a monk in a brown robe with a belt of rope.
    Ella groaned and opened her eyes. She pressed a hand to her stinging head, befuddled by the strange tableau. She blinked several times before the images of the grotesques sharpened. The hallucination had been uncannily clear. She wondered if it was the result of a concussion.
    The hunchback, Romain, was staring at her with distrustful eyes. His left hand pointed at the stairs to the belfry. His right arm hugged a pot to his body so tight it might have been full of gold. “Bats up.” The whisper was harsh.
    Ella lay stunned and winded.
    “You go.” Romain’s frustrated pleading sounded like that of a child.
    She felt for the ledge to help prop herself up. Never taking her eyes off the mason, she rose. “What happened, Romain?” She spoke calmly as she would to a child. “What damaged the grotesque?”
    “The stone contained an inherent flaw.”
    Ella whipped her head round. Genord, his flushed face at odds with his calm words, stood next to the fourth grotesque.
    “We shall permit Romain to continue his restoration.”
    Left with no choice, Ella battled the steady buffeting to join the caretaker. Eyes stinging, she turned back as she reached his side. Romain was rubbing a cheek over the head of the grotesque. With his hunched back and distressed face, he made a figure as bizarre as the statue as he ran a hand along the spine of the damaged wing.
    “Despite the interest Romain’s work generates, he is unused to spectators.” Genord stood erect and unconcerned, despite the raging wind. He gestured toward the steps.
    “What is he doing?” she asked, ignoring his obvious indication to leave. The hunchback crouched by the statue, scooped a handful of slurry from the pot, and patted it into the cracked wing. His fingers worked with a dexterity that belied his bulk and awkward mannerisms.
    “Restoration, Miss Jerome. You should use those ears God gave you.”
    “There was blood around the stone.”
    “I have already told you that Romain is prone to injuring himself.”
    Ella straightened her shoulders. The blood had been fresh, and the hunchback sported no visible wounds. “Perhaps he should see a doctor?”
    “For a cut finger? Really, Miss Jerome, I did not take you as one for histrionics.”
    “He is obviously ill-suited to his job.”
    “He is a master in his field and disinclined to allow a minor cut to impede his work. If you take his work away from him, Romain will die. He does not know how to do anything else.”
    “He really should see a doctor.” She wanted confirmation the blood had come from Romain.
    “You must already be aware that Romain dislikes people. An unnecessary examination could grieve him to the point of violence, especially when he is so intent on his work. I am surprised he was not more forceful with you.”
    Ella raised