The Vanishing Sculptor by Donita K. Paul Page A

didn’t seem something to rejoice about. According to her father, this Wulder was real. But what did that mean? A real juggler was not much improvement over a storybook juggler.
    They came to the door on the left at the end of the hall. Librettowit knocked.
    “Come in.” It was Bealomondore’s voice.
    Tipper allowed Librettowit and Beccaroon to lead the way. She hung back in the doorway to see what their reception would be. The much shorter bird and tumanhofer afforded her no shield, and they didn’t block her view either.
    Bealomondore sat with his back to them. An easel before him bore a black-on-white sketch of a marione. This person, apparently a businessman, raised his eyebrows at the intrusion, but when the artist made a hissing noise, he composed his expression with a flinch.
    “I’m almost finished here,” said the artist without turning his gaze. “Sit down. Shouldn’t be long.”
    Bec remained standing, but Tipper and Librettowit sat on the soft sofa along the wall.
    Tipper watched as Bealomondore’s charcoal scraped lines across the paper. Occasionally, he stopped to deliberately smudge an area, creating shadows. The likeness to the man posing was remarkable, almost breathtaking, considering the artist worked only with black.
    Bealomondore signed his name with a flourish, put down the charcoal, and stood. “Done!” He turned the easel with an ostentatious gesture and beamed when his patron exclaimed his astonishment.
    “Marvelous! Incredible! You’re a genuine genius.”
    Bealomondore nodded without a trace of humility. He then frowned as the man pulled out his leather purse. He shook his head. “You pay at the front desk, then the portrait will be mounted, framed, and delivered to your room.”
    “Yes, yes. I remember now.” He gestured toward his likeness. “I can hardly take my eyes off it. My wife will be very pleased. Thank you, young man.”
    The marione businessman tore himself away from admiring his face on paper and scurried out of the room, evidently eager to pay the commission.
    Bealomondore wiped his hands on a gray cloth as he turned to his waiting subjects. His eyes popped open at the sight of Beccaroon. He squinted and glared as his gaze swept over the tumanhofer and came to rest on Tipper.
    “You,” he thundered and pointed a blackened digit. “You are the cause of this humiliation. You have stripped me of my pride. You have reduced me to such circumstances.”
    Tipper couldn’t see how she had caused anything. “Me?”
    His nostrils flared. His head reared back, and he looked down his nose with exaggerated indignation. But he spoke with subdued rage. “Yes. You.”
    “Bah!” exclaimed Librettowit as he jumped to his feet. “Is there no normalcy in this confounded country?” He shook a finger at the offended artist. “You’re a tumanhofer, aren’t you? Act like one.”
    “I am an artist first,” said Bealomondore, but the stab to his ego by a fellow tumanhofer had diminished his huff to a whisper.
    Librettowit walked over to the younger man and put his arm around his shoulders. “You are a great artist, it is true.”
    Bealomondore perked up.
    “But you are a lousy tumanhofer.”
    Bealomondore drooped.
    “Never fear.” Librettowit squeezed the artist’s shoulders and shook him. “You have before you the opportunity to win fame and recognition, not only for your own talent but also for your acumen in the recognition of another.”
    Confusion wrinkled Bealomondore’s face.
    Librettowit continued. “Because you had the foresight, the ingenuity, the sagacity to seek out the work of the acclaimed sculptor and artist Verrin Schope, you are in the position to retrieve three priceless works of art. In doing so, you will save not only the artist’s life but also the world.”
    Tipper managed to feel sorry for the man. He looked totally obfuscated by the charge to save his icon, Verrin Schope, and the world.
    “Me?” asked one tumanhofer.
    “Yes,” said the other.