To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,5
called a man of riddles and was himself impossible to read. Sphinx had seemed the only name adequate for his code, and he embraced it fully.
He wasn’t all that mysterious, in truth. Reserved, observant, and clever. That was all.
More often than not, it sufficed.
With a little time and undivided attention, the most extraordinary things came to life before his eyes, if he could just see the pattern…
“I had no idea you found art so inspiring, Sphinx.”
Biting back a scowl, John turned to face the now familiar voice of Weaver, the second in command of all covert operations in England. Weaver was smiling, leaning elegantly against the doorway of the drawing room, looking somewhere between coming in for the day and going out for the evening in his dress. As it was the man’s house, it was to be expected, but as John rarely went out for any social occasions, there was only one state of appearance he ever saw on others.
This was not it.
“Care to tell me what it’s hiding?” John said with a tilt of his head towards the painting, ignoring the teasing jab.
Weaver smirked and came over to look at it as well. “That one? That is the first landscape my wife painted after the children were born. What makes you think it’s hiding something?”
John ran a finger along the area. “Different strokes, not as careful as the rest, layered up.”
“Incredible.” Weaver shook his head in disbelief. “Nothing nefarious, we didn’t purloin it from any dignitary and paint over it. As I said, Emily painted it when the children were quite small. That area, I believe, would have been Alicia’s mark when her mother wasn’t looking. Rather than start over on a fresh canvas, Emily simply covered it up. Now I have artwork by my wife and my daughter in the same piece. Convenient, eh?”
It was all John could do not to grumble. With all the covert work Weaver had done, both in recent years and in his time before this when he had simply been the Fox, he had fully expected the mystery of the painting to be something worth discussing. The accidental brushstroke of a child was not exactly what he’d had in mind.
“If you say so,” John grunted, turning his attention away from the art and strolling to another part of the room. “Who else is coming this evening?”
Weaver went to the sideboard and poured himself some brandy. “Priest and Tailor.”
“Tailor is coming himself?” That was a shock, to be sure. Tailor rarely met with operatives in any sort of gathering, communicating more through messages than anything else.
“He insisted,” Weaver replied with a firm nod. “Oh, and Sketch, naturally.”
John turned to look at him, sliding his hands behind his back. “I’m not familiar with that particular operative. New?”
Weaver’s slight smile was unreadable, even for John. “Yes and no.”
Never one for the riddle-like manner operatives tended to adopt, John exhaled and flicked two fingers in a weak gesture. “Care to explain?”
Thankfully, Weaver didn’t evade further. “She’s a new operative, but she is not new to the network.”
That limited the list considerably, but not enough to give John any certainty or comfort about his partner. “From the Convent?”
“She is a graduate, yes,” Weaver confirmed without hesitation, “and her particular skills will make her an invaluable partner to you.”
John grunted softly. “I’ll take your word on that.”
Weaver was silent for a moment. “Do you have a problem having a woman for your partner in this assignment?” There was an edge to the question that brought John up.
He couldn’t start this assignment in the field disgruntled with his superiors, not if he wished to go on assignment ever again.
Provided he’d wish to go on assignment again after this.
There was every chance this could all be a dreadful experience.
“Not in the least,” John assured Weaver with a weak attempt at a smile. “I am well aware of how capable and dangerous the ladies of the Convent are. It is only the need for matrimony that I question.”
“That would be the question of the evening, would it not?” demanded a sharp, piercing voice that immediately caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand at attention.
It wasn’t an unpleasant voice, didn’t screech, wouldn’t chirp, and resembled nothing at all like the sound of claws on a slate.
It was the identity of the person belonging to that voice that rendered such effects on him.
And suddenly, he felt ill.
Please, Lord, no…
He was praying. He hadn’t prayed in a number of years,