other was done in pale blues and whites with pink and lilac streaks. “Sunrise, sunset?”
“Yes. Dad’s a night bird, Mum’s a morning person. My brother and I nicknamed them Sunset and Sunrise when we were little. I made these for them for their silver wedding.”
“They’re incredible but hardly economical. There must be hours of work in these.”
“Weeks and months actually. The ones I sold were nowhere near as intricate.”
“Could you make up a few samples? I think they’d sell for Christmas or wedding presents. Maybe as special orders.” Antonia turned the pillows over, inspecting the piping and finish. “I’d love to sell them. We just have to work out prices that cover the work involved.”
“No prob.” Judy took them back as Antonia stood. “We know where to find each other. Give me your mobile number, and I’ll leave a message when I have something to show you.”
Antonia drove away from the rectory and turned down the lane toward the station and the common. She’d check out these two Misses Black. Having seen Judy’s work, she was ready to accept her word that maybe the two knitting sisters would fit into the center. But what she really wanted was a couple of nationally recognized names, and if Michael Langton was as well-known as everyone claimed, he’d be a good one to start with.
The lane curved by the station; Antonia consulted the written directions and turned right onto a narrower lane that skirted the common. Antonia drove until the lane narrowed even further and, after several minutes, degenerated into a rough track with grass growing down the middle and overgrown hedges that brushed the car on both sides. No question the man lived in the back of beyond.
Potholes and ruts now joined tufts of grass as scenic additions to the lane. It wasn’t quite as bad as roads she remembered from centuries back, but it would definitely have been easier on horseback. Just as Antonia was thinking of turning around—or would have if there had been any sign of a gate or field to reverse in—the lane came to an abrupt end in a graveled, open area where she could reverse comfortably. As she turned sharply to the right, ready to turn around, she noticed a battered van parked under an overhanging tree and a narrow bridge.
Footbridge, she amended to herself. A couple of stout planks to be more exact, held down at each end with rough boulders. On the far side, a narrow footpath led to a group of buildings that resembled sheds or dilapidated warehouses.
This couldn’t be where he lived. She must have missed another turning. How could anyone, even a recluse, run a business here? Impossible to receive deliveries, and potters needed vast amounts of clay and minerals for glazes. What about food? Even back to nature self-sufficient sorts surely needed milk delivered. And how in Abel’s name did he fire the kilns? He couldn’t have electricity or gas this far out, could he? Hard to imagine coal or coke lorries venturing up that road. She wasn’t even sure her car would make it back.
Antonia locked her car. Foolish really. Hardly likely to be any sneak thieves around here, but city habits died hard. She crossed the narrow bridge. It was more of a small river than a stream—about three meters wide and running fast. The water shone clear and clean as it flowed over the bed of pebbles and sand. The afternoon sun glinted on shoals of silvery minnows as they darted back and forth. It would be fun for Sam to come fishing. Right now, she might as well see if the potter was at home.
The mortal appeared to inhabit a series of shacks—rough buildings, some mere lean-tos, clustered round a paved courtyard. Antonia passed each building until she found a mortal heartbeat, albeit a rather slow one, inside a long shed.
When a knock on the wooden door got no reply, she rapped harder before opening the door and calling out, “Hello?”
“What the hell do you want?” Wasn’t exactly the response she’d expected, but it was clear and to the point.
“My name is Antonia Stonewright. I’d like to talk to you about selling your work in my gallery.” That should work. She’d never met an artist who didn’t want to make a bit more money.
“My agent’s Robbie Peterson. Contact him!”
Damn mortals! She watched him bend over as his strong arms and broad shoulders eased trays of unfired pots into the open kiln. “I certainly will, but I would like to see some of your work first.”
He looked up, straightening as he turned toward her.
Something inside her did a little skip.
Sweet Abel! She was far, far too old and cynical to fall for a mere mortal. Even one as godlike as this specimen. They were a good three or four meters apart, but who could miss the dark, bright eyes; the unruly sandy hair; the wide shoulders, and the sheen of sweat across his face.
Unbidden, her tongue slowly licked her upper lip as the gums around her fangs tingled.
“My work’s on display in the Sewell Gallery in Guildford.”
And if she possessed a modicum of common sense, she’d be in her car, headed for Guildford. “Fine, but I doubt it’s open late on a Tuesday night, and I really do want to see your work. I don’t want to interrupt, and I don’t mind waiting until you’ve stacked your kiln.” Watching those shoulders as he reached and stretched wouldn’t be any hardship either. Here was a mortal definitely worth visiting in the dark of the night.
He raised one full eyebrow. “Might take me a while.”
“Doesn’t matter. I should have called before coming, but I was on my way home and…”
“You just happened to be passing?” His wide mouth twitched at the corners.
“No. I just happened to think it was only half a mile out of my way, and by the time I realized my mistake, I had no way of turning around.”
The twitch became a rather twisted smile. “You could have reversed on the open patch across the river.”
“I could, but I’d come this far, and I do want to see your work. I’m opening a gallery and craft center in the village.”
“I don’t make souvenir ash trays or milk jugs with ‘A present from Bringham’ on the side.”
“I should hope not. I didn’t wreck my car’s paintwork and suspension for tourist tat.”
His dark eyes lit a little as his smile broadened. “Since you’re here, you might as well wait.” He angled his head to the racks behind him. “I’ve two more trays to pack. Go into the cottage next door and wait. I’ve a few samples on the shelves. They’re not for sale at any price, but you can look. I’ll be along in a half hour or so once I get this packed and going.”
He hadn’t thrown her out, something she’d half-expected after his initial unwelcome. Seemed, recluse or not, he had more sense than to rebuff a potential sales source.
Lingering just long enough to enjoy the view as he hefted the next tray of pots, Antonia stepped out of the kiln room and into the courtyard. The first building to her right looked more like a henhouse than human habitation. The next, while as shabby as the rest, did have windows and a recently painted front door. A glimpse through the curtain of a table, a sofa, and shelves of pots confirmed her assumption.
She grasped the doorknob—a loose one, missing a screw. Home maintenance was obviously not one of his priorities. She opened the door. She could see the array of pots on the shelves across the room but couldn’t cross the threshold. His casual ‘go in and wait’ wasn’t an invitation to enter.
Drat! Nothing for it but to wait. Once he did actually invite her in, she’d be able to enter as freely and as often as she wanted to, and Antonia Stonewright was certain she would.
It had been a while—at least several decades—since she’d felt this strong a pull to a mortal. But it hadn’t been so long that she’d forgotten the sensation, and just thinking about the taste of his skin on her tongue had her gums tingling again.
She sat down on the step; stretched