Beneath a Bethel by April-Jane Rowan

Author:April-Jane Rowan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: dark fantasy, illustrated, teeth, fantasy world, horror fantasy, ghost fantasy, lgbt horror, lgbt fantasy, fantasy race
Publisher: GurtDogPress

6

I began to think the spectre I had seen had been nothing but my emotions running wild, my horrific memories rising to the surface like lost mementoes tossed in the Eldwen. In the days following the sighting, I mentioned nothing to Barnaby, instead pushing it from my mind, and soon I had forgotten it altogether. Only at night, as I lay curled under my dense duvet while watching the fire through the white curtains, did my mind stray back to that agonised face, so similar to how my own must have looked as I stumbled home through the snow, leaving a path of my flowing blood.

Despite these nightly nightmares, I forged ahead in the following weeks, applying myself to the lessons Barnaby was keen to impart, our days spent in the workshop and our evenings full of discussions in front of the fireplace. We fell into an easy routine, Barnaby soon letting me assist in running the house, from making dinner to tidying, all chores I was well introduced to from living with my family. At first, I had been surprised to find that he didn’t employ a maid or butler, preferring to see to such details himself on top of his consuming work, but I soon grew to realise that he preferred to keep to his own company. Only clients visited the house and he never talked of other Floris Masters or went out in the evenings to socialise.

I soon finished painting my next plate, copying the view from the window down to every chimney and dancing cloud within the sky. To begin with, I had felt tense using the paints, but in no time at all, I was revelling in them, the depths and shades of colour I could achieve, layering tones to create rich images. I poured over the books he had collected, melding beasts together to create my own creatures that pranced across the damaged porcelain. I envisaged climates so different from our own, swamps and deserts with cities that struggled to carve a living amongst them, and the weary citizens that populated them, twins of our own. Between painting, we would create the moulds, my clumsy hands copying his expert ones carefully as we smoothed and buffed freshly baked teeth. He taught me the timing for each firing and how to stack the teeth within the kiln. He demonstrated how to cover them in enamel until I was efficient enough in everything that I could be left with a collection of teeth, dipping them into the liquid and monitoring the kiln while he saw clients downstairs in the withdrawing rooms.

Barnaby found endless amusement in asking me questions about my paintings, pushing me to create stories and meanings for each image. He explained that great masters, the ones whose teeth are coveted beyond others, do more than just paint. They create miniature worlds held behind lips, metaphors and customs hinted at with each smile. To illustrate, he allowed me to watch him, how he weaved stories across the teeth, lost children finding homes made of ice or grand hunts culminating in a feast.

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