Dreaming of a Wolf by Grey Sofia

Author:Grey, Sofia [Grey, Sofia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Acelette Press
Published: 2015-04-17T07:00:00+00:00

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The weather was foul in the morning, as we all prepared to go see the jeweler. Even though the rush-hour traffic meant a cab would take forever, there was no way I’d venture underground, and go on the Tube. Luce pointed out gently that Alun probably hadn’t been on the train at all, but the idea of being so far below the surface now freaked me out.

We climbed out of the cab, onto a busy side street, filled with small independent shops and studios. The jeweler was sandwiched between a leather shop and a tiny café—no more than a takeaway cart. I hesitated, ignoring the wind that whipped my hair, and the rain it carried.

This place might hold the key to Alun’s disappearance. I was scared it might come to nothing.

“Come on.” A bell jangled when Tom opened the door, and I followed him inside.

I stood transfixed when I saw the display cabinets.

The specialist study area for my degree—and my favorite art style—was Impressionism. I loved Monet’s work in particular, and owned many reproductions of his paintings, but nothing like this. The artist here had recreated some of his famous images in stained glass. Water lilies. Lakes. Sunrises. Light and water spilling together in a multitude of exquisite variations.

The shopkeeper perched on a stool behind a messy counter covered with scraps of wire, pots of ink, and a stack of thick, cream cards. He smiled at us, his twinkling brown eyes set in a lined face. He could have been anywhere between forty and sixty, with close-cropped dark hair, and he looked friendly. “Can I help you?”

I glanced at Luce for support, and she nodded. “I hope so,” I replied, stumbling over the words. “I believe my boyfriend may have bought something for me.”

The guy raised one eyebrow. “And…?”

“And he’s gone missing. We’re trying to retrace his last known movements, and a friend thought he’d come here.” Luce squeezed my arm in a little gesture of support. I gave her a grateful smile. “His name is Alun Jones. He would have been here on Monday the fifteenth of September, around lunchtime.” I thrust my phone at the guy, and showed him the picture of Alun on my home screen. “This is him.”

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