Wondrous Apothecary

E. Martin Mary

Description

Follow the paths of two artists, Alexander Wainwright and Rinaldo, in a passionate, suspenseful tale of art, life, love, and liberation. For such different men in their art and personalities, the fundamental question is whether they can ever collaborate on a project.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 30 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645367987
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Wondrous Apothecary
Mary E. Martin
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-09-03
The Wondrous Apothecary About The Author About the Book Dedication Copyright © Mary E. Martin (2019) Other Works by the Author Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Confession Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56
About The Author
After thirty years of law practice, Mary E. Martin embarked on her writing career. Inspired by her experiences in the law, she wrote the highly acclaimed Osgoode Trilogy about a lawyer named Harry Jenkins. Turning to her greatest passion, art, she then began The Trilogy of Remembrance, featuring a visionary landscape artist, Alexander Wainwright. The Wondrous Apothecary is a natural and exciting addition to that trilogy. She lives in Toronto with her husband. They have three children and three grandchildren.
About the Book
Follow the paths of two artists, Alexander Wainwright and Rinaldo, in a passionate, suspenseful tale of art, life, love, and liberation. For such different men in their art and personalities, the fundamental question is whether they can ever collaborate on a project.
Dedication
To my family, David, Stephen, Timothy, and Susan, and my three grandchildren, Harrison, Victoria, and Cole. And, of course, my muse.
Copyright © Mary E. Martin (2019)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Martin, Mary E.
The Wondrous Apothecary
ISBN 9781643785028 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781643785035 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645367987 (ePub e-book)
Library of congress Control number: 2019907829
The main category of the book — Fiction / Literary
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
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Other Works by the Author
The Osgoode Trilogy
Conduct in Question
Final Paradox
A Trial of One
The Trilogy of Remembrance
The Drawing Lesson
The Fate of Pryde
Night Crossing.
Prologue
Security lights revealed starkly etched lines of frustration on the man’s face. Like a cat, he sprang up on the chain-link fence across the alleyway and heaved himself upward.
The sudden barking and snarling below made him freeze. Then fierce growling drove him further upward but not fast enough. Teeth sank into his trousers but not the flesh. Crying out, he struggled and kicked himself free. Shivering, he looked over his shoulder to see the glimmering eye of an immense bullmastiff. From his sack he pulled out a small package which he tossed to the ground.
“Here!” he hissed. “Eat this. A gift from me—Rinaldo.”
Panting hard, the dog grasped the package of raw meat between his teeth and retreated to a corner. Hunkering down, he tore at the parcel with his teeth. The man swung himself and his bag over the fence and then dropped down. Rising, he limped toward the back of the building. Now, he was free to enter the art gallery.
The first door was securely bolted. The cellar windows could be easily broken but that would set off the alarms. At the back, a screen door stood open. The knob of the inner door came loose in his hand, but then it swung open.
Although it was a small, private gallery in Chelsea, art worth huge sums of money lay within. Carefully, he ascended the back-cellar steps to the main floor. He would act quickly.
The gallery sold jewelry, artifacts, paintings, and drawings. At least twenty oil paintings adorned the walls—some still life and some landscape. The art was not his style but that did not matter. He smirked. He had not come as a critic. He would make his own statement.
In the center of the gallery, he unzipped his bag. From it, he withdrew two tins of spray paint—one black and one red. Before him was a blank white wall. He set about his work.
The light from a passing car illuminated his face and eyes, which contained an almost gleeful expression. Starting in the very center, he sprayed the first word in black—DESTROY. Anyone watching would be impressed with his deep concentration. Next in red, he wrote in large, looping letters—COLLABORATE. Again, in black—CREATE. Crouching down, he retrieved from his sack a tin of gold spray paint. With it he wrote HOMO SAPIENS + DEATH? When he had finished, he packed up his bag and wiped his hands with a rag. Whistling a tuneless whistle, he prepared to leave.
An immense explosion blasted from the cellar steps. In a tremendous roar, flames shot up and engulfed the gallery almost instantly. The blast shook the entire building and flattened the man onto the floor.
After a moment, he shook his head and attempted to rise. For the very first time, he saw on the far wall of the gallery a very familiar painting. Surely, it wasn’t that hateful, yet exquisite work of art—‘The Hay Wagon’?
A work filled with such dreary, commonplace objects was imbued with an enchanting, numinous light. The man was torn. Shall I let it burn? Or shall I save it? Sirens screamed down the road in Chelsea. Police cars growled to a stop at the front. Nowhere to hide! He jumped to his feet!
He leapt across the carpet now aflame. He lifted the painting from its stays and carried it as gently and protectively as if it were a child. Despite the searing pain on his shins, hands, and wrists, he thrust the painting above his head and ran to the outer back door.
Within moments, Rinaldo was outside with the painting which he dumped behind some bushes. He rushed down the back lane to the end where he dropped down behind some shrubbery. The flames had reached the roofline and sparks flew onto neighboring rooftops. The light danced across his face, revealing his passion for fire. A perfect place to observe.
Chapter 1
From a darkened corridor, Alexander Wainwright stepped into an antique elevator floating in space like a bejeweled time capsule. The doors clanged shut and the cage swayed slightly as it began its slow ascent. The artist removed his homburg hat and prepared himself to visit the display of his work. He, a landscape artist, stepped out onto the second floor of the National Gallery.
Gray light of a rainy London day seeped through windows flanking the broad hallway stretching before him. On the right, doorways led to five small galleries.
Alexander had begun the day with determination. Last night, he had written down a plan. He would get dressed, go out for breakfast, and visit the National Gallery to see his painting—‘The Deluge.’ And he would call Jamie.
When his work was shown, he usually came alone for a leisurely visit to take pleasure in the accomplishment. But today, he hurried to see it—almost as if it were an unpleasant task to accomplish. His painting, ‘The Hay Wagon,’ had also been displayed in the national gallery. In creating it, he had been filled with a sense of strength and expansiveness.
‘The Deluge’ was different. While painting it, Alex had been tortured by nightmares of water, drowning, and floods. He had crept to the drawing board at three in the morning, nearly bloodying his hands and the canvas with his worn-down chalks and stubby brushes. He shook his head to clear the recollection.
Further down the hallway, Alex stopped. Surprised, he cocked his head as if trying to catch some puzzling but indistinct sound. He smiled. It sounded like water babbling over rocks in a river but, in fact, it was the laughter of children from the next gallery. Outside the door standing ajar, he held his breath to listen.
A melodic voice, young but surprisingly strong, said, “Miss Murray? I love the picture. It’s the light. It’s like seeing the whole world all at once with everything glowing.”
Alexander entered and sat on a nearby bench. Clustered around his painting was a group of young school children about eight or nine years old.
A young woman, apparently the docent, stood before his painting, asking questions. Smiling her encouragement, she said, “That’s a marvelous answer. Who else sees the light Jennie sees?”
His painting depicted a sailing ship sinking fast with only a few survivors heaped on the beach. Everything was caught and torn in wrenching swirls of blues, yellows, whites, and greens, and burned with the light of the sun. Somewhere, in the furious curls of waves, another ship was tossed beyond the horizon. A white horse, a dog, and ill-clad human forms were strewn on the shore like abandoned creatures. Hunched and huddled, the people gathered about a fire with its flames flickering desperately for life.
Only now did he see it. In that violent scene, some other being inhabited the work. And that unknown being was alive within every wave, sunbeam, pebble, and cell in the human body.
The little girls, seated on the f