Read Online Endymion Spring by Matthew Skelton - Free Book Online
Authors: Matthew Skelton
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clever and highly motivated student, who finished her dissertation in good time, I believe, despite your father's efforts."
Jolyon glanced at Blake to see if he understood the last remark and was confronted by two amazingly light blue eyes, as watchful as mirrors.
Taken aback, he continued in a softer voice, speaking more honestly than Blake had expected, "She was, I dare say, even then, more conscious of her career than her vocation. I am not sure that she loved books, but she analyzed what was in them very well. Still, without that passion, she was never, I fear, my best student."
It felt odd to hear someone criticizing his mother and Blake looked around the room uneasily until he spotted her. There she was, still talking to Prosper Marchand , who was now offering her a glass of ruby-colored port. They appeared to be on familiar terms. Too familiar, perhaps. Blake scowled.
"No, that distinction," resumed Jolyon , "goes to your father. He was my most promising student."
Blake's eyes zipped back to the old man's face. "My Dad?" he asked, thinking he had misheard.
The professor eyed him astutely. "Oh, yes, your father had a most remarkable imagination. Not always accurate, mind, but blessed with an insight I have rarely seen."
Insight . The resonated in Blake's mind, reminding him of the blank book he had found in the library. It had appeared in the final line of the poem.
Suddenly a grandfather clock started to chime the hour. It sounded so old and frail Blake thought it would expire before it reached the last toll. Seven, eight, nine o'clock... The numbers wheezed by, accompanied by a prolonged bronze echo.
Jolyon , following his gaze, seemed alarmed to notice the time. "Good heavens," he said. "I had no idea."
Blake was momentarily distracted.
"Huh?" he said. He had just caught sight of Duck tugging on Sir Giles Bentley's sleeve. The old man looked down at her with barely concealed contempt. His stare would have crushed a lesser opponent. Diana stood nearby, observing them both with mild detachment.
Jolyon staggered to his feet. "You'll forgive me, I hope, if I make a hasty departure." Once again, he extended a hand, which this time Blake noticed was spattered with ink. "It's been a pleasure, my boy."
"Um, yeah," said Blake, sorry to see him go. There were still so many things he wanted to know about his parents.
The man clearly sensed his disappointment, for he said, "You appear to have more questions in you yet. Why not come round to my office once you know precisely what you want to know." He seemed to appreciate the riddle in the last part of this sentence and winked. Chortling softly to himself, he began to walk away.
For some reason, the question slipped out before Blake could prevent it. Immediately he wished the words unsaid, but there they were, out in the open, hovering in the space between them.
"What is Endymion Spring?"
What is Endymion Spring? The professor wheeled round sharply and stared at the boy, astonished. Evidently, this was not the question he had been expecting.
Blake backed away. For a moment he thought he could detect a glimmer of desire on the man's face — a lean, hungry look that reminded him of the homeless man outside the bookshop. Luckily, this was wiped clean almost instantly and was replaced by a more affectionate expression.
"Who is Endymion Spring?" the man repeated, the name quivering on his lips. A hint of worry still troubled his brow.
Blake nodded.
Jolyon looked around the room apprehensively. "Now is neither the time nor the place," he whispered finally, scrunching his hands together and then plunging them deep into the folds of his gown. "We must talk about him... later."
With that, he rushed away, although Blake could tell that he was still agitated, since he almost forgot which way to go.
So Endymion Spring was a person and not a season, he thought to
Jolyon glanced at Blake to see if he understood the last remark and was confronted by two amazingly light blue eyes, as watchful as mirrors.
Taken aback, he continued in a softer voice, speaking more honestly than Blake had expected, "She was, I dare say, even then, more conscious of her career than her vocation. I am not sure that she loved books, but she analyzed what was in them very well. Still, without that passion, she was never, I fear, my best student."
It felt odd to hear someone criticizing his mother and Blake looked around the room uneasily until he spotted her. There she was, still talking to Prosper Marchand , who was now offering her a glass of ruby-colored port. They appeared to be on familiar terms. Too familiar, perhaps. Blake scowled.
"No, that distinction," resumed Jolyon , "goes to your father. He was my most promising student."
Blake's eyes zipped back to the old man's face. "My Dad?" he asked, thinking he had misheard.
The professor eyed him astutely. "Oh, yes, your father had a most remarkable imagination. Not always accurate, mind, but blessed with an insight I have rarely seen."
Insight . The resonated in Blake's mind, reminding him of the blank book he had found in the library. It had appeared in the final line of the poem.
Suddenly a grandfather clock started to chime the hour. It sounded so old and frail Blake thought it would expire before it reached the last toll. Seven, eight, nine o'clock... The numbers wheezed by, accompanied by a prolonged bronze echo.
Jolyon , following his gaze, seemed alarmed to notice the time. "Good heavens," he said. "I had no idea."
Blake was momentarily distracted.
"Huh?" he said. He had just caught sight of Duck tugging on Sir Giles Bentley's sleeve. The old man looked down at her with barely concealed contempt. His stare would have crushed a lesser opponent. Diana stood nearby, observing them both with mild detachment.
Jolyon staggered to his feet. "You'll forgive me, I hope, if I make a hasty departure." Once again, he extended a hand, which this time Blake noticed was spattered with ink. "It's been a pleasure, my boy."
"Um, yeah," said Blake, sorry to see him go. There were still so many things he wanted to know about his parents.
The man clearly sensed his disappointment, for he said, "You appear to have more questions in you yet. Why not come round to my office once you know precisely what you want to know." He seemed to appreciate the riddle in the last part of this sentence and winked. Chortling softly to himself, he began to walk away.
For some reason, the question slipped out before Blake could prevent it. Immediately he wished the words unsaid, but there they were, out in the open, hovering in the space between them.
"What is Endymion Spring?"
What is Endymion Spring? The professor wheeled round sharply and stared at the boy, astonished. Evidently, this was not the question he had been expecting.
Blake backed away. For a moment he thought he could detect a glimmer of desire on the man's face — a lean, hungry look that reminded him of the homeless man outside the bookshop. Luckily, this was wiped clean almost instantly and was replaced by a more affectionate expression.
"Who is Endymion Spring?" the man repeated, the name quivering on his lips. A hint of worry still troubled his brow.
Blake nodded.
Jolyon looked around the room apprehensively. "Now is neither the time nor the place," he whispered finally, scrunching his hands together and then plunging them deep into the folds of his gown. "We must talk about him... later."
With that, he rushed away, although Blake could tell that he was still agitated, since he almost forgot which way to go.
So Endymion Spring was a person and not a season, he thought to
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