At the Edge of Summer Read Online Free Page A

green on her skirt. “Of course! ‘C. Crépet.’ It’s a pale blue book, isn’t it?”
    I wasn’t surprised she knew it. The book had dogged me through my childhood. In boarding school the boys called me “Prince Charming.” “That’s the book.”
    “It’s…what do they call it…art nouveau?”
    “Don’t say that over the tea table if you want to avoid an argument. It’s the Glasgow School style, of course. Can we talk about something else?”
    She settled herself back on the grass. “I hate fairy tales anyway.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Who hates fairy tales?”
    She tugged on a hair ribbon. “You do. You should’ve seen the look on your face when I mentioned I’d read the book.”
    I hated that I was that easy to read. She, on the other hand, wasn’t. “You’re baffling.”
    From her seat on the grass, she executed a mock curtsey. “Thank you.”
    “Was that a compliment?”
    “Wasn’t it?”
    “Boys are so much easier. Nothing we say to each other is a compliment. We just expect everything to be an insult and we all get along fine.”
    And for that, she smiled. It was only a little smile, but unexpected. It filled her whole face with light. I wondered how I could keep it from slipping away again.
    “I know where Papa keeps his extra pencils,” I said quickly. “He won’t notice if we go to borrow a few.”
    “Pencils?” She sat up straighter.
    “Conté pencils,” I said. I stood up. “Freshly sharpened.”
    She followed without further question, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, walking quickly as though any pause would cause me to reconsider the offer of the pencils. Ripper stayed under the tree, but Bede trotted along with us. I led Clare inside, up the stairs, to the part of the house that always smelled comfortingly like turpentine and linseed oil.
    “We’re going to Monsieur Crépet’s studio?” she asked in a whisper. “Is it allowed?”
    “Definitely not.” There were few things Papa disapproved of. Academic art. Yellow journalism. Spain. Anti-Dreyfusards. And people rummaging around in his studio. “Why do you think he keeps dueling pistols?”
    She stopped stock-still in the hallway.
    “Or blades? He’ll offer you a choice.”
    “Stop teasing me,” she said, but she didn’t move from her spot on the hall rug.
    “Don’t worry. I’ll be your second.” I reached out and tugged on her arm. “Don’t you remember? You’re safe with me.”
    She looked down at my hand on her arm until I let go. “As long as you’re not leading me into trouble.”
    “I thought ladies were impressed by feats of daring?”
    “We’re certainly not impressed by assumptions.”
    I bowed. “And the mademoiselle has won that duel.”
    The hallway outside of Papa’s studio was quiet, but I waited a moment with my fingers on the door. I wasn’t as offhand as I pretended. Even Bede took one look at the studio door and bounded back downstairs, toenails clicking. Only when I was sure that there was not a sound from within did I push open the door.
    The room was almost blinding after the dim, ruby-papered hallway. Windows stretched from ceiling almost to floor and, with no curtains anywhere, light shot enthusiastically into the studio. Papa was too enamored with shadow and changing light to let the south facing windows worry him. Overhead, cords crisscrossed the ceiling, with sockets for electric bulbs. Only the doorway was darkened, with piles of furniture and hatboxes and stacks of filmy fabrics on either side.
    “It’s magnificent,” Clare exclaimed, stepping in.
    Though I’d been in the room dozens of times, I understood. Papa’s studio had always filled me with an awe that I’d never admit. Not when I’d brushed aside his hopeful suggestions for the Glasgow School of Art or, as much as it pained him to suggest, “even the Académie des Beaux-Arts, if you must.” I couldn’t admit that, like a cathedral, Papa’s studio exuded a peace that I sometimes wished I