"Come into the living room," he said, carrying the mugs. "It's warmer in there."
"Fine, but I'm still curious," I answered. I picked up my backpack and held the door, gesturing for him to go first since his hands were full. That was why, the first time I saw his workshop, it was with Lucas standing in the middle of it. His back was to me as he set one of the mugs down on a bare space on one table.
There was a bed in the corner, probably moved there when the heat went out. Next to the bed stood a grandfather clock that had, like most of the furniture, come with the house. A desk sat under one of the windows, the only one that wasn't covered with heavy drapes to keep the cold out. On the desk was the window-box from the kitchen, the sprouts looking weedy but still alive.
The sofa had been pushed back against a wall, and two wing-chairs as well. They'd been moved to make room for the tables – a long workbench on rickety sawhorses, several small round end-tables, probably brought in from all over the house, and two folding card tables draped with drop-cloths. None of this was what struck me silent, though.
Jumbled on the bookshelves, piled on one chair, laying around on the tables and hanging from long ropes hooked over the ceiling beams were dozens of masks. Enormous beaked bird-faces, small beaded half-masks on sticks, pale ovals covered with ribbons, garish children's masks shaped like animals and monsters. Incomplete versions sat on molds on the workbenches or in puddles of dried paint on the smaller tables. Blocks of clay, piles of rag fabric, cases of plaster-powder and heaps of ribbon sat in piles amid bottles of paint and glue. The fire, flickering in the hearth, threw shadows on the walls and made the nearest ones look as if they were subtly alive.
Lucas, who hadn't turned around, reached out and switched on a lamp, which killed the shadows. He blew out a pair of fat candles burning on one table, then three more on the desk.
"At least if the power actually goes out, I'll know what to do," I heard him say, but I was still looking at the masks. Lucas turned to see why I was silent and gave a scratchy, hoarse laugh.
"It sometimes takes people that way," he said. "I should have warned you. I forgot you hadn't seen my workshop yet."
"Did you make all of these?" I asked.
"Most. A few are models I bought."
"You said you weren't an artist," I said, still distracted. He reached up to a cluster of masks tied to a rope and untied one, offering it to me to examine.
"I'm not, really," he said. "More like...a blacksmith, in my own way. I make tools."
"Tools for what?" I asked, stroking the silk ribbon tied through a hole punched in stiff painted leather. The face that looked up at me was narrow and studious, with high cheekbones and a thin nose. Perched on the nose were false glasses made from thin copper wire.
"Dottore," he said, pointing at the mask. "It's Italian. The educated fool."
I grinned and held it up to my face. He took it out of my hands before I could fit it over my nose completely. I picked up another one, a wide-mouthed, smiling face.
"Is this how you make your living?" I asked.
"It isn't really a living," he said, looking down at Dottore. "I had a job in the city. I used to sell the masks before I came here, but just to keep them from piling up. It wasn't a career or anything."
"They seem to have started piling," I said. He coughed into his sleeve before replying.
"Yes," he answered, looking up and away at a cluster of masks hanging on another rope, all of which looked very similar – snoutish black grotesques decorated in a variety of ways, some made of what looked like painted leather, some made of velvet or stiffened paper on wire frames. "But I don't think Low Ferry is really the place to sell masks, do you?"
"Halloween is nearly here."
He nodded absently.
"They're wonderful," I continued, looking around. "You have real skill. How long have you been making them?"
"Since I was fifteen," he said. He sat on the bed and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, watching me. "Most people find them frightening. The first time the boy came out to the cottage he looked in here and then hid in the bathroom. He thought they were looking at him. He still won't study in here."
"Well, children, you know. Still enjoying tutoring?" I asked.
"I suppose. He isn't interested in history, not the kind he's being taught, but he doesn't like me to disapprove of him, so he studies. Sometimes he's frustrating, but...I think he likes me."
"He talks to me about you."
"Does he?" Lucas looked pleased.
"He says you think differently than his schoolteachers do."
"Oh." His look of pleasure vanished. "I don't want to cause trouble with his teachers."
"I doubt you will. They have a whole herd of children to care about. He doesn't seem the type to inspire a rebellion. Besides, this is still civilization. We don't burn people at the stake for having new ideas."
"Really? Seems like that's exactly where people do that," he said. "But it doesn't matter. The one you're holding..." he said, indicating the mask in my hands. "I'm calling him Socrates. He's not finished yet. I'm waiting for the plants to finish growing."
I looked over at the window box. "The plants?" I asked, setting Socrates down and walking to the window. The green stalks swayed gently.
"Please don't – they're poisonous," he said, as I reached out to touch one. "It's hemlock. Most people mistake it for parsley."
"Ah," I said, looking back at Socrates. The real Socrates had been executed by the state, ordered to drink a cup of brewed hemlock. "Yes, I see."
"I thought I'd decorate him with it. It's interesting to try growing it, anyway."
I opened my mouth to ask him if these masks were why he wanted the book, and then I caught sight of the ceiling.
"How the hell did you do that?" I asked, looking up at a charred spot in the plaster about three feet wide, spreading across one of the beams as well.
"I..." he glanced up. "Little accident. I thought when I was feeling better I'd replaster it. Plaster, I'm good with," he said, gesturing at the worktables. "You said you brought my book?" he added, stuttering a little over the words.
"Here," I said, setting my backpack down in a clear space on one table and digging out the package. "A friend of mine in the city found it."