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Show 86 on his arm but Martin suddenly started to his feet, stood there swaying for a moment, his arms dangling, staring at the imperturbable face of the angel. Then with a wild burst of laughter he broke and ran off into the trees, passing several angels who came out of their hiding places and gathered to watch him disappear. Lorin heard him crashing through the underbrush for several minutes afterward. * * * He had a bad light source; that was the problem. It was an old reading lamp with a long neck that curved up from its pedestal and remained in whatever position you bent it. It had an opaque metal shade shaped like a space helmet, and it sat on the table next to his elbow, its face turned toward him, and stared white and hot at his cheek. Once or twice he glanced at it but then it was several minutes before the black skeleton of filament faded out of the paper tacked to the drawing board in front of him. There was an overhead light too, but it was thick and yellow from the dust that had settled for years into the translucent shade, and did nothing to soften the edge of the shadow thrown by his nose across his cheekbone. That whole side of his face, in fact, gradually disappeared into a muddy darkness, though of course it was the opposite side of the face in the mirror propped against a stack of books and therefore it was the opposite side of the face that was gradually filling in on the sheet of paper in front of him. It wasn't a bad face in that light. The frown lines over the nose were deep and thoughtful. The eyes gazed hotly at him out of the caverns under the eyebrows. The mouth, all but hidden under a ragged mustache, was compressed and forgiving. They had been limited to black and white-charcoal and chalk-on a grey paper, medium weight. His reflection's right zygomatic |
