Sunlight streamed through the windows behind him, casting golden highlights over his raven hair and giving him a look of holy appointment. Even the palm fronds flanking either side leaned toward him in a graceful curve of reverence, completing the illusion.
Dauphine had whisked us here after breakfast, promising me the best light in the whole of the manor. She’d called it the East Solarium, leaving me to wonder just how many of them Chauntilalie could boast of.
The light was perfect, but with so much of it pouring through the glass-paned walls, it was overly warm and the air was heavy enough to dampen my skin. I could feel the starch in my ruffled collar begin to wilt.
“How much am I allowed to move?” Alexander asked from the corner of his mouth. He’d been taking shallow breaths since we began our session nearly an hour ago, his chest barely rising and falling.
“As much as you like.”
He remained frozen in place. “It won’t ruin anything you’re doing?”
“These are only preliminary sketches.” I traced the contour of his cheekbones. “I’m just getting acquainted with your face.” I froze myself, hearing how intimate my comment sounded, and wondering if he had too.
He broke out of his position, shifting to lean his weight on the wheelchair’s arm. “And how is it?” He smirked, on the verge of a grin. “My face?”
I hid behind the sanctuary of the sketchbook. “Perfectly adequate.”
“Perfectly adequate?” he repeated. “Oh, Miss Thaumas, you wound me.”
“Your nose is much too long,” I teased, putting on an authoritative air. “When I finally title the painting, I’ll call it Alexander— What’s your full name?”
“Alexander Etienne Cornelius Leopold Laurent,” he intoned with mock solemnity.
“Truly? That’s even longer than your nose.” He grinned and I glanced around the easel, meeting his gaze. “You’ll make a fine portrait. Generations of future Laurents will look upon it and say ‘This man had too many names, but look at how striking he was and what an exactly proportionate nose he possessed.’？”
“Mother will be glad of that.” A minute of silence passed. “This is all right? Us talking? I don’t want to be a distraction, but it does pass the time more pleasantly.”
My fingers zipped across the page, shading in lines of hair, working on the quirk of his brow. “It’s fine. I actually prefer it when I’m drawing someone new. The more I know about you, the more I can show in the paint.”
“Tell me about Salann,” he said, leaning back and fidgeting with the buttons on his brushed velvet jacket. He’d chosen a silk cravat the same shade of green as his eyes, making them glow in the early morning light.
“Talking about myself won’t help me learn more of you.” I flipped the drawing pad over, starting a new sketch. This time, my strokes felt sure and right. My lines flowed over the page with confidence.
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Yes, but it can be difficult to open up to a stranger. I don’t know anything about you.”
“Fair enough.” I picked up a pencil with a harder lead, drawing quick, sharp lines to suggest his chair. “You answer a question and then I will.”
He nodded.
I paused, trying to perfect the angle of the wicker back. It was taller than he was, with a tufted pillow at his head. “If you weren’t here with me right now, sitting for this portrait, what would you be doing?”
Alexander’s laugh was loose and easy. “Probably sitting somewhere else. I tend to do quite a bit of— Stop,” he ordered.
My mouth was caught open on the cusp of an apology. “What?”
“You’re about to say you’re sorry. Don’t. Please.” He sighed. “People get so squeamish about the chair, about me being in the chair. They shouldn’t. You shouldn’t,” he said with emphasis. “I’ve been in it most of my life. I don’t really remember a time when I wasn’t. It’s part of who I am but it’s not the only thing that defines me. It’s not uncomfortable for me to talk about, to joke about.”
I set down my pencil, meeting his gaze. “I…I heard it was an accident.”
“It was.”
“Can I ask…how it happened?”
“The stairs in the foyer. They’re quite steep for a small boy. I was racing down for breakfast one morning—the day of my fourth birthday—and fell.”
“And that caused…” I trailed off, uncertain of what exactly I meant to articulate.
“Paralysis in both legs. I can’t feel or move anything from here down.” He gestured toward his thighs.
“Can you—”
“Uh-uh-uh,” Alexander interrupted, shaking his head. “We’re meant to go back and forth with questions. You’ve asked two in a row.” He settled back against his headrest, studying me. “Why does my grandmother think you’re cursed?”
My mouth soured and I wished he’d chosen any other thing to ask me. “I…I suppose because of all of my sisters. They…died.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
He whistled through his teeth. “That does seem…excessively unlucky.”
All I could do was nod. I picked up the pencil once more, rolling it between my fingers.
“But you have others, don’t you? Other sisters?”
“Five.”
“Such a large family.” His eyes drifted from mine, soft and thoughtful. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have grown up with someone else my age in the house.”
“Not all of us are close. My oldest sister, Camille, is fourteen years older than me.”
He let out a quiet hmm. “I wanted a brother. When I was much smaller, I begged and pleaded for Mother to go to the shops and pick one out for me—as though that was how they were created.” His smile turned wistful. “It’s an awfully big estate to be at by yourself.”
It did seem a waste, having a house so sprawling remain mostly empty. The hallways and corridors should have been alive with the sound of pattering footsteps, of shouts and laughter. I turned over another page but couldn’t bring myself to start a new sketch.
“Did they ever try for other children?” I asked, the invasive question falling from me before I could think better of it.
Alex shook his head. “Father wanted to…but it wasn’t…Mother couldn’t…” He cleared his throat. “I gather she had a difficult time, pregnant with me.”
“It certainly can be hard on women. My mother died after having me,” I admitted slowly, then let out an approximation of a laugh. “Perhaps I am cursed.”
Alex frowned. “I don’t believe in all that. The gods…they made us, they made all of this.” He gestured in a swooping circle, indicating a larger space than just the solarium. “What good comes from cursing your own creations?”
“Amusement?” I guessed.
He shook his head again. “They care about us too much. Far too much at times. Did you know Mother—” He stopped short but his eyes sparkled.