“I can.”
And I did. If I was ever forced to choose sides in the matter, I knew I’d agree with Alex. The thought of so many beautifully mottled birds being slaughtered, just to preserve the look of the Laurents’ grounds, was abhorrent. I pushed the bloody vision from me.
“I think I’m ready to begin. I’m starting with your face, so once I’ve got you in the proper position, it would help if you could stay as still as you can.”
“No talking?”
“A little talking is okay, but I will need you to hold the pose as faithfully as you can.” I rummaged through a kit, searching for the right brush. “This isn’t meant to be torturous for you. If you feel as though you need to”—out of habit, I almost said “get up” but stopped myself short—“shift about, get a drink, do anything, we can take a break. I always try to be mindful that there’s a living, breathing person behind my canvas, but if I get caught up in the moment and need reminding…remind me.”
He smiled. “I promise to. How should we begin?”
Frederick had taken Alex out of the wheelchair and sat him on a tufted sofa of olive green velvet.
“What feels most natural to you?” I asked, approaching him with a studious eye.
He stretched about, trying different poses: resting the side of his face in the cup of his hand, sitting on the sofa’s edge with his posture formal and ramrod straight, leaning into the cushions as one arm reclined along the back. Nothing looked quite right.
“We can try that last pose,” I said uncertainly, not exactly pleased with it, but it was a start in any case. I’d undoubtedly end up painting this canvas over with a coat of gesso, covering up my practice anyhow.
“Can you tilt your head just a touch to the right? Your right,” I amended as he went the wrong way. “And back? Too far…” My hands danced restlessly. “May I try adjusting you?” I asked.
“Please do. I feel a bit ridiculous,” he admitted, his forehead tilting far from the center of his body.
“You look it too,” I teased.
Just before I placed my fingertips upon his face, I paused. I’d painted dozens of portraits before, filling the halls of Highmoor with my sisters and nieces, little Artie and William. I’d talked maids and butlers into sitting for me in their free moments, painted fishermen unaware as they sat on the docks, waiting for a bite on their lines.
But I’d never painted someone as singularly attractive as Alex. Someone close to my age. Someone I found myself ever drawn to. Touching him, carefully drawing my fingers across his skin to move him into just the right position…
It was such an intimate thing to do.
When I finally seized hold of my courage and cupped his cheeks, correcting the tilt of his head, he took in a sharp breath.
“Your hands are cold.”
“Sorry.”
I rubbed them together before continuing on. His skin was softer than I’d expected, freshly shaven, without a hint of stubble. I pressed my fingertips to his jaw, turning his head slightly to the right. I hated when portraits were done completely head-on. Angles were so much more interesting, engaging. They invited the audience to linger, wondering over what secrets the subject kept.
“Like this.”
I touched his chin, my thumb just shy of his lips, gently adjusting. As I cupped his face, he laid his hand over mine, leaning his cheek into the curve of my fingers and sending the most delicious shivers down my spine.
“You smell like what I imagine the sea does,” he murmured.
“My lotion,” I said, thinking of the little container I’d brought from Highmoor. We made it from long strands of kelp harvested on the beaches of Salten. I pulled away, self-conscious. “Is it too strong?”
Slowly, he took my hand in his and pressed his nose against my wrist, breathing in deep. “Not at all. It’s very subtle. Very soft. Very Verity.”
“Oh.”
It was the only word I could think of as my throat constricted and my insides squirmed, suddenly filled with an unknown want.
No.
It was more than that, I reasoned, shimmers of warmth radiating through me.
More than a want.
There was an ache, a need.
A yearning.
I’d never felt anything like this before. It hit me straight on, like a boulder crashing off a rock ledge. I didn’t even know I was capable of such feelings. There’d never been anyone at Highmoor—boy or girl—who had inspired such a heated reaction within me.
His lips were close, so close, and I suddenly had the overwhelming desire to lean down and press mine against them. I imagined them whispering over each other, exploring each line, his parting as I gently nipped at the full curve—
Before I could act on such wild thoughts, I straightened and backed away. “The paints are going to dry out…”
I sat back down on my stool, fanning my heated cheek, hidden behind the wall of canvas.
“How’s this?” he asked, and I dared to hazard a peek around the easel. He’d fallen back into the exact pose I’d first set him into.
“You’re perfect.” The words flew from my mouth before I could stop them. “It. It. It’s perfect,” I amended, but his smile deepened into a wicked grin.
“Then let’s get started, shall we?”
Dear Annaleigh,
Thank you so much for your letter and crate of candles. I’ve been burning them nearly every day. I wanted to let you know that I am safe and well. The commission I was brought here for is progressing nicely and…I…I think the heir of Chauntilalie may be interested in starting a courtship with me…
You’ll note the ellipses ending that statement. I’m not certain if I’m meant to use an exclamation or a question mark. I honestly don’t know much of anything I’m meant to do in the matter.
I’m terribly flattered and I think I too might be developing feelings for him—he’s terribly smart and funny and very, very handsome.
But…
（？Those ellipses again.）
I’ve never had attention upon me like this before. It?’s a strange, heady thing, suspecting someone might be attracted to you. Can one be in love with being in love? I could see this emotion clouding many judgments.
I wish you were here. I wish we could sneak away to my room and speak openly on this. I miss your guidance and wisdom. I miss my sister.
I take it your talk with Camille didn’t go well? Though entirely painful, I did write a letter letting her know I’d arrived safely but have heard nothing back. I want to pretend it?’s simply a delay due to distance but your letter arrived so quickly. Some rifts can’t be mended, I suppose.
Write soon. I still have a few more weeks until the painting will be done. Give little Cecilia a kiss for me.
All my love,
Verity
Later that afternoon, I was back in my chambers, at the little writing desk. A well of ink, pen, and envelope lay before me. I finished off Annaleigh’s address with a flourish of jade-green ink.
“Verity?”
Dauphine peered in from the hall, waiting for permission to enter. She was dressed in complex pleats of cerulean brocade today. A comb of brilliantly hued peacock eyes held back her sweep of hair and I briefly wondered if they’d come from one of the slaughtered pieds.