Dragon Rose(64)

In the storybooks, the words “I love you” held a charm, could act as a cure for any misunderstanding, any slight. But they could not heal the rift between Theran Blackmoor and myself, not if I repeated them a hundred times. And how does one recover from such an admission? I could not take the words back. They would always linger, staining whatever relationship we might salvage after this.

Thankfully, I was saved from further brooding by the arrival of the bath. As wretched as I felt, I could not help but be a little revived by the touch of the warm water against my skin, the scent of the lavender oil reminding me of summer gardens and happier times. I stayed in the bath until the water turned lukewarm, and then reluctantly climbed out and dried myself off in front of the fire. The heat of the flames soothed my bare skin, and I wondered what it would be like to have the warmth of Theran’s hands on my naked flesh, to have him touch me as a husband touches his wife.

That cramping need came again, and I clutched the linen towel against my body even as I grasped the mantel with my other hand, seeking to steady myself. I must stop reaching for things I could not have. It was foolish and would only upset the fragile calm I appeared to have reclaimed.

With those admonishments fresh in my mind, I went to the bedchamber and pulled on a clean chemise, followed by my heavy quilted dressing gown. I saw no point in putting on yet another dress when I only planned to stay here in my rooms and paint. My feet went into a pair of fur-lined slippers, and then I was quite ready, save for my hair.

I returned to the hearth and stood in front of the fire, combing out my damp locks, hoping the heat would dry them sufficiently so I could return to the painting soon. It was then that Sar came to check on me and have the bath removed. Once more I watched as the guarded expression on her face softened somewhat when I thanked her for the bath and told her of my plans to do some painting.

She told me that sounded like an excellent notion and went back out, now that the tub had been removed by the two burly servants whose sole job it seemed to be to move the thing from place to place within the castle. I found myself wondering then if Theran used the same tub…but no. That way only lay more tortured imaginings, and I had had quite enough of those.

Better to go into my bedchamber and retrieve the painting, now that I knew myself to be truly alone. The preparation took more time than it usually did, simply because all the pigments on my palette had quite cracked and dried, and I had to carefully measure out a good batch of new ones. Perhaps it was a blessing, for in doing so I had to focus on the task at hand and nothing else.

At length, however, they were ready, and I picked up my paintbrush, surveying the portrait with care. Truly, I had so very little left to do—enhance the shading of the fabric on his right shoulder, to evoke more of the velvet’s nap, and perhaps the lightest touch at the crown of his head, to bring out the slightest hint of deep brown in those otherwise raven tresses. But I knew I must keep going until I was satisfied, until I thought the man’s image was truly complete.

Even those small things took longer than I had thought, and I paused at one point to light all the candles in the room. Their flickering illumination was oddly comforting, as if the dancing flames were a series of delicate little companions, something to help me believe I was not quite so alone. With them to guide me, I returned to my work.

I did not note the hours passing, and no one came to look in on me. Finally, though, I stepped away from the painting, and realized I was done.

Nothing to add, nothing to change. Nothing to do but stand there and gaze at him, and have those painted eyes regard me in return.

What had I expected? I honestly did not know. My mind had been a stranger lately, slipping from one fancy to another, dwelling in darkness. Perhaps I had thought once the painting was done, the man within it would step forth to rescue me from my solitude.

Of course he did not.

I realized I still held the paintbrush clenched in my fist. Very gently I set it down on the worktable. I knew I should lift up the portrait, set it back in its hiding place, put myself to bed. It had to be very late, even though I had dined early.

I didn’t know where the thought came from. It echoed in my mind, soft and insidious, oddly compelling.

She will tell you what to do next.

Perhaps once I might have paused to question it. However, in that moment, in my emptiness and despair, I knew where I must go.

Dark and silent the corridors of the castle, only a candle in its sconce from time to time to light my way. I slipped through the dim hallways, moving silent as a shadow, heading back to the place where I had thought I would never return.

Even colder now than it had been, my breath like shards of crystal here in the abandoned chambers. Of course these rooms had no candles, but a full moon poured its icy light through the tall, narrow windows. Somehow I knew where to go.

The book had several loose sheets tucked within its pages. They drifted to the ground like withered leaves, and I knelt to retrieve them. The same scrawling hand, although it seemed slightly clearer than in the note with its five words repeated over and over. More than five words here, too, at least as far as I could tell. I moved to the window, ignoring the chill air that seeped around the frame. I was far colder than that by now; my heart had turned to ice.

There is only one way out. It seems so simple, now that I understand. A moment of pain, perhaps, but then I will be free of this place. I will fall, and drift on the wind.

I will be free of him.