Soon, she would have her colors. Soon, she could properly bring life back to the woman’s eyes. This woman, who still remained as mysterious as anything.
However, the thought of Marcus returned, sharp and unwelcome. His visit, his silence, the way he had walked past her without a word.
She picked up his letter again, holding it in her palm and reading through it once again.
If she could not find answers yet, she would at least find peace in paint. The woman in the portrait, once forgotten, would have her voice again.
At the very least, in a way.
***
The warmth of the afternoon sun she had found was a source of serenity for her rather than a gross inconvenience.
The way the light shone across the subjects and reflected their beauty back to her in the most fascinating way often provided all the focus she could ever need. Rose was yet to return from themarket with the colors so, for now, she had decided to sketch some of the things she might paint later.
Pale lilies rose from the paper in quiet waves, their petals unfolding under her hand.
Her focus was complete. She leaned closer, the tip of her tongue brushing her lip as she worked at the finer details. The peace surrounding her was enough to keep her going for a long time.
This was the kind of environment she had always wanted. One that gave her inner resolution. An environment so peaceful, she was certain nothing or no one could ruin, or even try to ruin, her focus.
“Hello.”
Her hand jerked, and the pencil slipped, cutting an ugly mark across her page. Eliza gasped and let the book fall to her lap. Her face was white as snow when her eyes darted up.
Tristan stood just a few steps away, his face, she could see, on the edge of breaking into a smile.
“You…” she yelped, her breath caught as her pencil fell from her grip and rolled across the ground.
He bent quickly and grabbed it. Eliza watched him with keen interest as he rose to his feet one more time and began to laugh. Not the faint, tight sound she sometimes heard from him, but a quiet, almost boyish laugh.
A most genuine one.
“Oh well,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I am glad I was enough of a source of entertainment for you this afternoon, Tristan.”
He still chuckled as he handed the pencil back. “Forgive me, but your face…it went completely white. I cannot seem to stop seeing it in my head.”
She frowned, though her cheeks warmed. “Well, it would. Because you frightened the blood out of me. How long were you standing there anyway?”
“A few minutes,” he responded. “You were so focused that you did not notice I had been studying you for a while.”
Her brow arched. “Studying me?”
He nodded once, then hesitated. “Yes. It is quite uncanny, just how much you remind me of my…” His voice trailed off, and he looked away.
“Reminded you of your what?” she pressed.
He cleared his throat. “We should change the subject.”
She narrowed her eyes but let it pass. “Very well. What shall we speak about then? Perhaps you would like to discuss how Aunt Evelyn stopped by earlier and said she half expected me to draw goblins or lizards next.”
Tristan exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and irritation. “My aunt does say whatever comes into her head, without much care for how it sounds. But she means well…most of the time.”
“Most of the time?” Eliza echoed, smiling faintly.
“Believe me when I say this, Eliza,” he said dryly, “that is the best you will ever get from her.”
Eliza laughed, the tension in her shoulders reducing. She bent to look at her page again, brushing the stray mark with her finger.
