Emeline turned the page, eager for more, but only blank ones followed. Dozens of others lined the bookshelf, though.She had the urge to take them all in her arms, dump them on the bed, and go through them, one by one.
Part of her recoiled. It would be an invasion of his privacy. Like going through a diary.
Wouldn’t it?
Yes.Obviously, yes.
Tearing her gaze away from the sketchbooks, she rose from the bed and started pulling on her jeans, then her shirt. She was about to go find Hawthorne when she glanced at the shelf.
What would it hurt if she peeked at one more? She doubted he would mind.
Giving in to temptation, she grabbed a particularly thick book in the middle of the shelf and pulled it out.
Sitting down cross-legged in the armchair, Emeline hungrily flipped through it. The first dozen pages or so were tree studies, each one labeled with a name:Chestnut,Ash,Sassafras,Red Cedar, and more. The leaves, flowers, fruit, and bark were drawn in detail. But the lines of these drawings were shakier, less confident. When she came across sketches of Rooke and Sable again, they looked several years younger.
She kept flipping, skipping through the tree sections, trying to find more personal ones. An image of another face caught her attention, but she passed it too quickly and she had to flip back.
When she found it, her heart thudded to a stop.
There, rendered in dark lines, was a sketch ofher.In profile. With her hair tied up in a bun and a guitar pick between her lips.
She leaned in, staring.
This Emeline had cheeks much fuller than they were now, and the lines of her face were softer.It’s a younger version of me,she realized. From three or four years ago.
An Emeline who hadn’t met Hawthorne yet.
A cold, prickling sensation spread over her skin.
Her pulse beat hard at the base of her throat as she flipped more pages and found more sketches of herself, scattered among images of the forest. Two, four … she counted ten in all. Emeline snapped the book closed, trying to breathe. She stared at the brown leather cover for a moment, then reached for another.
More of the same: Trees, feathers, Lament. Rooke and Sable and scenes from the king’s court. And Emeline. Lots of Emeline. Emeline, sitting with her back to the artist. Emeline laughing with her head thrown back—like the photo of her mother. Emeline with a ukulele in her lap, eyes closed as her fingers crept across the strings.
What the …?
Why were there so many drawings of her?
The last one sent a sharp shock slicing through her, like a jagged blade plunged into her belly. Her fingertips dug painfully into the edges of the page as she stared in horror at the sketch.
In it, a younger Emeline sprawled naked across a soft surface. Her elbow was bent, cushioning her head, and one pale arm rested on her bare stomach. There was a liquid gleam in her eyes as her head turned towards the artist and her lips parted sensually.
She looked no older than seventeen.
His pencil rendered everything in perfect detail: her hair fanning out around her head, the gentle curves of her small breasts, the dark curling hairs peeking out from between her legs.
Emeline slammed the book closed, breathing too fast. The room blurred around her.
The rest of the sketchbooks lay in a frantic pile on the bed. Emeline pressed her hands to her face, trying to steady her erratic breathing. But all she could see was her younger body, drawn in Hawthorne’s hand, over and over and over.
What the fuck?
Emeline rose from the armchair. Her legs trembled beneath her. Her heart hammered too hard as she made her way into the main part of the house, the last sketchbook still gripped in her hand.
The front door was opening as Hawthorne stepped inside. Emeline froze as sunlight spilled into the room. Silhouetted by the morning glow, the young man whose bed she’d slept in stood in the doorframe, his arms full of wood for the fire.
At the sight of her, his dark brow crumpled.
“What’s wrong?”
