A naked woman?
At the edge of the pond’s bank, brown cattails rustled and bobbed in the breeze. It was mid-autumn, and likely one of the last warm days. Emeline set the basket of food down on the blue quilt, then wandered over to where Hawthorne’s sketchbook lay open between Sable and Rooke.
On the page was a youngish woman, extremely pretty, and entirely nude. She was straddling a chair that was faced the wrong way. Her arms were crossed over the chair back and her legs were bent on either side, with her bare feet pressed flat to the floor. Her bold chin tilted upwards as she half closed her eyes, looking down on the viewer.
Emeline thought of Hawthorne’s gaze tracing every inch of this woman’s body. His pencil marking her every curve and hollow.
Jealousy bit her, sinking its teeth in.
She flipped the pages. There were more sketches of this sameperson in other poses. Sketches of other models too—men and women, young and old, round and thin.
But her thoughts kept going back to the first.
“I’ve been taking life drawing classes,” Hawthorne explained, not quite looking at Emeline as he pulled the sketchbook away and shut it tight, holding it to his chest. “I saw a poster a few months ago, when we were in the city for a concert.”
Rooke was trembling, trying to hold in his laughter.
Hawthorne shot him a piercing look. “You’re being awfully immature. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to draw the human form?”
For some reason, this only made Rooke laugh harder. Sable, too, burst into giggles.
Hawthorne threw up his hands. “It’s just practice! It’s how you get better!”
Giving up on his two friends, he turned to Emeline.
“Anyways. The class is over for the season. It won’t start up againuntil January.”
“Oh, whatever will he do?” Rooke crowed.
Hawthorne shook his head.
Suddenly smelling the cinnamon buns, fresh from the oven, Sable and Rooke stood up, still howling as they wandered over to the basket on the quilt.
Emeline couldn’t stop seeing the woman on the page, staring her down, a challenge in her heavy-lidded eyes. When Rooke and Sable were out of hearing distance, Emeline heard herself say, “I could pose for you.”
Hawthorne turned his head sharply towards her.
Oh god.
Why did she say that?
“I m-mean, unless that’s weird,” she stammered, feeling her faceflame. “I just … um … if your class is over and you still wanted to … practice.”
The wind whipped her hair. She tucked the loose strands behind her ears, wishing she could make herself disappear.
Hawthorne turned fully towards her, his gaze tracing her face. “It’s not weird.”
She glanced up, staring into those mismatched eyes. “Are you sure?”
As Rooke and Sable stuffed their faces over on the quilt, Hawthorne studied her. “Very sure,” he said, voice quiet.
The butterflies were back, fluttering through her. She chewed her lip and glanced to her grandfather’s farmhouse in the distance. “We can’t do it here. If Pa were to find us …”
The thought of Pa accidently walking in on them made her stomach twist. It would be … very bad. Pa would lock her up and not let her out of the house until she turned thirty. He would definitely murder Hawthorne. Or at least chase him across the farm with a very big shovel.
Hawthorne nodded, seeing her point. “You can come to my house.”
She frowned up at him, planting her hands in the cool green grass. “In the King’s City? I thought it isn’t allowed.” She knew the king no longer permitted those from beyond the woods into his city,on account of a curse.
