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“It recognizes what you are, Anna. The artistry of your hands cries out to it; see how it responds to you, how it yearns to be touched.”
“This isn’t real.” She turned her hand, watching the way hundreds of unexpected hues and subtleties gleamed in the midday light. “I must be dreaming now. That’s what this is. Just another one of my whacked-out nightmares.”
“Are you afraid?” He seemed genuinely affronted, stepping through her doorway and into the dark interior of her studio. When had he taken position just inside the frame?
“I don’t believe it.” She reached her free left hand and drew her eyeglasses down onto the bridge of her nose, studying the substance more closely.
“Living gold. That’s what all the legends call it,” she observed, watching the thick substance band about each of her fingers, forming swirling rings.
“You are holding that very thing.”
“They also say that Templar-grade, liquid gold can drive the artist mad. Did you know that, too?”
He walked all the way into her parquet-floored hallway, studying the intricate paintings she’d applied across her floor. “Lovely,” he observed, staring down his nose at the patterns. But he didn’t answer her question.
“Or maybe you just think a little madness is good for the artist’s soul?” She followed him inside, closing the door with her bare foot. “That we should be inspired.”
“No, you are incorrect.” He turned and looked at her, seeming very somber. “I am aware of the insanity side effect, yes. And no, I do not think any artist should suffer thusly.”
She stared at her hand, only then aware that she’d begun petting the gold with an absent gesture as they spoke. “Then why offer it to me? I didn’t mention what I needed in my application to the union.”
He cocked his head. “Application?”
“Yeah, you obviously got hold of my patronage app, right? I mean, that’s why you’re here. How else would you know my name?” She bobbed her head impatiently; every bit of conversation pulled her away from studying her new possession.
“I do not know of any application.”
Her heartbeat quickened, and in reaction, the gold shimmied right up her forearm, escaping inside her shirtsleeve. “Then . . . why are you here? Who sent you?”
“The one you seek.” He gave a full bow this time, lingering in the position. “I serve him, as you do.” Finally he rose to his full form, smoothing a hand over the front of his suit.
“Look,” she said, peeling the gold from around her upper arm and clumping it into her fist. “I’m a free agent. That’s how it’s always been; that’s why applying for a patron was a big thing. I don’t serve anybody.”
“No?” He lifted a significant eyebrow. “You have made no pledges?”
Three failed tries. Three broken promises. Yeah, she’d been serving him for months now, allowing him to winnow his way into her dreams and paintings and thoughts.
“So tell me one thing. Why are you willing to trust me with something so precious?” She cradled the gold in both palms, walking toward him. She’d just give it back and forget the man who stalked her mind’s dark alleys.
Except the stranger’s answer changed everything. Altered the odds, tilted the gaming table.
“Simple,” he answered, British accent melting into something far more ancient and foreign. “I want to free him, too.”
As soon as Claude left, a heavy wave of exhaustion overcame her, the kind that had your eyelids closing no matter how determined you were to continue working. Anna left the studio area of her apartment, dragging herself toward the bedroom, already half-asleep before she collapsed onto the bed.
She had never been one to nap.
Her mother always said she was born with an extra helping of energy, wired with enough stamina to dedicate herself to her many artistic passions. Although puzzle making was the greatest of those, she also created stained glass by commission, dabbled in weaving and intricate crochet, and piddled away her spare time by tiling mosaics.
As she rolled onto her side, the somnolent sound of the noise machine nailed her into sleep, the dream already reaching out to claim her.
It was different this time; she realized that at once, even as she remained fully cognizant that she was dreaming. Previously, the knight had been in scenes straight from some tapestry or medieval book of hours. Not now. She was cocooned in darkness, and she heard him breathing somewhere in that black space.
“Where are you?” she cried out, not that she expected an answer. The knight never spoke aloud, although he was very expressive with his eyes and gestures. His silence seemed a prison of its own, almost as if words were forbidden to him. “I can’t see anything.”
Heavy, labored breathing answered her, and extending both hands, she felt around herself tentatively. The slick, damp surface of stones met her fingertips. They were slimy, wet, and cool to the touch, and she began shaking. Her knight was in danger. He had to be; otherwise, they’d be in another downy meadow or flowery field, azure sky expanding overhead.
The rattle of heavy chains split the darkness, a rumbling moan following in the wake of the sound. She moved forward, feeling about her as if she were in some hellish version of blindman’s bluff.
