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She could be trapped here. That’s the danger. That her hummingbird wings won’t be able to carry her away from the paints or from the Collector. That she’ll stop painting again. That any kind of captivity will eventually result in a listless, distant Daphne who cannot paint.
I’d rather die. It’s very likely that I will die without her. I can’t see much point in forcing myself through all the many painful rituals I’ve designed to maintain my access to the world if she’s not part of it.
I move to stand behind her.
Daphne shivers.
Her body shifts so that a less careful observer would think she was evenly between me and the canvas. She’s not. I have the slightest advantage.
It’s why she has to leave.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
“Paint,” I say.
She stabs her paintbrush into her palette, and even in her anger, even in her pretended carelessness, she comes up with a blue that fits with the existing composition.
“This isn’t right,” she announces. “You know that. The canvas is dry. You can’t just—you can’t just start in the middle and expect it to turn out. What happens at the end?”
“Finish it, little painter. You said you would.”
“And you said…” Her voice trails off.
This painting only stands in for the pieces she’ll work on while she’s here. It’s not the measure of our time together. But one of the canvases will be. Daphne has to paint, and so her work has to mark the time running out.
She knows.
I feel it in the air. See the understanding move through her body. It plants her feet more firmly to the floor. Straightens her spine.
“You meant it,” she breathes. “I’ve been waiting all this time to talk to you, and you meant it.”
I don’t answer. Daphne doesn’t turn around. It’s been too long since she allowed herself to paint. It must be an awful, pounding headache. It must feel like my heart does, beating into a closed fist.
My little painter whirls around, angry tears a sheen in her eyes. “Tell me, Emerson. Tell me you meant what you said. Tell me you’re going to give me back again.”
She remains clear, present, though the studio fades into a painted background. Ah—I deserve this. To have the hurt on her face burned into my memory. Captured on canvas from every angle.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
Her mouth drops open.
Daphne’s fingers twitch, and I know what she’s going to do. I know it like I know the exact angle of a closet door opening from the inside.
Something snaps. The last of my patience, perhaps. The last of my endurance. I had intended this to go on as long as necessary, until she gave in. Her anger has an unbearable sound, like a dry brush on canvas, and I can’t stand it. I’ve been away from my house for too long, and I don’t have long enough with my little painter, and I break first.
So I’m there before she can throw the brush. Before she can drop the paint to the floor. It’s a matter of turning her back to the canvas. She’s too surprised to fight me for control over her hands. The palette is saved, held by us both. And the brush—
I have her pinned, but she can still paint.
“You said you wouldn’t touch me unless I painted.” Her voice shudders as she forces down tears. “You’re touching me now, and I haven’t painted. How’d that work out?”
I curve my fingers around hers. Paint hangs on the end of the brush. Daphne resists. Her body pushes back against mine. Her hand tenses around the paintbrush. I move it toward the canvas. It takes a surprising amount of effort.
At the last moment, I aim it toward an untouched stretch of white at the corner. It’s the wrong place. I’m doing it on purpose.
“No.” Daphne whips her hand away from mine. Her escape only lasts a second. Just long enough to readjust. I put my hand back over hers in time to feel the first stroke. It builds on her existing work, blending in with what was there before. The brush meeting old paint is a shockwave. It unlocks something in her and kicks through my heart at the same time.
The sob that follows nearly takes her out at the knees, but I catch her. All her weight against my body. I have my hand under hers, under the palette, and Daphne puts her brush to the color with a shaking hand.
