AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s everything you’ll need to perform the duties I’ve hired you to perform. That’s all.”
“It’s a lot, Ambri.”
“Good,” I say. “Then we won’t need to make a return trip. For an art store, the lighting here is ghastly.”
Cole laughs and rests his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.” I stiffen and he snatches his hand back. “Sorry. I have to keep reminding myself…never mind.”
With a sheepish smile, he moves to confer with the store employees, leaving me with his lingering touch on my shoulder. With his guidance, they gather the supplies he prefers and ring up the sale which makes Cole’s eyes bulge but is a mere drop in the vast ocean that is my wealth.
We step outside with the assurance that the store will deliver all to my flat later in the afternoon except for a large bag that contains a few items Cole will take to his quaint hovel, presumably to paint me in my demonic form.
And so begin his rise.
On the street, I tug gloves onto my hands. “I have a few rules that we neglected to cover last night. The most important being you aren’t to talk about our partnership with anyone.”
Specifically, Lucy Dennings.
She—and Casziel—will learn of me through Cole’s paintings eventually, but by then, he’ll be too entrapped to heed any of her warnings.
Cole is nodding. “Okay.”
“You may say you have a patron but keep my name out of it.”
“Sure. When should I start?”
“Depends. How long will the portrait take?”
Cole rubs his chin, thinking. “We’ll want to make it authentic to the period. Let me do some research and then…I don’t know. Tomorrow? It won’t take me long. We covered eighteenth-century portraiture at the Academy. As for the actual painting, it depends on how big you want it.”
“Big,” I say.
“A few months?”
I nod. Months of Cole Matheson in my presence, in my flat, living under his curious, artistic gaze.
With that infuriating lock of hair falling over his brow that he won’t do anything about…
“Ambri?”
I start out of my thoughts. “Yes. Fine. Tomorrow, then.”
Cole smiles a smile full of the modest charm he has no idea he possesses. “Great. And…thanks again.”
He gives a little wave and walks away, hoisting the bag of supplies over his shoulder.
I watch him go until he’s out of sight and then head back to my flat. I’m nearly there when I catch a whiff of perfume—old and French—and hear light footfalls hurrying away. I look in time to see the train of a pale blue dress slip around a corner.
My throat tightens. Eisheth. She’s not usually one for pastels but the Parisian perfume is a nice touch.
I’m being watched.
I straighten and stride on, chin up. Let them watch. I have nothing to hide. I have a plan. The rise and fall of one of the greatest artists this generation has ever seen. Any lowly servitor can torment a sad man. My triumph will be all the more glorious for the heights from which Cole Matheson will fall.
But as I walk, each clap of my shoes is like a mantra.
Quicksand, quicksand, quicksand…
fourteen
