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Back at my little hole in the wall, I dropped the bag of art supplies and sat on the edge of my bed.
“So that happened.”
There was no more doubting what I’d seen or who Ambri was. The supplies that I could never afford on my own were physical proof. I stripped off my new coat and noticed a weight in the breast pocket—a clip of about a thousand pounds wrapped in a note:
“It’s too much,” I murmured, then read the postscript.
I had to laugh. He was right. Even more convincing than the supplies or the money was the desire to paint Ambri. It burned in me as hot as—
The flames that killed him?
I put my hand to my chest until the ache faded. Better to focus on my new situation than what I felt about him.
Somehow, that was less complicated.
I flipped through one of my art history books. Surely, throughout time, there’d been those who’d witnessed otherworldly phenomena. I thought of the hellish paintings of Hieronymus Bosch or Francisco de Goya. Were they born strictly of imagination, or did they get a peek at something they weren’t supposed to? Like me, did they know something everyone else didn’t?
The questions had no answers. What I could count on was that I had a patron. I wasn’t going to starve or become homeless, not for the time being, anyway.
I itched to start painting right away, but my best friend needed to know she could stop worrying about me. I owed her that. I picked up my phone and dialed Lucy Dennings’s number.
“Hey you!” she said upon answering, wariness undercutting her enthusiasm. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” I said. “I have some good news and wanted you to be the first to hear it.”
“Oh my God, I’msothrilled for you!”
I chuckled. “I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”
“I know but—”
“But you’ve been worried about me.”
“Well, yes…”
“You can take five. I have a patron.”
“Get. Out.”
“I know. I can’t believe it, either.”
“Oh, I believe it. I’m just so excited for you. Who is it? What’s the job?”
“He’s…a very wealthy man.”
I suppressed a laugh. That description of Ambri was like saying Michelangelo’s David is avery big statue. Technically accurate but not even close to encompassing the real thing.
“He wants me to paint his portrait. A big one. Could take months.”
“Damn, Cole! Who is this guy? Anyone I might’ve heard of?”
“I’m not allowed to say. We have a kind of confidentiality agreement.”
“Oh my God, it’s Prince Harry, isn’t it?”
I laughed. “You guessed it, straight out the gate.”
She laughed with me and then heaved a sigh of relief. “It is so good to hear you like this. Before, you sounded like you were constricted with worry and now you can breathe again. Is that true, Cole? You’re doing better?”
