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Cole runs a hand through his hair. “Um, wow. I don’t know what to say, Jane.”
“You don’t have to say a thing. Just take it in.” Jane turns her eyes on me. “I beg your pardon, Ambri, but I have to steal Cole from you. There are people he needs to meet.”
“By all means.”
Cole shoots me a helpless smile and is whisked away into the heart of his triumph. I meander through the crowded gallery, perusing his work. In the months he’d been working on this collection, I’d kept out of his way and hadn’t seen the paintings.
Now, the champagne gets stuck in my throat, the infernal bubbles stinging my eyes. They’re all larger than I imagined, all incredibly realistic, the colors dark and rich with light giving the subject—me—shape and definition.
And life.
I wander, listening in on the murmured conversations of the attendees regarding Cole’s work.
“I don’t think it’s overstating it to say his use of chiaroscuro is on par with the Dutch and Flemish masters,” says one man.
“I was about to say the same,” says his companion. “Note the glint on the candlestick. I could reach out and pick it up. Jan van Eyck, through and through.”
Pride wells in me. When I first encountered Cole’s artistry, I viewed it only as a means to an end. To attain what I wanted. But it’s obvious he’s a master, no matter the subject. His extraordinary talent is what packed this gallery, and I ease a sigh of relief that his renown will carry on long after I’m gone.
I move around a corner where two attendees discuss a piece.
“What is he? The angel of death?” asks a young man.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” says his companion—a woman with an accent I can’t place. “Marvelous, isn’t it?”
“He’s so fuckingreal,” says the man. “Like he’s going to move at any minute and bite my face off. Not that I’d mind.Hello, sexy.”
“Darling, you’re missing the point,” says the woman. “There is death and danger here, but the promise of hope burns brightest. There is always hope, don’t you think? There must be or else art is a lie.”
Her words draw me to see the speaker, but I catch only a glimpse of a sapphire dress and the lingering scent of perfume as they move away. I turn to the painting they were discussing and my breath catches.
Cole has rendered me on a bridge—vague but with enough detail to know it’s Blackfriars. A lone streetlamp casts a yellow cone of light over me, bringing detail to my feathered wings. Black eyes and black water. An expression on my face I don’t recognize. There is danger, indeed, but something else too. As if Cole’s painted me as a human and then overlaid the image with my damned self. As if it were a costume I could shed at any time.
“Hey,” says a young man suddenly beside me. He gestures at the painting with his champagne glass. “That’s you.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “That’s me.”
The night flies by. Casziel and Lucy arrive. They stand with me as Cole is surrounded, constantly occupied, speaking with the press and other artists, a bewildered smile on his face. Jane Oxley has her hooks in him as if he were her property.
I feel a soft pressure on my shoulder. Lucy’s pressed her cheek to me, her eyes shining.
“Look at him. He deserves all of it. It’s everything he’s wanted.” Then she glances up at me. “Well, almost.”
Despite the champagne having no effect on me, I feel drunk anyway. Warm and reckless, my head dancing with possibilities. I look to Casziel and he reads my thoughts. He nods, as if giving me permission to reach for everything I want.
There is only one thing I want.
Cole extracts himself from the adoring throng and joins us. We only have him for a few moments before he’s drawn away again. The stream of people who want to be in his presence is never ending, but eventually, the night reaches its conclusion.
Cole pulls Casziel aside for what looks like a serious conversation, then we say our goodbyes, and the car takes us back home. The energy of the night is like a spotlight over Cole that fades the closer we get to the flat. He grows quiet, his dark gaze on the city passing by the window.
Inside, he takes off his suit jacket and tosses it on the back of the couch.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” he says. “I should’ve spent more time with you instead of getting caught up in all that hoopla.”
“Is that not what you wanted?” I ask. “Your work will be celebrated far and wide.”
“I guess. I’m so fucking grateful and at the same time…” He looks away. “Anyway, your portrait is finished. It’s in my room if you want to see it.”
