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I feel like the air has been sucked out of my lungs as I crumple forward. Bracing myself against the counter, I let my tears fall as I mourn Florence’s death, my heart breaking into pieces.
When I can finally breathe again, I straighten, wiping the tears from my eyes as I set to work making sure Florence’s life wasn’t taken in vain. They may not want dinner, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow her to go to waste.
They will eat what they’ve sown, whether they want to or not.
4
Hazel
The day finally drawing to a miserable end, I exit the kitchen through the back door, tomorrow’s meal planned and prepped. With Merelda and her sons gone for the night, I am determined to make the most of what little time I have to myself.
I make my way down a small path, the fading sunlight filtering through the trees in warm golden rays, despite the chill of the day. Reaching a small clearing, I smile as I gaze upon Father’s workshop.
Our workshop.
It sits empty, the shutters pulled, and the fireplace long gone cold. I can’t even remember the last time I was here, as much as I’ve yearned to me.
This is the one place my step family knows never to venture into.
Better yet, theycan’tventure into.
I’ll be safe here, at least for the several stolen hours I’ve suddenly found myself with. Glancing around, I kneel to wrestle a loose stone out of place before reaching in to pull out a small golden key.
Quickly replacing the stone, I hurry to unlock the door, throwing it open as I smile spreads across my face. Even in the darkness, I can just make out the bottles of ink, the smell of parchment and wood, and the lingering scent of smoke, oil, and turpentine.
Scrambling to light several lanterns, I finally close the door as I sigh deeply to myself.
I give myself a moment to take in the room now that it’s been made somewhat more visible. From the beautiful pigments and oils from far-off cities to the brushes and quills that fill small jars and lay scattered about everywhere in perfect chaos. Candle stubs litter nearly every surface, solidified wax dripping from the edges of easels and shelves alike.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel like I’m home.
My eyes land on a blank canvas already set up on one of my father’s easels. My fingers itch, and I’m forced to clasp my hands together to keep them from worrying a hole in my skirts.
I don’t have enough time.It would be foolish to try.
Still, I can’t quite convince myself not to as the canvas continues to call my name.
It’s easy work coaxing a fire to life, the workshop taking on a whole new life in its soft orange glow. I know it’s not the best lighting for painting, but it’ll have to do.
Throwing open a nearby window, I shiver as a chilly gust of wind whips around me, rustling several nearby papers before settling. The forest outside has grown dark with the setting of the sun, and for a moment I swear the shadows take on a life of their own.
Shaking my head at the silly notion, I turn back to prepare my palette. Thankfully, Father has already prepared and stored most of the colors I need in carefully labeled animal bladders. Though, I suppose the very fact they’re laying here untouched means he hasn’t been around enough to use them.
Poking several of the bladders with a bone pin, I squeeze what I need of the oil paints within onto a palette. I’ll have to mix several other colors later, but this will do for now.
Returning to the easel, I set my palette down and open a small jar of linseed oil and another of turpentine.
Staring at the blank canvas before me, I’m reminded of the days I once spent here. Days spent at Father’s side as he taught me how to read and write, and finally to create. He’d even let me help him with several of his projects as my skills had grown.
Reaching for a brush, I take a deep breath before letting it out slowly. There’s no denying that this is the most content I’ve felt in days.
Years, even.
Pushing aside all the worries and troubles of my life, I clear my mind as I coat my brush and lift it to the canvas. It isn’t long before the world has melted away around me, and I find myself lost in my art.
In the past, if I’d found myself here with a few hours to spare, I’d spend my time illustrating one of the heavy tomes my father had been commissioned with, but not today. Today, I take my time as I dip my brushes into the smooth oils, swift strokes of color gradually coaxing an image onto the canvas.
A strange forest begins to take shape beneath my brush, a small cottage sitting tucked away within the dark trees as candlelight flickers warmly in the windows. It’s a surprisingly cozy looking place, despite the darkness that surrounds it.
