Page 40 of Vanish

He shyly lifted his gaze to meet mine. “There is one interest I already possess:you.”

My heart quickened. “I don’t count.”

“You definitely should, considering you’re much more fascinating than a pile of rocks—no offense to my dear brother. I don’t object to discovering my own interests, but I also want to share yours. Do you remember what your own hobbies were?”

The sentiment stirred my heart, his enthusiasm seeming too sincere for him to be faking his current interest. I shook my head. “I don’t remember and had hoped you could tell me. Did the topic never come up during our past conversations?”

I feared this topic would take us down an ambling path that would lead us to yet another dead end—or worse, another uncomfortable resurrection of my doubts—but to my surprise he didn’t consider long before his gaze lit up. “You’re an artist!”

My eyebrows lifted. “Iam?” Such a claim did not fit with any memories I could grasp.

He nodded. “I discovered you enjoy painting during our third meeting when I took you on a tour of the gallery. You were normally so quiet, but the life that was usually absent filled your eyes when you examined the artwork, especially the nature scenes depicted in watercolor.”

Not only was I impressed that he could recall such a specific account that had occurred several years prior, but it was far more detailed than the others he’d given me so far, not to mention a confidence filled his recollection that hadn’t existed before. “I don’t recall telling you that.” I made it a habit to keep such personal details to myself.

“You didn’t; I surmised it from your reactions.” A soft smile played at his lips. “You hovered over each painting as if you felt a personal affection for it. It’s never taken me so long to walk through that gallery before…nor have I ever enjoyed it so much.”

Which meant he’d been paying me careful attention. This memory had been lost with most of the others, but his gentle reminder caused glimmers to reappear in my mind, revealing details like one might stroll through the gallery—one painting at a time.

Being an artist didn’t really fit my image of myself—it seemed far too grand for someone like me. “I don’t think I’ve actually done much painting; I’ve only dreamed of picking up a brush.”

Terror that I’d fail in a dream I highly valued had left me paralyzed, along with fear that a life permeated with sadness could never create anything as beautiful as the paintings I admired. I’d discovered at an early age that it was best to hide my dreams within myself, enjoying them only in their unrealized potential lest I destroy them by either my own shortcomings or worse, have my hopes shredded by my father’s angry reaction to my “waste” of time and resources.

He sobered at my words, but his smile quickly returned, a welcome reprieve to the stress that usually filled his stoic expression. “Then we have that in common, for I’ve never picked up a brush either. Perhaps we can discover this hobby together.”

My heart compelled me to say yes, but I feared I was frantically trying to grasp a star that lay just beyond my reach…even as he made it seem possible to close that previously vast distance and seize my wish. I managed a tentative smile. “It sounds like a more worthwhile pursuit than rocks.” My voice wavered, revealing the insecurity my teasing had attempted to mask.

He chuckled and offered his arm. This time when I looped mine through his, his firm muscles and the heat from his body seeped against my fingers. I could feel him. Even if nothing came from our painting venture, in this sense we were closer than we’d ever been.

He led me to a section of the palace I’d never visited, a room tucked away at the back of the gallery that had served as the setting of my most recently recovered memory. There we found an assortment of paints, brushes, and canvases awaiting our exploration. Familiarity settled over me at the sight, as if I was reuniting with dear friends…a strange reaction considering I was quite certain I’d never spent any time in my past truly becoming acquainted with them.

Lucien had the guard who accompanied us stand outside the door that likely wouldn’t be thin enough to muffle the conversation that he’d only be able to hear one side of. After seeing me comfortably settled floating above a seat that I could faintly feel beneath my translucent body, Lucien bustled about making preparations before handing me a brush; it immediately slipped from my grip and clattered to the ground.

He frowned. “I forgot you won’t be able to hold it…yet you were able to hold our letters, touch me, and slam my book shut.”

The development with the objects I could interact with in the visible world dispelled our previous theory that I could only touch things—such as his letters—that I’d previously touched. While that likely still held true, it didn’t account for the other objects I’d been able to handle. Instead those had been manifested through sheer will, as if my longings had been enough to exceed the limits of the curse.

I wondered if the same would hold true with my desire to paint, but before I could ponder the riddle Lucien scooted his seat closer to mine. Our knees grazed, but unlike when we’d sat beside one another on the parlor settee the day before, this time I could feel the contact; a pleasant sensation rippled up my spine, tempting me to lean closer. It took considerable effort to keep my focus on the canvas in front of me.

“Since you’re unable to hold the brush, perhaps I can do it for you.”

My heart pattered wildly as his hand curled around mine to secure my grip on the paintbrush. Lucien guided my hand to the yellow paint, seeming to know without my saying anything that it was my favorite color, reminiscent of the sunshine that he caused to illuminate my life with our every interaction.

He seemed to remember the subject of the paintings that had caught my notice during our tour of the gallery all those years ago, for he helped me paint the sunlight I’d just been imagining onto the canvas, clumsy movements that resulted in an ugly splotch rather than anything remotely resembling the light. Even so it was the most beautiful sun I’d ever seen, surpassing even the beauty of the masters’ works I’d spent hours studying in my gallery back at home.

He laughed. “I don’t think my hidden talent is art, and my efforts to help are only hindering our discovering whether or not they’re yours.”

I smiled. Though I did want to explore whether painting could become my own cherished hobby, in this moment it didn’t matter; already it felt special, undoubtedly because of him. “I don’t mind.” For once the reassurance wasn’t a placating gesture, but my genuine emotion.

His shoulders sank in relief. “What should we paint next?”

The minutes passed as gently and pleasantly as rowing along a stream. We filled the canvas with flowers, trees, clouds, and other remnants of nature. It quickly became apparent that neither of us possessed any skill, but it didn’t matter. An image gradually took form with each splotch of color…though not on the canvas.

Instead each brushstroke created together through his gentle hold enfolding my grip painted another picture, this one on our hearts. Even with the image still unfinished, I could tell each tone represented my secret yearnings to find love in the union that had initially been created for political purposes.

The painting was soon forgotten and I found myself staring at him. He met my gaze with an intense one of his own. He was so near, and seemed to draw even closer with every heartbeat, until we were mere inches away, allowing me to see every contour of his dear face and count every eyelash.

He could easily bridge the short distance and caress my lips, but though I read this yearning in his tender eyes he remained still. At first I feared it as a rejection—that he didn’t share my most heartfelt wish to get close to me, confirmation that perhaps the love he claimed didn’t exist between us after all.

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