Page 108 of House of Roots and Ruin
I’d been all over the house searching for him—his bedroom,the dining room, the terrace. I’d even walked down to the lake, studying the shoreline in case he’d decided on an alfresco breakfast.
I hadn’t found a trace of him or Frederick.
“I…I’ve been looking for you. You weren’t in your rooms.”
He squinted at me. “Of course not. I’ve been here. Waiting.”
His testiness threw me off-balance, causing me to react to it and not my meticulously laid plans. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t think we had a session this morning?”
He rubbed at his forehead. “What else would we be doing?”
“Could we talk for a moment?” I asked, sinking my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palm.
He checked his pocket watch. “Now?” I started to nod but he cut me off. “We’ve already wasted most of the morning. Just get on with it.”
I nearly fell onto my stool in my haste to comply. I’d never seen Alex in such a state of irritation before. I uncovered the palette, still wet from the day before, and picked up a paintbrush. “You look as though you might have a headache. Would some coffee help? I could ring for some—”
“I’ve had coffee!” he snapped. “Hours ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for.
Only the thickness of the canvas separated us, but I felt miles from him.
I dipped the paintbrush into a dab of tawny taupe and tried to push back all the words I’d carefully prepared. Trying to tell him anything when he was feeling so poorly was bound to end in disaster. We could work in silence until his mood improved.
Then.
Then, I would tell him everything.
I closed my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.
I just needed to focus on this, on the work, on Alex.
But when I opened my eyes, ready to begin laying out the sharp line of his cheekbones, I paused in confusion.
There was something off.
The painting didn’t line up exactly with Alex today.
“You’re slouching a bit to the right,” I said, glancing around the canvas, trying to make the images match. “Could you sit up?”
I watched in dismay as the shadows and highlights across his face changed, still not right. Nothing lined up properly with what I’d already painted.
“Can you go back to what you were doing before?” I asked unhelpfully.
He flexed his shoulders but it still wasn’t right.
I studied the painted portrait and the boy before me. They looked so similar but still didn’t add up.
“Just tilt your head a bit…The other way.” I watched him try twice before setting down my palette. “Like this.” I came around the easel to gently cup his face, angling it back into his pose. I hoped he might lean into my hands, press a kiss to my wrist, and all would go back to normal.
“I know!” he exploded, striking the arm of his chair. “I know what I’m supposed to do!”
His words burst from him like cannon fire, startling me. I’d never once heard him raise his voice before and was floored to have so much frustration aimed directly at me. Retreating, I sat behind the easel, shocked, and hid from his angry eyes. “Whydon’t we…why don’t we just call it a day? It’s clear nothing is working right. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”
Though I managed to hold back tears, my voice quavered.
On the other side of the easel, there was silence. Then a sigh. “I…I’m sorry, Ver.” His wheelchair creaked and from under the canvas, I watched as the wheels pushed forward, only to pause with indecision. “I didn’t mean to shout.”
