Page 33 of House of Roots and Ruin
I wanted to let you know I’ve arrived in Bloem and that my journey went well. I never would have guessed Arcannia was so vast. Even with all its space and scope, I still can feel your eyes following my every move. It ’s as though I’ve never truly left Highmoor.
I wanted to apologize for how I left things—running away as I did. I just didn’t know how else to do it. I couldn’t bear to stay another night under that roof, not now. Now that I know…everything I do. I understand your concerns and I promise I will do everything I can to keep from bringing shame to our family.
I’m not sure why I’m even writing any of this out. I don’t have the courage to ever send it and will probably stick it in the back of my writing desk here, forgotten until my commission is at an end and I must pack all my belongings once more.
But it ’s nice talking to you, like this. I can almost picture you listening to me and understanding everything I wish I could say.
I wonder where I will go from here.
I hope it ’s back to you, back to Highmoor.
One day.
Just not yet—
Your sister,
Verity
The charcoal scratched at the paper, a stark line of black curving the wrong way. I smudged at it with the side of my thumb, attempting to correct its angle. Alexander’s eyes tracked my every movement.
Sunlight streamed through the windows behind him, casting golden highlights over his raven hair and giving him a look of holy appointment. Even the palm fronds flanking either side leaned toward him in a graceful curve of reverence, completing the illusion.
Dauphine had whisked us here after breakfast, promising me the best light in the whole of the manor. She’d called it the East Solarium, leaving me to wonder just how many of them Chauntilalie could boast of.
The lightwasperfect, but with so much of it pouring through the glass-paned walls, it was overly warm and the air was heavy enough to dampen my skin. I could feel the starch in my ruffled collar begin to wilt.
“How much am I allowed to move?” Alexander asked from the corner of his mouth. He’d been taking shallow breaths sincewe began our session nearly an hour ago, his chest barely rising and falling.
“As much as you like.”
He remained frozen in place. “It won’t ruin anything you’re doing?”
“These are only preliminary sketches.” I traced the contour of his cheekbones. “I’m just getting acquainted with your face.” I froze myself, hearing how intimate my comment sounded, and wondering if he had too.
He broke out of his position, shifting to lean his weight on the wheelchair’s arm. “And how is it?” He smirked, on the verge of a grin. “My face?”
I hid behind the sanctuary of the sketchbook. “Perfectly adequate.”
“Perfectly adequate?” he repeated. “Oh, Miss Thaumas, you wound me.”
“Your nose is much too long,” I teased, putting on an authoritative air. “When I finally title the painting, I’ll call itAlexander— What’s your full name?”
“Alexander Etienne Cornelius Leopold Laurent,” he intoned with mock solemnity.
“Truly? That’s even longer than your nose.” He grinned and I glanced around the easel, meeting his gaze. “You’ll make a fine portrait. Generations of future Laurents will look upon it and say ‘This man had too many names, but look at how striking he was and what an exactly proportionate nose he possessed.’ ”
“Mother will be glad of that.” A minute of silence passed. “This is all right? Us talking? I don’t want to be a distraction, but it does pass the time more pleasantly.”
My fingers zipped across the page, shading in lines of hair, working on the quirk of his brow. “It’s fine. I actually prefer it when I’m drawing someone new. The more I know about you, the more I can show in the paint.”
“Tell me about Salann,” he said, leaning back and fidgeting with the buttons on his brushed velvet jacket. He’d chosen a silk cravat the same shade of green as his eyes, making them glow in the early morning light.
“Talking about myself won’t help me learn more of you.” I flipped the drawing pad over, starting a new sketch. This time, my strokes felt sure and right. My lines flowed over the page with confidence.
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Yes, but it can be difficult to open up to a stranger. I don’t know anything about you.”
“Fair enough.” I picked up a pencil with a harder lead, drawing quick, sharp lines to suggest his chair. “You answer a question and then I will.”
