Page 21 of Firethorne
“It depends what kind of magic you’re talking about,” I replied.
His comment was innuendo, I knew that, and I couldn’t help getting sucked in as I stifled a grin.
“The best kind.” He winked, then pushed the door open and stepped back to allow me to enter first.
As I stepped forward, I was surprised at how much light flooded into the room, warming the air and beckoning me in. It was a stunning space. It took my breath away. Truly.
Lysander’s studio was on the corner of the building, with a semi-circle of floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room, overlooking the Firethorne estate. I was instantly drawn to those windows, and as I walked towards them, I gasped at the breath-taking panoramic view. The fields and green hills rolled on for miles, trees as old as time standing tall and proud, leaves and branches swaying in the autumn breeze. The sky was cool and grey, so cool it was almost white, cotton clouds rolling across slowly, creating the perfect accompaniment to this quintessential English day. It was perfect. Even I felt the urge to paint the scene. The room really did have a magical aura.
“Wow,” I marvelled, my eyes sweeping across the landscape, taking it all in. “It reallyismagical. Everything looks so beautiful from up here.” I felt the warmth of his presence as he came to stand behind me, the heat of his breath as it fanned across the back of my neck. “It’s just so... beautiful.” I’d used that word twice, but I was speechless, fumbling over my words. This was a room I could stay in forever.
“Yes, it is,” he hummed seductively, making me think he was talking about more than the view. His voice was close, so close, and I turned around to find him staring right at me, his eyes penetrating through me.
“Are those your paintings?” I asked, feeling a little nervous.
I already knew the answer as I moved to the far side of the studio. But I needed to give myself some space, to clear my head of the improper thoughts that were running through it.
Painted canvases were propped up against the wall, each one capturing a different aspect of the estate; the fields, the forest,and the lake that I’d yet to discover for myself. Each painting was so atmospheric, so consuming, that it made me want to reach out and touch them, run my fingers over the swirls and flicks of the paint. They made me yearn for the real thing. To experience the natural beauty of this place in all its forms.
“You’re so talented,” I said, taking time to study each painting as I went.
“It’s my passion,” he replied, moving to walk in step beside me. “I like to convey how I see the world, what it makes me feel. And hopefully, pull you into it too. Make you...feel.”
I turned to look at him, and he smiled.
“I meant, as a lover of art. I want anyone who sees my paintings to be pulled into that world. To experience the moods and emotions that a place like Firethorne can give you.”
“I think you do that,” I told him. “It certainly makes me want to go outside and explore.”
“Maybe stay a little longer here and see a few more of my paintings first, before you bail on me,” he replied, and I laughed lightly.
I glanced down at a painting of the lake, the image of a sinister, shadowy figure standing in the thick of the forest in the background, leaning against a tree trunk, almost hidden amongst the beauty of the scene made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Lysander sighed, and I wasn’t sure he’d answer me as he stood still and hummed to himself. Then on a whisper, as if he was scared someone would overhear him, he said, “That’s Damien. But don’t tell anyone. I hide him in most of my paintings.”
He moved to stand next to a painting of the sweeping driveway of the Firethorne estate. The same driveway we’d driven down last night, with its Victorian lamps lining theway. Then he pointed at one of those lamps, showing me the silhouette of a man hidden behind.
“There he is in this one,” Lysander said, then he moved to point to a painting of the fields, with a cluster of rocks in the bottom left-hand corner. He indicated where a shadow was cast on the ground, as if someone was hiding behind those rocks. “And here he is again.”
I found it strange that he felt the need to put dark, shadowy images of his brother in his paintings, like he was placing easter eggs that only he knew about.
“Why do you put Damien in all your paintings?” I asked, wanting to know what went on in his mind at those points in his artistic process.
“Because I like to put him outside, where he belongs.”
Lysander was speaking candidly now. Lost in his thoughts as he stared at his work.
“Why does he belong outside?” I asked, hoping he’d keep spilling his truths to me, because I wanted to know them all. I wanted to know everything I could about the Firethorne family.
“Because he might have the Firethorne name, but he’s not a real Firethorne. Not like me.”
Interesting.
“Why isn’t he a real Firethorne?” I pressed, my focus on him now, the canvases merely spectators to the reality he was now painting for me.
“Because...” Lysander tensed his jaw, and then, with his eyes fixed on his paintings, he said, “We might have the same father, but my mother didn’t give birth to him. He’s a bastard. A living reminder of my father’s indiscretions. He isn’t a true-born Firethorne.”
