Page 22 of Firethorne
They were half-brothers. I’d had no idea, but it certainly answered a few questions and explained why they were so different.
“I thought you were the eldest?” I asked, and Lysander nodded.
“I am. My father brought him to live with us when he was born. I was four at the time.”
“That must’ve been tough. Was your mother still around when that happened?” I asked and watched him swallow. His voice broke a little as he started to speak.
“She died when we were young. She’d been ill for most of our lives, but I know, when he brought Damien to live here, it didn’t help matters. That broke her.”
I wanted to ask how she’d died, what illness she’d had, but I found myself saying, “I’m so sorry to hear that.” And then, “What about Damien’s mother? Where is she?”
“I have no idea, and I don’t want to know.” I felt him snap back to reality, shaking his head slightly as he stepped away from the canvases against the wall and reached out to touch my arm. “Talking about my bastard brother was the last thing I wanted to do when I brought you in here.” His eyes softened as he added, “Come over here. I want to show you something.”
I took one more glance at the paintings laid out in front of me, my eyes searching each one for the darkly hidden figure. The brother that didn’t belong here. Then, I lifted my gaze to look at Lysander. Kind, honest Lysander.
“I’m sorry you lost your mother. I know how that feels. I lost mine, too,” I said, giving him a little bit of myself in return for his openness.
Lysander stepped closer to me.
“Let’s not lose ourselves to the ghosts of our past,” he replied, ignoring my confession like it was nothing. As if they were words he hadn’t heard me speak. The sunshine he always exuded was glowing brightly now as he walked towards a large mahogany desk on the opposite side of the room. “I find living for themoment far more rewarding. And the future is much more exhilarating than the past.”
I knew he was deflecting. Avoiding the pain he didn’t want to feel. Who was I to challenge him on that? I did the same, too, most days.
I followed him to the desk, watching as he rooted through papers, trying to find whatever it was he wanted to show me. The desk was a clutter of artwork, pencils, brushes and paint tubes.
“Ah, here it is,” he announced, pulling out a piece of paper from the pile. “I did this last night. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.”
He handed the paper to me, and I took it, glancing down at the pencil sketched there, almost losing my breath as I did.
“Is this me?” I asked, struggling to find my voice.
“Yes. I sketched it from memory last night, after I’d dropped you off at the cabin. It’s only a rough, first draft, but once I’ve convinced you to sit for me, I can work on it. I can create that portrait we talked about.”
He’d gone home, sat and thought about me, and drawn this sketch from memory. No one had ever done anything like that for me before. I was speechless. Again.
“That’s just so.... so...” I didn’t know if I could find the words to describe how I was feeling. But I went with, “Thoughtful.”
It wasn’t the right word.
It wasn’t nearly enough to describe the buzz of electricity currently flowing through me. The warmth in me that realising he’d taken time to do that elicited.
That he thought I was in some way special.
Trust no one.
They’re all liars here.
But maybe I could trust Lysander. He was giving me every reason to.
In this moment, all my apprehension and mistrust evaporated for a split second, like a break in the clouds, giving me a glimpse of what could be. This sketch was a selfless gesture. A kindness. He really did want to paint me. Capture whatever it was he saw that made him feel something. And maybe it’d make me feel something, too.
“Do you really like it?” Lysander asked, and the fact he seemed unsure made my heart swell a little more.
“Of course I do. I love it.” I went to pass the sketch back to him, but he shook his head.
“That’s yours. You can keep it.”
“Don’t you need it for reference? To work from?” I asked.
