She needn’t have worried.
Lillian copied each move almost as quickly as Violet performed it, but that was not the greatest surprise. No, the true miracle was that without any assistance whatsoever, an exact replica of Violet’s painting bloomed forth on Lillian’s canvas. She had purposefully copied Violet’s every move, yes, but the result was effortlessly identical. Violet would have been hard pressed to identify which of the beautiful flowers she herself had painted, were it not for the pen-and-ink in one corner and the fact that she still stood before her canvas. She marveled at her charge. Violet could take credit in having imparted artistic technique, but no instructor could ever teach natural talent.
Lillian was truly gifted. In time, she would be far more accomplished than Violet could ever hope to be. What an indescribable tragedy for someone with an artist’s eyes and such an expressive soul to be trapped inside a dull and lifeless abbey for the whole of her life.
“What’s wrong?” Lillian’s lower lip trembled. “Did I muck it up? It’s that last petal, isn’t it, the one on the right with—”
“It’s perfect. Almost as beautiful as you are.” Violet set down her palette and brush, then knelt to be eye-level with the child. “I have an idea. Since we haven’t got a garden full of every flower in the world, why don’t you pick one from the book every day, and we’ll paint it together?”
Lillian clasped her hands to her throat. “You can show me how to paint them all?”
Violet smiled. “I don’t see why not.”
“But... ” Lillian’s gaze fell to the open book of illustrations. “What if we don’t know what color it’s supposed to be? What will we do then?”
Violet lifted her palms. “We’ll make it up.”
Lillian glanced up sharply. “What?”
“We’ll use our imaginations,” Violet explained. “If you want orange, we’ll paint with orange. If you want blue, we’ll paint with blue. No rules in art, remember? You can paint flowers with checks and dots if you’ve a mind to, and there’s nobody to say—”
“But I don’t want flowers with checks and dots! I wantrealflowers, inrealcolors. I don’t want it to be art. I want it to beright.”
“Tiger Lily, listen to me. It truly doesn’t matter what’s real or not. There’s no such thing as right. If you’ve seen it in your imagination, if you’ve captured the images in your mind’s eye onto paper or canvas, then you’vemadeit real, even if it didn’t exist until you thought of it.”
“But how can I use my imagination if I haven’t got one?” Lillian’s eyes welled with tears. “I can only paint what I’ve seen, and the only thing I ever see is this room! What shall I paint a picture of? A wall? A chair? And use my ‘imagination’ to make it green with dots instead of ugly and gray? That’s not art. That’sstupid. I want real flowers! I want the real world! I want—”
With a choking sob, she broke off and tossed the picture book to the floor. She ran to her bed, climbed up on the mattress and, before Violet could halt her, had jerked the thick curtains shut in order to enshroud herself within. Only a faint sniffle could be heard from beneath the heavy tester.
Violet crossed quickly to the bed. “Lillian—”
“Go away,” she choked out. “Go outside and walk in the garden and then come tell me some more about how none of it matters.”
Violet placed her palm against the closed curtains. “Honey, that’s not what I meant. I just—”
“Well, I meant ‘go away’ and I’ll say it again. Good-bye.”
With a soft sigh, Violet lowered her hand back to her side. There was nothing she wanted more than to whisk the curtains aside and envelop Lillian in the biggest hug of her life. But Violet was no stranger to the sensation of helplessness and despair. Sometimes, particularly when one was a child, having one’s every stated wish thwarted by an adult only made one feel smaller and more insignificant. No matter how well meaning, Violet had no desire to add to Lillian’s frustration.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “Sleep well, and I will be back in the morning after breakfast.”
“I’ll be here,” came Lillian’s small, resentful voice. “Whether I like it or not.”
Violet’s heart broke for her. “Tomorrow will be a much better day. I promise.”
She would make sure of it.
Alistair awoke before dawn.
Possibly because he’d fallen asleep at his desk and the bent frames of his pince-nez had dug craters into his face. Again. He tossed the spectacles aside and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as his fingers stretched the worn grooves left by the pince-nez. Hopefully the marks would fade before he was required to address any members of his staff.
He laid a ribbon along the spine of the open tome and squinted at the clock. Hours yet before the kitchen would be ready for breakfast. Plenty of time for more research, if he could but stay awake. He pushed himself to his feet. Perhaps there was a less sleep-inducing volume on acute hypersensitivity research in the library.
He moved quickly through the familiar tunnels, deep within the bowels of the catacombs He neared Miss Smythe’s art room only to be struck spellbound at a flickering mirage in the shadows just ahead.
Grass.
The walls of the crumbling passageway were lined with thick, knee-high grass so green and so life-like that the guttering of a distant candle lent the illusion of a slight breeze. He could almost smell the heather and wildflowers sprinkled among the lush greenery.
