“Leave it be,” he commanded hoarsely, gesturing at the floor.
Violet nodded. She pulled herself upright, expecting him to right the chair.
He did not. He straightened slowly, his eyes locked upon her ungloved hands, her bodice, her face. He tore his gaze away. He drew breath and stepped around the fallen chair. Once again, he offered her his arm. This time, however, his movements were more careful. Slower. As if he wasn’t quite certain what would happen if her fingertips touched his sleeve. “To Lily?”
Not trusting herself to speak, Violet simply nodded and nestled her fingers against his arm for the second time that morning. He seemed even closer than before. Bigger, somehow. Stronger, warmer, as if everything about him had amplified a thousandfold. And from the way his muscles tensed every time her gown slid across his leg or a stray curl brushed against his arm, he was experiencing the same phenomenon.
He guided her faster and faster through the corridors and the catacombs as if he could scarcely wait to lock her in the sanctuary and have done with temptation. But when they finally reached Lily’s door, he made no move to open it. Instead, he turned to her and paused.
The light from the single candle cast strange shadows and an orange glow over his face. A chill permeated the air. The flame flickered, sputtered, and went out.
At first, neither of them moved.
After what seemed an eternity, he shifted in the darkness. Her fingers fell from his elbow. His strong hands closed gently around hers, then released at once.
A second later, his key sounded in the lock and the moment was gone.
Violet blinked into the comparative brightness of Lily’s bedchamber. After the full darkness of the catacombs, the light from a dozen candelabra was blinding. All too quickly, however, the room snapped into focus.
The rest of the unwanted paintings remained where she’d left them, stacked unevenly against a wall. Somehow she’d forgotten them during the walk here, and seeing them piled so starkly before her came as a shock to her stomach. She had felt horrible yesterday. She had tried so hard for so many nights to do something good for Lily, and all she’d succeeded in doing was making the child feel worse. Now there would be awkwardness where there had once been trust, and the illusion of understanding.
It wasn’t until Violet summoned the courage to cross the threshold that a slight warmth disappeared from the small of her back. Mr. Waldegrave had rested his hand there, as if he sought to lend her some of his strength. Violet flashed him a grateful smile. She could use all the strength she could muster.
Not all the canvases were in the asymmetrical heap. She’d disposed of several herself, when she’d first left the room. One lone canvas stood propped on one of the easels. Lily stood right behind it, wearing a paint-splattered smock and a guilty expression.
Violet stepped forward. “Good morning, Lily.”
Lily’s gaze darted from Violet, to her father, back to Violet. A pink-tipped paintbrush trembled in her hand.
“Are you painting?” Violet asked softly. She took another step closer.
Lily stared at the easel before her as if it had popped up from nowhere and caught her unawares.
Brow furrowed, Violet crossed the room in order to peek at whatever was on the canvas that had her charge so on edge.
“I messed them all up,” Lily blurted as Violet got closer. “I got ink all over everything and I wanted to fix it and I couldn’t because I don’t know what anything’s supposed to look like ’cause I’ve never seen it like that and so... and so I painted the only thing I know. Over the ink. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”
Violet motioned for Mr. Waldegrave to stay where he was and hurried to Lily’s side. Bracing herself, Violet turned to view the canvas. Her jaw dropped.
Water-violets. Lily had covered the ink spatter with water-violets. In the grass, in the clouds, across the sun—water-violets. Everywhere.
Violet did not have to be an expert in youthful intellect to understand that this was Lily’s way of apologizing, of showing she cared, just as Violet had only been attempting to show how muchshecared. She also didn’t need to be an art teacher to see that the water-violets themselves were incredible. They were exact reproductions of the water-violet she’d painted for Lily the other day. Over and over again. Violet wasn’t even certainshecould paint two flowers so perfectly identical, let alone replicate a cornucopia of identical blooms across an entire canvas.
“I just wanted to fix it,” came the small voice at her elbow. “But it’s still ruined.”
“It’s perfect.” Violet turned to the little girl and dropped to her knees to be on eye level. “It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”
Lily’s lower lip trembled. “It’s not stupid?”
“It’s cracking good, honey. It truly is. And you know what else?” Violet took Lily’s hands in hers. “I’m proud of you.”
“You are?” she asked in amazement.
“Absolutely. You tried to do a good thing and ended up doing a great thing. How many people can say that?” Violet gave Lily’s hands a squeeze. “Art speaks to me, it always has. Your piece knows me by name.”
Lily giggled. “I don’t hear anything. What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Viiiolet, Viiiiiiolet… Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave likes you.’ And do you know what’s marvelous about that? It so happens that I’m quite fond of Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave, too. In fact, I think she’s just about perfect. Anyone would be proud to be her friend.”
