He grimaces, massages the bridge of his nose. “God,” he mutters. “Everyone tells me that. As if it’s so simple. You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” I say. “Iwantto understand.”
Claude groans, dragging his hand down his face. “Fine,” he says. Then he sits silently for a moment, expression one of consternation. “When I was a human,” he says, “I felt… so many things when I painted. Joy. Freedom. Fear, that I would never have enough time to put everything I wished to on the canvas,and those images would be lost with me.” He pauses, his face a storm cloud.
“Then… Lord Ambrose gave me that time. He gave meendlesstime to pursue the thing I loved most. It is the best gift I could have ever imagined. And yet… when I tried again to put paint to canvas… all those things I once felt were gone. All that was left was a sense of pressure. Enormous pressure. Because the thing that I once did out of love, I was now supposed to do because it wasexpectedof me. No matter what I do now, people will judge it, and judge me, and weigh it against my previous work… and it feels like no matter what I do, it will not be enough to please them, nor earn the gift I was given. So why try?”
I study his face as he stares down at the table. I expected his explanation to be ridiculous, dramatic. And maybe it is, but I can tell how much it weighs on him. I don’t understand art, but I do understand how heavy other peoples’ expectations can be.
“It’s a lie that I never painted after I was turned, you know,” he says, when the silence lingers. “I did try, in the early days. I painted a few landscapes.”
“What happened to them?” I ask.
“Lord Ambrose tore them apart. He said they weren’t as good as my previous work. That I had to do better so I wouldn’t embarrass him.” His lips twitch in a bitter half smile. “Well, that’s what happened to two of them, at least. I ripped up the third myself. And then…ThenI stopped painting.”
“But you love to paint,” I say. “You shouldn’t do it for Lord Ambrose, or anyone else. You should do it for yourself.”
He looks away. “I don’t know if I remember how anymore,” he says.
* * *
The next evening, he’s gone again. And again, and again, until a full week has passed without a single painting session.
The sound of the doorbell startles me one night. I shuffle there with my coffee, open the door, and nearly drop my mug.
“L-Lord Ambrose,” I say. After a moment of pure, frozen panic, Benjamin’s etiquette lessons take hold of me and I dip into a curtsy. “What… what an unexpected pleasure. I’m sorry to say that Lord Claude isn’t here to welcome you himself—”
“Oh, I knew he wouldn’t be,” Ambrose says. “He’s my fledgling. I always know where he is.” Sometimes I forget about that unseen link between them, a bond that I don’t—andcan’t—truly understand. But at least I remember enough from Benjamin’s lessons to know that Claude, too, knows of Ambrose’s whereabouts, which means, Ihope,he’ll come home. Quickly, I hope, because Ambrose studies me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Why don’t you go make yourself presentable? I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
“I-I…” I swallow back anger and a prickle of fear. “Yes, of course. Come in.” There’s nothing else to say.
It feels ridiculous to doll myself up for a man who just showed up on my doorstep, but of course Lord Ambrose is the old-fashioned type and basically ordered me to do so. So I apply my makeup and put on a decent dress as quickly as possible before heading to meet him in the living room. I stop in the hallway outside, take a couple of deep breaths, and roll my shoulders back before entering the room at an unhurried pace.
Ambrose’s piercing gaze is on the doorway, waiting, even before I enter. Of course he must have heard me approach, must have heard me pause outside to gather myself. A slight smirk tells me he finds my anxiety amusing. Stupid of me not to think of that, but I plaster on a smile and try to act unbothered.
“Pardon me,” I say, curtsying again. “I wasn’t expecting company. Can I get you something?”
Despite my efforts to bepresentable, as he put it, Ambrose still radiates disapproval as he eyes my sundress. “Is this how you dress for him? It’s no wonder Claude isn’t painting.”
I stare. Anger chips through my icy fear. “Pardon,” I say carefully, “but I’m not sure what my appearance has to do with Lord Claude’s art.”
“You’re a fool, then,” Ambrose says, as easily as breathing.
I’m bristling. Did this man show up just to insult me? I’m eager to strike back at him, but I know my tongue is going to get me in trouble if I’m not careful, and I remember the strength in his grip when we first met at the ball. “Is there something I can help you with, Lord Ambrose?”
“There very well may be.” Ambrose stands, smoothing down the front of his jacket. “I had hoped to check on the progress of Claude’s work. Since you’re here, perhaps you can show me.”
I waver. I know very well that Claude hasn’t worked since the last time Ambrose was here. But telling Ambrose that, let alone showing him, feels like a betrayal. Claude can be aggravating at times, but I have no desire to see him in a state like he was after Ambrose’s last visit.
“If you wait for him to return, I’m sure he could show you himself,” I say, ignoring the fact that we both know Ambrose showed up here knowing hewouldn’tbe home.
Ambrose steps closer to me. Goose bumps break out all over me; it takes all of my willpower to hold my ground.
“I am askingyouto show me,” he says, his voice soft and dangerous.
Ambrose is not the kind of man who someone like me can say no to. But every fiber of my being rebels at the thought. Claude is my patron. I owe him my loyalty. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t believe I can do that. I…” I force a wobbly, sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I don’t even know where he keeps his works in progress. He is… private about it.”
Ambrose’s fingers dart out to grab my chin, and force my face up so he can look me in the eyes. I gasp even as I try to suppress it; he’s so fast, so strong, his fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.
