It was impossible to imagine Melinda as a destitute woman. She wore rubies as fine as Hestia’s around her neck, and their shop was well appointed, as was their living quarters in the floors above. Still, Melinda liked to humble herself to others by reminding them that she had once suffered for her art to the point of madness. She was a strange character, often seen pacing around the town all afternoon, or cleaning the bakery of flour and dust, kneading dough or baking pies.
Melinda came to the door with flour on her forehead and paint on her fingers. She apologized for her appearance, but assured them, Marigold especially, that she had been waiting for them to show up since morning.
“I was looking forward to it,” Melinda said, her searching eyes locked on Marigold.
It would make sense for Melinda to be interested in the newcomer, Finn thought. He himself wastoointerested. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Marigold said regarding her previous marriage…how it had seemed like the right thing to do, because anyone could draw lines between the two of them and say that marriage was logical. Practical. Right.
Melinda led them into a well-lit parlor with open windows. A breeze kissed Finn’s skin. Melinda went back into the kitchen and returned with tea and cakes.
“I wasn’t expecting so many,” she said, “but I suppose Marigold needed a few escorts to show her around.”
Marigold took a bite of the cake, and the degree to which she enjoyed it nearly made Finn hot…he scratched his neck…watched her take her finger, dip it in the icing, and put it in her mouth.
She wasalive.
“So,” Melinda said, knotting her hands together, and settling down onto her push chair. “I pulled the portrait. These days it is extraordinary for people to pay for a portrait and never return to pick it up–but this was back before I had a cache of any sort. I believe Sirius and Solar took pity on me, because I was so unsuccessful at the time.”
Melinda got up again and went toward the covered easel in the middle of the room. She drew the curtain back to expose the painting. Marigold gasped, and Finn instinctively reached for her hand. William shot him a look, and he dropped it.
Marigold didn’t seem to even notice what he’d done.
“That’s…that’s my parents,” she said.
Marigold got up and walked across the room to the portrait. She studied the faces there.
“You’re so talented,” she said softly. “It is very like them. It is like they are in this room with me.”
When tears streamed down Marigold’s face, Finn had to hold himself back from going to her. Holding her hand. Hestia, he reminded himself. Hestia, Hestia, Hestia.
“I’m sorry,” Marigold said. “It’s just–I’ve been missing them lately. Only last night, really.”
Finn got up, too, to take a closer look at the painting.
He saw two elegant people, obviously of high birth. She had soft, strawberry blonde hair, and he had blazing dark red hair. They were an attractive couple in expensive robes. It was obvious that the male had been able to create fire of some sort.
But…neither of them looked anything like Marigold.
Finn decided that it would be a good idea not to mention that just yet.
Meanwhile, Melinda looked like she might faint.
She was white as a sheet, and she sat herself down with some urgency. Her chestnut hair, up in a bun, looked frazzled. She wore a blue frock with a simple blue apron and her classic ruby necklace. She had always been thin–but now she looked positively weak.
“Are you... well?” Finn asked.
Melinda stared straight ahead.
“It’s just. Well–it’s strange to find someone, by chance, who knew them.”
With apparent difficulty, Marigold tore her eyes from the painting and addressed Melinda.
“Did you know them? Well, I mean? Or did they just commission the portrait and go? It’s unlike them.”
“Oh,” Melinda said, kneading her hands and looking out the window. “I knew them more than passing well.”
Silence ensued.
“Forgive me,” Marigold said, sitting back down, her hands in her lap. “I’m only curious.”
