"I should practice walking first. Regular walking. Without shadows." I count brushes. Missing one. There—under that puddle. "My vegetables survived though. Mostly. That cucumber looks traumatized."
The back door's already open. Sensible Boots helps gather the last brushes while Gray Streak does that thing where he pretends not to be amused.
"Thank you for the transport," I tell them. "Very efficient. Slightly terrifying. My turnip definitely has opinions now."
They leave me at the entrance, probably to report successful delivery of one artist without losing vegetables to the shadow realm.
The compound's halls are cleaner than yesterday. Someone actually followed my suggestion about the cobwebs. The death-smell is fading too, replaced by something that might be lemon oil. They listen. That's nice. Terrifying, but nice.
The corridors feel narrower than I remember. Have to turn sideways at one corner to avoid a weapons rack someone's moved. My basket catches anyway, rattling something expensive and stabby.
I know he's there before I see him. The shadows feel different when he's around—heavier, more interested.
"You came." His voice from the doorway makes me drop another brush.
"I said I would." I turn, clutching my wrapped portrait. He looks better. Color in his face that isn't exhaustion-gray. Different clothes too—still black, but cleaner. "Did you eat breakfast?"
His expression does something complicated. "Are we really discussing my meals?"
"Someone has to." I set down my bags. "I brought vegetables. And paint. The vegetables aren't for painting. Well, I might paint them later, but they're primarily for eating."
He steps aside to let me in, and I catch his scent—something dark and expensive with undertones of soap. Do shadow users have special soap? Is that a thing?
"The portrait," he says, eyeing my wrapped canvas.
"Right. Yes." I thrust it at him, then pull back. "It's yours. I mean, you're yours, obviously, but the painting. Of you. Should be yours. No one else has seen it, I promise. Well, Mrs. Harwicke saw it but she was too busy complaining about her nose to really look."
His hands are careful taking it. Long fingers, pale, with those shadow scars I noticed before. Good hands. Artistically speaking. Very paintable.
He unwraps it slowly.
The silence stretches. I count my brushes again. Still missing one.
"This is how you see me." Not a question.
"That's how you looked. That night. All tired and pretty and—" I stop. "Pretty tired. Very tired. Exhaustively tired."
He's still staring at the painting. The light from the window catches his profile and my fingers itch for charcoal.
"No."
I blink. "No?"
"No more portraits." He sets the painting against the wall with excessive care. "This one is enough."
"But I need to paint you properly. With actual sitting. And better light. And you knowing you're being painted instead of just..." I wave vaguely. "Lurking attractively in moonlight."
"I don't lurk attractively."
"You absolutely do. It's very atmospheric. But terrible for color accuracy." I'm already calculating light angles. "One session. Maybe two. Just to get the details right."
"No."
"Why not?"
He turns to face me fully. The shadows around him shift. "Because the last time you painted me, you nearly destroyed everything I've built."
"That's a bit dramatic."
