"Tonight," I repeat, voice harder. "She dies tonight."
But my shadows coil toward the market, toward that painting, toward an artist who apparently thinks armed robbers just need snacks and guidance. They move like they're curious.
I haven't been curious about anything in years.
This is going to be a problem.
Chapter 3
The cerulean's wrong. Too green. Like pond scum.
"You look seasick," I tell the half-finished landscape.
The painting doesn't defend itself. Rude.
My studio smells like turpentine and yesterday's shepherd's pie. The gravy's gone shiny. The peas are gray. Matthias brought it yesterday—"You're too thin," he'd said, which is ridiculous. My corsets disagree. Violently. But I ate half anyway because disappointing Matthias feels wrong. Now the rest sits by my easel, abandoned in its cracked pottery dish.
Should probably eat it. The potatoes are still... potato-shaped. Mostly. Mrs. Harwicke's half payment is already allocated—rent, supplies, that new canvas that called to me last week. Food's... optional. Creative meal planning. That's what we're calling finding that block of sharp cheddar on sale. Good cheddar. The kind that makes your jaw ache.
The brush moves wrong. My magic stirs under my skin, trying to turn the innocent landscape into something else. Something true. The sky wants to be angry. The trees want to lean away from each other. Even the happy little cottage I planned looks like it's screaming.
"Stop that." I add more blue. More happiness. More lies. "Nobody wants honesty at night."
My magic disagrees. It's been disagreeable since last night, when I painted him. Keeps trying to add details I didn't see. Details I couldn't have seen. Like the way his hands shakejust slightly when he thinks no one's looking. Like those headaches he probably gets. The kind that sit behind your eyes.
"Nope. Not thinking about that."
But I'm already looking at his portrait, propped in the corner. Even in the bad light, he looks tired. The kind of tired that needs soup. Good soup with barley and vegetables cut small so they cook through properly.
My studio door doesn't open.
That's the first wrong thing. It doesn't open, doesn't break, doesn't even rattle. The shadows in the corner just... expand.
I should scream. Screaming seems appropriate. Instead: "Oh, that's not good for the paint. The draft."
The shadows solidify into him. Shadow-man. Standing in my studio like that's reasonable.
He's taller than the painting suggested. Broader too. His coat probably cost more than my entire existence. Everything about him screams danger—the way he stands, the way shadows curl around his fingers, the way his eyes catalog exits I didn't know I had.
"You're letting all the warm air out." The words fall out because apparently my mouth works independently of my survival instincts. "I mean, I know you're here to kill me, but heating costs money."
He stops mid-step. Actually freezes. His face does something complicated—surprise? Confusion?
"You know why I'm here." His voice sounds expensive. Dark. The kind that probably makes people confess things.
"The painting." I gesture with my brush, accidentally flicking cerulean across my shirt. Great. Another stain. This one looks like a bird. Or a squashed blueberry. "I figured someone would come eventually. Though I expected less shadow travel and more normal door usage. Tea?"
"Tea." He repeats it flatly.
"Or coffee? I think I have coffee. Somewhere." I'm already moving toward my tiny stove, because having my hands busy seems better than standing still. There's yesterday's kettle. A chipped mug with paint on the handle. "You look like a coffee person. Black, probably. No sugar. Sugar's probably too cheerful."
"Stop."
I stop. Not because he's scary—though he is—but because he's staring at the painting like it personally betrayed him.
"Did you mean to paint my soul?"
The question hangs between us. I put down the kettle I don't remember picking up.
