“But. . .Why?”
He led her over to one of his chairs, squeezing in next to her. It was a little smaller than a loveseat and the fit was tight. But instead of uncomfortable, it felt warm and safe. Jo pulled her feet up onto the cushion as he spoke, cradling her mug.
It was then she noticed that the mug was indeedhers. The one she always used. The one Takako had gotten Samson to make for her.
Nico had planned this.
Jerk.
“Has no one told you of restrictions, yet?”
“Restrictions?” Jo repeated. “No. Oh, let me guess, this is another bit of magic nonsense that doesn’t actually make any sense but we have to abide by because. . . reasons?”
Nico actually laughed and the sound of genuine amusement was a balm even better than coffee—and that said something, because very few things were ever better than coffee. “Something like that, yes.”
“Great.”
He nudged her with his shoulder and Jo sighed softly, letting out her sarcasm before asking, “So, go on then. What are ‘restrictions’?”
“Every magic has some sort of limitation on it. It varies from person to person, but everyone in the Society has something that restricts when and how they can use their magic.”
Jo thought of Snow as Nico spoke. Could a power that great be restricted by anyone or anything? But she stayed silent on the matter. Snow had never outright said not to, but Jo couldn’t imagine speaking to anyone else of the special place he’d taken her to on the other side of the Door. What he’d shown her felt innately private. She wouldn’t violate that confidence, no matter how many other stupid rules he imposed on them.
Nico continued, “For example, Wayne’s is obvious. The bet must be about money. A relatively generous restriction compared to mine.”
“What’s yours?”
“My power only works on a person once. To look at one of my paintings a second time would do nothing.”
“What?”
He chuckled at her shocked reaction. “The person must be lost in the canvas. They can’t over-analyze, or the magic won’t take its hold. So, once a person knows how my magic works, even subconsciously, it can no longer be effective on them.”
“How is that remotely fair?”
“Magic isn’t fair.” Truer words hadn’t been spoken that day.
“So, what’s mine?” Jo couldn’t help but wonder when she’d stop learning things about her new life. It’d been almost six months, after all.
“I don’t know. You have to discover that on your own.” Nico patted her knee and stood.
“Wonderful.” Jo bitterly turned her attention to the wide window, signaling that she was done with the conversation. Perhaps, on a normal day, she’d have more patience for it. But today, there just wasn’t anything left in the tank to deal with the nuances of magic.
Nico crossed over to his easel and the canvas that waited for him. Nothing more than a mass of color was stroked upon the negative space—an image of chaos that could only be called to order by the artist.
“What’re you painting?” Jo asked. Her voice softened instantly with a change of topic.
“Julia.”
As soon as he said the name, Jo saw it: the silhouette of a person yet taking form. She saw the early highlights of a brow and nose. She saw the mass of brown that would ultimately become hair. If Nico hadn’t just told her that he couldn’t use his magic on her again, she would’ve assumed it to be something fantastical to suddenly see the structure of the piece.
“Tell me about her?” Jo put her coffee mug on the floor and spread out on the sofa, though the stretch of cushions suddenly felt too big for one. She rested her head on the tall armrest, watching him as he set to work.
“My Julia?”
“Yes.”
“She was my muse. The stars were born of her tears and the sun of her smiles. She was everything good in my world and far more than I ever deserved. We lived in Florence. . .”
