“It’s going to work out,” he encouraged.
Now say it like you mean it. Jo bit back the harsh words and forced a nod.
“What happens if it doesn’t?” She braved the question that had been trailing behind her like a scrap of toilet paper since they’d first received this impossible wish. And, just like a trailing scrap, no one seemed to want to say anything about it.
No one said anything. But for the first time, it felt as if people were actually considering the question—rallying behind it, even. Eventually, one after the next, every eye in the room landed on Eslar.
“I honestly don’t know.” It sounded like a confession and an omission of guilt at the same time. He looked directly at Jo, referencing their conversation days ago. “I was not lying to you, then. Such a thing has never come to pass, and Snow has never elaborated to me.”
Jo wondered if she could get Snow to tell her. But if he did, would that mean she’d used their closeness to her advantage? Would it be so wrong if she did? Why had she dared enter into some kind of relationshipnow,of all times?
“We won’t fail though,” Wayne reiterated. “We just won’t.”
None of them could seem to muster more than a nod of agreement.
“You’re right.” She wouldn’t discount Nico. She’d felt the power of his magic first-hand, she knew how evocative his paintings could be. If anyone could do it, it would be him. Jo would give him all the faith in the world to see it happen.
“Would you like to bring this to him?” Samson’s voice pulled Jo’s attention back toward the kitchen.
“Huh?” It took a moment to register that Samson was holding a plate of food. “Oh, that?” Jo quickly rose to her feet, eager to have something to do other than sitting and worrying her hands into bone-popping tension. “Gladly.”
Samson transferred the plate, and Jo eagerly left the room. It wasn’t that being around the other members was hard; there was a solidarity there—bonding that could only be brought on by a terrible situation. But solidarity through terror wasn’t the sort of team building she wanted.
Jo clung to the plate, her only lifeline to feeling useful, like she was still able to do something for their cause.
Instead of heading toward Nico’s room, she turned left and headed up toward the recreation rooms. Nico had escaped there following the meeting, claiming that for such a work he needed the freedom of a completely new space. Jo wasn’t sure if she quite understood it from an artistic perspective. But she understood it enough to see the merits from her own past work. Sometimes it took a new environment to see a problem with new light and find the right solution.
Please let Nico have found the right solution, she prayed silently.
Shifting the balance of the plate to one hand, Jo located the shelf holding Nico’s timepiece and gave a few solid raps on the adjacent door. She waited a moment that ticked away into minutes. There was no response. Jo debated knocking again. They didn’tneedfood; it wasn’t possible for Nico to be truly hungry anymore. Certainly food wasn’t a worthy-enough reason to throw any potential artistic groove he was in off-kilter—
The door opened, revealing a frazzled-looking, paint-splattered Nico. His eyes dropped from her face to the plate and his face relaxed into a tired smile. “Samson always knows just what I need.”
He opened the door the rest of the way, motioning for Jo to enter.
The recreation room had molded itself into a cramped little studio. Plaster had cracked and fallen away in most places, to reveal porous brick walls underneath. The spider-web fractures rose to meet sturdy-looking, but weathered, wooden beams that supported a squat roof. Fire burned low in a white stone hearth—the only source of light as the world beyond the iron grated window was dark.
“Is this. . .”
“My old atelier? Yes.” Nico moved to an easel set up to the left of the hearth and across from the door so that the light would reflect off it without being obstructed by his shadow. “You can set that there.” He pointed to a worktable to Jo’s left, already picking up a paintbrush and dragging it across his palette.
Jo let the door close behind her and crossed over to the table. It was narrow and not an inch of its surface was visible through the clutter of artistic tools—some of which she now actually recognized from the store in Florence. She took the liberty of pushing some to the side, clearing just enough space for the plate.
Nico hadn’t moved, already seeming lost in a world only he and the canvas shared. Jo watched as the two continued their discussion through paint, magic, and undeniable skill. He seemed to have already forgotten she was there.
“You can sit, if you’d like.” Or he hadn’t quite forgotten. Nico motioned toward a stool by the hearth.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” Jo said hesitantly.
“You won’t,” he assured her without looking. “Julia would sit there from time to time, and I’m used to working with you around now. Perhaps it will invoke her spirit and bring me some luck.”
Jo took the sentiment at face-value, not peeling it apart to search for meaning she knew wasn’t there. She knew neither she, nor any woman, could ever be a replacement for Julia de’Este in Nico’s heart. If anything, he had just paid Jo the highest compliment he could by saying that, just maybe, she could offer the ghost of a replacement in body, a balm in the form of a personified memory.
She assumed the seat, leaning against the pleasantly warm stones of the hearth. By all logic, she should feel more restless here than in the living room. The wooden stool was far less comfortable than the plush of the couch. And she could see how much progress Nico had yet to make (unless he was going for somethingveryabstract this time).
But some of the tension in her shoulders gave way. Not a lot, but enough. Just seeing progress being made with her own two eyes was reassuring.
“How is the rest of the group?” he asked after silence had made its pass.
