For a brief moment, Jo considered following him, but there was nothing she could think to say, no amount of comfort she felt able to give. Not to Snow at least. But when Jo glanced at the still slightly cracked door of Nico’s room, she realized where her comfort might still be of use.
It was probably selfish, forcing herself into Nico’s personal space when he might wish to spend his last hours alone, but Jo needed his presence as much as she hoped he might need hers. Even if it meant overstepping, she needed to be there for him—needed as much time left with him as he was willing to give.
When Jo let herself in, it was to find Nico standing by the window, staring out at the impossible view of a Florence sunset. The buttery glow painted Nico’s silhouette in hues of orange and pink, the last rays of the sun catching at his cheeks in a telling shimmer. That was all it took, the sight of Nico’s own tears causing a new wave of grief to settle into Jo’s bones. She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat, but a soft sob still escaped.
Nico turned to look at her then, a flash of surprise giving way to a soft smile. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes caused another tear to fall, and Jo was wrapping the man up in an embrace before she even registered the decision to do so. Nico settled into her arms easily, pulling her close with his own wordless thanks. It felt like the comfort she’d been needing; even though Nico was the one knocking on death’s door, he was still the one doing the comforting. Jo would have laughed if the very thought hadn’t filled her chest with another blossom of devastation.
There was no way of knowing how long they simply held each other, sometimes crying and sometimes just finding comfort in each other’s silent presence. Eventually, Nico pulled away, raising both hands to gently cup Jo’s face as his thumbs wiped away the remnants of tears. He leaned in, chastely kissing one cheek, then the other, before letting his hands fall.
“You know.” It wasn’t a question, and Jo wondered how long he’d been aware of her presence lurking outside the door.
“I do.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, stifling a loud sniffle.
“It has been an honor working alongside you, Josephina Espinosa,” he said, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. “And it has been nothing short of a blessing to get to know you.” Nico’s smile held every ounce of the sunshine she’d come to expect of the man, even if his eyes were mostly clouded.
“I’ll stay with you,” she found herself saying, knowing instantly that the words were right. “Until the end, to the very last minute.” For a breath, Nico simply held her gaze, but then the clouds in his eyes parted some, his face filling with matching warmth. When he hugged her once more, it was as true and heartfelt a “thank you” as she’d ever received.
She watched him paint for hours, curled up in a blanket on the stool by the fireplace. It was another portrait of his Julia, Jo realized, around the time her eyelids began to get heavy. She watched him carefully shade in the curves of her face, add highlights to the flowing waves of her hair.
It was sometime between the streaks of yellow being added to the background and Nico signing his name that a deep and dreamless sleep overtook Jo.
Chapter 36
One-Seventeen A.M.
JO BLINKED, DROWSY. She’d fallen asleep. When was the last time that had happened?
Everything was hazy as her mind began to work once more. This didn’t feel like waking, it felt like suddenlyexistingagain.
The beginning of the wish—that was the last time she’d actually slept since becoming a full member of the Society. She’d been woken the night Snow had come to her after he’d rewound time.
Jo searched her memories further, willing her mind to work, slotting things back into place. The details of the past day were suspended just out of her reach like the tiny motes of dust drifting past Nico’s easel. Jo blinked, her eyes dry and aching; she’d shed more tears in the last few days than she ever remembered shedding in her life. The room was filled with a serene stillness—a stillness that came from being the only breathing presence within.
With the stone of the wall now more warmed from her back than the smoldering remnants of the fire, Jo rubbed at her eyes and straightened. She looked around the room. Everything was as she remembered—the cluttered work table, the easel perched with the (now mostly finished) painting of Julia, the other various shelves and half-finished canvases. Everything was in its place.
Everything but the painter himself.
Jo stood with a stretch and a yawn. Everything seemed like a distant dream.
No. It all came rushing back, right as she was about to leave. Something struck her as odd: this wasn’t a distant dream she could shrug off alongside the shroud of sleep, but a vivid waking nightmare that she couldn’t escape even if she tried.
At the foot of the easel, surrounded by splotches of dried paint, Nico’s favored brush rested. She tilted her head, looking at the object in confusion; something about it rankled her so, but she couldn’t seem to pinpoint what it might be. The hair on her neck stood on edge. She stared at that mauve splotch on the floor where the paintbrush had landed; there was a splatter, and a streak where the brush had rolled before coming to its final resting place.
Final resting place.
Jo spun in place. “Nico?” she called out to the empty room, as if he would step out of thin air and surprise her. “Nico?” Her voice was a little more strained when he didn’t.
She took several long steps into the hallway; it was completely empty in the early dawn. “Nico?” she called again. There was still silence, still a creeping sense of foreboding waiting to swallow her up. She wouldn’t let it; she’d find him before it could.
He’s gone to his room, she told herself, lied to herself. That was it. He’d needed. . . a new tube of paint, or canvas, or something. He’d gotten tired. He’d worked hard enough to want somewhere to rest his weary hands, and in all his infinite manners he hadn’t wanted to disturb her.
Story after story ran through her mind, every possible reason concocted for where the painter might be.
Jo paused at the Four-Way, looking down the hallway to the common area and listening. There was no sound, yet her feet carried her in that direction anyway. In a surreal daze, Jo stopped at the entryway. It appeared empty, until she saw a foot hanging over the edge of the couch.
Half-jumping, half-running, Jo dashed over to the couch, her hands on the back, leaning over, and—her heart sank. Samson lay curled up, one of Eslar’s elegantly designed, elvish blankets draped over him. His red-orange hair frizzed from his tight braids and matted where it was free. Even in sleep, he looked exhausted.
Jo reached for his shoulder, shaking it some. “Samson?”
