"It’s made of aerospace-grade titanium alloy coated in platinum. You’d saw through your own bone before you scratched the metal."
She flinches.
"Don't try it, Ivy. Please."
I walk out.
Two hours later, I am back in the conservatory.
I needed to see her. I watched the dot on my phone screen—a pulsing green light labeledWIFE—moving from the bedroom to the kitchen, then to the conservatory.
I stand in the doorway, watching her paint.
She is attacking the canvas.
Yesterday, her strokes were tentative, careful. Today, they are violent. She is using a palette knife, slashing black and gray oil paint onto the white surface.
She hasn't seen me yet. She is lost in the work.
I walk closer, silent on the stone floor.
I look at the painting.
It is the view from the window—the cliffs, the ocean. But the sky isn't blue. It’s a swirling vortex of charcoal and crimson. And in the center, rising from the waves, is a figure.
It’s not a mermaid. It’s not a woman.
It’s a cage.
A birdcage made of bones, floating on the black water. And inside the cage... a heart. A bright, bleeding red heart.
It is disturbing. It is dark.
It is beautiful.
"You’re angry," I say.
Ivy jumps, spinning around. She holds the palette knife like a shank. Her eyes are wild. There is a smear of black paint on her cheek.
"Get out," she snaps.
"I like it," I say, nodding at the canvas.
"You like it?" She laughs, a harsh, brittle sound. "Of course you do. It’s your masterpiece. You built the cage, Silas."
"And you put your heart inside it," I point out.
She freezes. She looks at the painting. The heart inside the bone cage.
"I didn't..." She trails off. "That’s not what it means."
"Isn't it?"
I step closer. I take the palette knife from her hand before she can decide to use it on me. I toss it onto the table.
I grab her waist and pull her against me. She smells of turpentine and fury.
"You can hate the cage, Ivy," I whisper, looking down into her defiant eyes. "You can rattle the bars. You can paint it in blood. But you are safe inside it."
