“That wasn’t what I saw. You looked upset when he called you useless, which, by the way, I don’t believe for a second.”
“Why? It’s true.” Quoth leaned forward, and the light danced off his hair, this time shooting it with jets of pale blue. I sat on my hands, hoping that would temper the urge to run my fingers through those luminous strands. “I offer nothing to the world I’ve found myself in, and I remember so little of the world I left that even if I were somehow to return, I would be a stranger.”
I snorted. “You’re being sarcastic, right?”
“I am not.”
“Dude, you realize you’re an amazing artist, right?” I pointed to a painting hanging over the bed, of two skulls nestled amongst a field of blood-red roses. “That issick. It could be an album cover.”
“Thanks.”
“I have a tattoo that’s kind of similar.” I turned around and lifted the edge of my shirt to show him the ink on my lower back. “Ashley and I got matching ones. I love it, but the artist is nothing compared to you.”
“I’m nothing compared to the artists on the walls downstairs.” Quoth stared at the floor, deliberately not looking at my tattoo. I sat back down again.
“You mean all those prints of Picasso and Rembrandt? When you compare yourself to the greatest artists of human history, yeah, you’re probably lacking a bit. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have talent. Did you choose the prints downstairs?” I studied the juncture of Quoth’s earlobe, marveling at its exquisite beauty. Why was everything about him so perfect, but so…breakable?Despite his sinewy muscles, Quoth moved as though he were made of glass.
I guess I’d feel like that, too, if at any moment my body could burst into pieces and remake itself into another shape.
“Morrie put them up for me after he caught me reading books in the Art History section.” Quoth smiled, but like everything about him, that smile bore a fragility that made my chest ache. “They are not prints.”
Of course they’re not.I decided to leave that revelation for now. “I know – even if you don’t – that they’re your way of borrowing some surcease of sorrow, but why don’t you sell your paintings?”
Quoth groaned at my poor attempt at humor. “Tease me with that poem and you may find a present on your shoulder when you least except it. I cannot sell my paintings. No one wants them. Morrie says they’re too morbid.”
I grinned down at a bird’s eye view of a cemetery, where a groundskeeper dug a fresh tomb while mourners lined the aisle between graves. “They’re morbid as fuck, but that’s a selling point. Plenty of people would have something like that on their wall. I knowIwould. You could even take commissions, maybe offer your services to bands and fashion labels. You wouldn’t feel like you were useless if you contributed something, left your mark on this world.”
“You don’t have to be nice to me, Mina. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Say it one more time like you believe it.” I slid my hand from under my ass and patted his knee. Big mistake. The warmth of Quoth’s skin seeped into my body, wrapping around my heart and squeezing. Fire flickered in the corner of his eyes. For a moment, he let his guard drop and I glimpsed the despair hidden in plain sight, the loneliness written across his porcelain skin.
My breath hitched. I recognized Quoth, because he was a mirror of myself – he was the ghost of young Mina who escaped to Nevermore Bookshop every day because she had no friends, who sought solace and friendship in her imagination, who drowned out her screams with loud music and covered her scars in torn clothing.
When I first met Quoth, he’d frightened me. But as bit by bit he’d revealed himself to me, I knew I had no reason to be afraid. I didn’t need to be saved from Quoth. He was the one who needed saving.
“I am fine,” he whispered. “You are here, and I am happy.”
His words burned through me. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I drew my hand away, desperate not to feel his pulse quicken or sense the depth of his wanting. “You’re happy I’m here?”
“You fill me with fantastic terrors never felt before.” He smiled at his own joke.
“Well, you’re the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,” I shot back.
A grin spread across his bleak face, genuine and haunting in its fleeting beauty. As soon as it appeared, it was gone. “I hear your thoughts sometimes, when I’m a raven. More than the others. I’m sorry about it; I don’t mean to disturb your privacy. I can’t control it.”
“I understand. I’ll try not to think anything filthy while you’re around.” I’d meant it as a joke, but Quoth winced. My cheeks flushed as I remembered what happened back in London. “I know you saw Morrie and I… that was so wrong. I shouldn’t have done that while you were there.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, not to me, or to Heathcliff.”
I stared at him, not understanding. Quoth winked, and my cheeks burned as realization dawned on me.He’s heard my thoughts about Heathcliff. He knows all the filthy things I imagined…
“You should embrace the chaos, Mina. It’s okay to not know what you want.”
“Andyoushould do something with your paintings.” I rubbed my cheek, trying to get the heat out of it. “Another few weeks and you won’t be able to move in here.”
“If I sold them, I’d have to talk to people – a gallery owner, an agent.”
“I’ll help you. I’ll act as your agent, if you like. A lot of Marcus Ribald’shaute couturecustomers are big in the art world. I bet I know some people who could help you get started.”
