I throw my head back with relief. Thank fuck I can move now. “I’m surprised,” I say, shaking out my arms and legs. “That may have been torture, but I expected to pose much longer.”
She looks up from her sketchbook, brow arched. “We haven’t even begun. That was just practice.”
“Practice? For what?”
“I’ll show you.” She steps from the settee to her tea table and down to the floor in a matter of a few graceful hops. It reminds me of how she moves when she’s a pine marten, leaping onto furniture and climbing with ease. I’ve only seen her acting reserved and self-conscious in her seelie form before, so I must admit I’m pleased to see her in such an energetic mood. She must be more comfortable in this body when she’s in the safety of her own home.
She scampers the rest of the way to me and shows me the sketch. It’s rough, merely an array of messy marks and hasty shading, yet it’s clear what she’s drawn.
It’s me. My face. A shaft of sunlight falling over the bottom half, marred slightly by the faint bruising that colors my jaw. The contusion healed mostly overnight, but there is still evidence of the kick that knocked me out.
“As soon as you stepped into the parlor,” Daphne says, “the light fell over you just right. I had to draw it.”
My chest warms as I study the sketch once more. I can’t be mad about holding still for so long now, can I? “What are you going to do with this sketch?”
She shrugs. “It’s just a practice sketch. I don’t do anything with them. I just…do them.”
“May I keep it?”
Her eyes turn to mine as if it’s only now dawned on her that I’m here. She takes a step away and averts her gaze, a coral tint to her cheeks. “I suppose,” she says, tearing the page from her book. Instead of handing it to me, she sets it on the tea table. “But only if you hold still and be a good model for me.”
“Don’t we already have a bargain in place for that?”
“This,” she says, tapping the sketch, “is collateral. Our bargain only stated you’d pose for me, not that you’d posewell.”
I infuse my tone with mock excitement. “You mean I can perform my side of the bargain terribly and still fulfill our terms?”
She gives me a withering stare.
“I’m kidding. I can behave and…stand still for a goddamn eternity, if I must. Just tell me what to do.”
Daphne directs me to the far end of her parlor, past her sitting area near one of the bright windows that line the walls. There, her easel is set up before a waist-high bureau. Upon the bureau is a plush pillow draped in a knitted shawl.
She steps up to the pillow-shawl combination and grips it. “Your hands will go here,” she says, giving the pillow a squeeze. Then she darts to her easel and turns the canvas to me. Upon it is the woman she showed me in her sketch last night. She gestures toward the blank space beside her. “And you’ll stand in this general area. Pretend the pillow is her hips and the shawl is her skirt.”
As I approach the pillow, I’m overcome with a sudden wave of embarrassment. I can normally take on professional levels of humiliation, for what do I care for my reputation? Yet with Daphne’s hopes pinned upon me, I want to get this right. I want to be of use to her and her art.
My motions are stiff as I get into place. “Like this?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly.
She studies me for a few beats before coming to position me herself. With a few decisive touches, she moves my hands, orders me to splay my fingers, and helps me shift my stance. My pulse quickens at how easily she touches me. She’s not an overly affectionate person and only accepts touch from those she knows. Anyone who tried to pet her in her pine marten form risked losing fingers. Yet she moves me around like I’m a prop.
I suppose that’s what I am in this moment.
She steps back and gives an approving nod. “Now hold that—wait.” Her gaze sweeps over me. “You’re still wearing a shirt.”
“There it is,” I say with an amused grin. I was wondering when the demand to remove my clothes would come. “Don’t worry, Daffy Dear. I’ll strip with haste.”
“Just your shirt,” she mutters as she scurries back to her easel.
I step back from the bureau, though I try to keep my previous position at the fore of my mind as I loosen the buttons of my waistcoat and undo my already loose cravat. Once I shrug out of my shirt, I toss my clothing to the side and step back into place. As I grasp the pillow, I cast a questioning glance at Daphne, seeking her guidance?—
I nearly choke on my urge to laugh.
Daphne’s expression is so comical, so fucking cute, I can’t stand it. She’s somehow managed to embody the sweet innocence of her pine marten face but with an expression she could only make in seelie form. She stares unabashedly at me from behind her easel, neck craned to get a full look. Her eyes are round, her lips pursed in a tight knot as she attempts to hide her smile.
“Like what you see?” I ask, shifting in place to better get into position.
“You’ll do,” she says, lips still pursed, and then darts back behind her easel. “If I ignore your bruises. You know, you should be more careful not to damage my merchandise for the duration of our bargain.”
