I press my hand to my chest. “I was not... expecting that. I knew his mom was an artist, but he made it seem like he wasn’t that good.”
“He didn’t represent himself well when talking about his talents, then. His pieces are magnificent.”
“Does he focus on landscapes?”
“Everything. Lately, late at night, while we talk, he draws portraits.”
“Oh? Of who?”
“Of you,” she answers. “Wherever you’ve been photographed for the day, he’ll spend the evening sketching you in his notebook while he tells me how beautiful you are.”
Okay...
Act normal.
That’s no big deal.
It’s just, you know... art.
It’s not like a romantic thing or anything like that. I have a sketchable face. That’s it.
Lara slides the piece of paper over to me. “It’s a shame when we realize the moment we lost the most important thing in our lives, isn’t it?”
I give her a side-eye. “I thought you were staying out of it.”
She holds her hands up. “I am, I’m just, you know... talking.”
“Uh-huh.” I unfold the piece of paper and read the poem to myself.
So desperate for love,
Beating, screaming,
Begging for one glimpse.
My heart is yours,
A servant to your being,
Forever yours but hopefully,
Never, never.
It takes me a few moments to reread it, to understand what he’s saying, and when I do, I mentally hear myself say,forever... never, never.
* * *
“Listen,Lara, if I walk through that door into the wood-whittling place, I need you to tell me, will I see him there?”
She grimaces and quietly says, “There’s a high probability he’s in there.”
“How high? Give me a percentage.”
“One hundred,” she says just as Henrik opens the door, and I come face to face with three men. One of them is pretty old, wrinkles etching his face, a hump in his back. One is quite charming, with rich dark hair and a crooked nose. And the third is Keller, wearing jeans and a button-up shirt, with a heavy cloth apron tied around his neck and torso.
His hair has grown longer on the top so he can fix it into a ponytail, and the bruise under his eye is completely gone. I don’t know how it’s possible, but he looks bigger, stronger than a week ago.
“Princess Lilija,” Henrik says. “Allow me to introduce you to some of our best whittlers in the capital. This is Eriek.” Henrik gestures to the old man. “And this is Jon, and you’re already acquainted with Keller.”
