Maxwell smiled. “Yes. Christopher and I both shared her eyes.”
“And hair, I think.” Thalia tilted her head. “I expect we would have been friends if I’d known her. She reminds me a little of Anna. Sweet and gentle, but with spirit when she wants to show it.”
“Perhaps. She never showed much spirit around my father.”
“I expect he is to blame for that.” She said the words matter-of-factly, but they still struck Maxwell as though she had punched him in the chest. “The cruelty of men cannot be overstated. My own father is evidence of that.”
She smiled ruefully, but it was as though Maxwell ceased seeing her and instead saw his mother. The way she had been when she had married his father; he had not been there, but he imagined she had been eager for her new life to begin, not knowing how cruel he could be.
The worst part was that his father had loved her. If he had not, he would have treated her with indifference. But he had adored her, and it had broken something in him. Always jealous, always angry, always seeking ways she could have betrayed him.
Love had been what ruined his father. And, in turn, Christopher. If he had not loved Joyce, he would not have lain with her—she was the daughter of a gentleman, after all. The temptation would not have been too great if his emotions had not been involved.
Thalia laid a hand on his arm, breaking his thoughts. “What is it?”
He shook his head, unwilling to give voice to the dark path his thoughts had taken. “Nothing. Let me show you which rooms we could use for your sculpting.”
In the end, they decided on a large, south-facing room formerly used as a schoolroom.
“Are you certain you want to change its purpose?” Thalia asked, looking around the large space and imagining Maxwell and Christopher in the room.
There was a large blackboard set up at the front, a wooden globe on a table, and two desks. She pictured a tutor standing at the front of the room, lecturing to small, disinterested boys, and the thought made her smile.
Maxwell’s smile had disappeared. He leaned in the doorway, looking around the room with a frown.
When she glanced at him, however, he exchanged his frown for a quick smile. “Of course I don’t mind. There’s no one here to need it.”
No one now.
They had not yet discussed the potential for children. Now they were married, Thalia understood it was entirely likely to happen,but a muscle feathered in Maxwell’s jaw as he looked around the room.
Perhaps the place held no happy memories for him.
She would change that in time.
For now, she would transform this space.
“Imagine it,” she said, twirling, pleased to find his attention fixed entirely on her. The tension in his posture eased. “I will be here with my art; my hands covered in clay and my muses standing before me.”
“Muses?” His brow raised. “What muses, pray?”
“Any that will have me.”
“Iwill have you. What other muses do you need?”
She flushed as she remembered the night when he had posed for her, and she had created his likeness.
My best work,she fancied,will be influenced by him.
“Well,” she said, tilting her chin and looking him square in the eye, “why not show me what you are made of?”
“Now?” His lips curled, the earlier tension entirely gone as he moved closer, every step measured. “But you have nothing with which to sculpt.”
“I have my imagination.” She held up both hands, laughing a little. “I can use this for future sessions.”
“You won’t need to,” he growled, catching her and burying his face in her neck. “You will always have me. No need for any other muses, Thalia.”
She pretended to wiggle away, still laughing. “I hadn’t known you were so jealous.”
