“Sit, Willa,” Sam chuckles kindly, gesturing to a small pile of art supplies beside him. “I’d love for you join me.”
I shift awkwardly. “Oh, I, uh…I don’t know anything about painting.”
Sam waves off my protest, shoving the chair closer. “Neither did I fifty years ago, and now look at me.” He glances back to the canvas, which is more splashes of color than anything recognizable, and then laughs heartily. “Still terrible. But I’ve learned to enjoy the process, at the very least.”
In spite of myself, I smile shyly and take the seat next to him. He rises to set up another easel, before handing me a paletteof paints. Red, blue, yellow, black and white. I examine them hesitantly, feeling the warm brush of Sam’s magic over my skin. Different than when he’d used it in the courtyard—this feels unintentional, like his presence simply radiates peace.
“You can make any color you can imagine from those three,” he explains, before frowning uncertainly. “Though I guess you don’t even need paint…you could just…imagine the painting?”
“Paint is probably safer,” I admit. “I haven’t really perfected the art of my power yet. I’m pretty sure I got lucky at the Grove. I could have accidentally sucked usallinto the dirt.”
Sam dips his brush into an inky blue. “Well, if that’s the sort of luck you have, I assure you, Letum is happy to have it.”
“It isn’t,” I respond, clearing my throat and wondering why I even said it. Something about Sam’s company makes me feel at ease. Like every thought just slips from me before I have the chance to weigh them. “The sort of luck I have, I mean. Normally, I have no luck at all.”
Sam hums, in neither agreement nor dissent, working the deep blue into an existing swathe of violet.
“According to Niko, I should use my magic sparingly. At least until I have a better hold on it.”
Sam glances at me sidelong, the corner of his mouth turned down in a curious frown. “Niko said that?”
His tone is disbelieving, though I’m not certain why. Niko may be a lot of things, but evenhewould want to prevent the entirety of his kingdom from being buried alive.
“Yeah. Surprised at his benevolence?”
“No,” he answers immediately. “More like his…restraint.” He twists his mouth like he’s debating saying more, but instead, he adjusts the paintbrush between his fingers and turns back to his canvas.
In the following silence, I stare at the blank canvas and wonder what to do with it. Before Letum, I’d never had the opportunityto createanything,let alone something beautiful. And now, the possibilities spread before me, endless and tempting and overwhelming.
I dip my brush hesitantly into the black paint. But when I try to press it to the canvas, my hand freezes in midair. The brush wavers and with a curse, I toss it back on the palette.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
The truth is not that Ican’tpaint; it’s that I still don’t think I deserve to. A ball of emotion lodges itself in my throat, as I realize it isn’t just painting I don’t believe I deserve. It’s anything beautiful. It’s been over two hundred years since Celie died, and I’m still choking on the guilt of it—that I’m here and she’s not.
I’ve been running so long that I lost sight of what I was runningfrom.It wasn’t just the military or the camps. It was from myself.
I’ve always considered myself a strong person—a survivor—but staying still requires a different sort of fortitude. The past few nights, I’ve been so certain I want to stay in Letum, but in the light of the morning, I don’t know I’ll be able to survive the pause; if I'll survive allowing everything I’ve outrun to catch up. To stand beneath it as it crashes over me like a tidal wave, and somehow, keep myself from drowning.
Sam merely raises an eyebrow at my outburst, before dipping his own brush into the black paint and lobbing it perfunctorily at my canvas.
“Hey!” The paint begins to drip slowly down the white cloth to the floor below. “Now you’ve ruined it.”
“Have I?” Sam asks innocently. “Or have I given you a place to start? Block in the colors. The details will come to you later.”
Somehow, the canvasdoesfeel less imposing when it isn’t entirely blank. The dripping paint reminds me of Niko’s power, onyx silk slicing through pure light. Feeling somewhat heartened and more than a little silly, I press the brush into itand begin with long, sweeping strokes. The more color fills the canvas, the easier it becomes to continue, until I begin to lose myself in the motion.
Quiet spaces unnerve me more often than not, but with Sam, it’s amiable. The sirens have disappeared beneath the still water of the lagoon, leaving only the song of the wind and the waves to fill the silence. As I fill in the last bit of white on the canvas, I find the vast potential no longer feels overwhelming, but exciting. I can see the beginnings of something, all blurred edges and vague shapes just waiting to be carved out.
With a start, I realizethisis what it means to create something from nothing—thisis how it should feel when I use my magic.
“Everything okay?” Sam asks mildly, sensing the abrupt shift of my mood.
Or maybe he noticed that, for a brief moment, I stopped breathing entirely, like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Yeah, it’s just…well, I think I just figured something out about my magic.”
Sam waits expectantly, and I find myself thankful for his quiet attention as I comb through my thoughts and try to order them into something tangible.
“Using it is like this painting…the possibility feels so overwhelming—so enormous—that it’s hard to grasp one thing without being torn away by another. I need topaintit…to block in the shapes and then go back in with the details.”
