“That is good to know,” I said gravely, wondering if everyone here was simply used to washing their faces with bug water and if I’d be used to it in a few weeks myself. But at least it did answer the question of insects in the coffee. I was starting to wish I’d had a second cup. “Do you stay here at the house, or do you go home at night?”
“Oh, I stay here, miss.” She nodded so vigorously that strands of hair escaped her braid. “My family lives ’bout two miles down the road, and it ain’t safe to walk through the woods at night.”
“Because of—err—bears?” I asked, racking my brain for something suitably dangerous. Surely there weren’t enough humans in this part of the county to be significant, and I hadn’t gotten the impression that Sally was religious enough to share Asa Phelps’s fear of meeting the Devil.
She gave me a pitying look for my ignorance. “On account of the blood thiefs, miss.”
“Blood… thieves?”
“Blood thiefs,” she agreed. “They steal your blood and leave you all drained out and dead and limp.” She demonstrated, letting her head flop to one side and her arms dangle.
“And what do they look like?”
She shook her head solemnly. “Nobody knows. My cousin says he seen one and it was like a great big bat, but he’s a liar. If he’d seen one, it’d’ve stole his blood too.”
I rubbed my temples. First Phelps and the Devil, now this. Apparently the woods of central North Carolina were a hotbed of the supernatural. “Are you teasing me, Sally?”
“What? No, miss!” She looked shocked by the idea. “Not about the blood thiefs. My mama wouldn’t let me take the job unless I stayed here because of them. You can go ask her.”
“No, no, I believe you.” I believed that she believed it, for what that was worth. “We… err… don’t have those in Wilmington.”
“No, but you got sharks,” Sally offered generously, “so I s’pose it evens out.”
She took her leave and I unpacked my suitcase, still shaking my head. It really didn’t take long. I stacked my sketchbooks by the studio table and placed theBotanicaon the shelf, then found myself wandering aimlessly from window to window, looking out onto a short swath of grass and a deep sea of trees.
The room still did not feel unoccupied. It felt as if the owner had gone away shortly before, taking some of their personal effects, but planned to return. Everywhere I turned, I saw my predecessor’s hand. The gorgeous golden light from the windows streamed over objects arranged on the broad windowsills—interesting rocks, an empty snail shell, a long blue feather that might have come from a jay. It was so clearly an artist’s space.
Now, however temporarily, it was mine.
I checked the books scattered about the room, hoping desperately for an anatomical guide to insects. Instead I found novels. The bedroom yielded nearly a complete collection of Brontë, andThe Last of the Mohicanslay open facedown on the desk. I picked the book up and attempted to close it, but it had lain open so long that the spine had warped.
You’re stalling. Get to work.
“Well,” I said, sitting down at the desk and placing the beautiful carrion beetle illustrations against the carved backstop. “Let’s see if I can figure out how you did this…”
I stopped painting that evening when the light was no longer good enough to trust my eyes. I massaged the backs of my eyelids, opened my eyes, and looked from the illustrated beetle to my own attempts. I certainly hadn’t managed to duplicate mypredecessor’s skill, but after a half dozen experiments, I thought that I had worked out how they had managed the gorgeous tinting of the burying beetle’s shell. Resisting the urge to overwork the paint was key. That’s always the problem with watercolor, of course. You have to know when to stop. The temptation to add just one more wash is so strong sometimes—If I just add a little bit more, I can fix all the things that aren’t quite right yet.
What actually winds up happening is usually that everything gets darker and muddier. Watercolor pigment is water-soluble—obviously—so if you add even a little water to an area that’s already dry, it rewets all the paint you’ve already laid down. Add even a fraction too much and everything runs together into soup. Gouache is the same, except that it’s opaque where watercolor is transparent. Combining the two can work beautifully, or you can accidentally overwork an area that wasalmostperfect and turn it into sludge.
I cleaned my brushes and sighed. I always told my students to use a quarter of the water they thought they needed and to practice patience above all else. I then failed to heed this advice myself.Do as I say, not as I am actually doing right now…
I picked several dead mosquitos out of the basin, washed my hands and face, and went down to the kitchen to see about dinner.
Delicious smells wafted through the corridor as I approached the kitchen. When I stepped inside, I found Mrs. Kent bustling, which is rather like puttering but conducted at twice the speed and with far greater efficiency. Sally was sitting at the table, alongside a short, wiry white man with thinning hair.
“Hello,” I said. “Am I late for dinner? I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”
“You’re just on time,” said Mrs. Kent, lifting the lid from a pot and stirring the contents. “We eat a bit late in summer, since the doctor doesn’t take his tray until after dark.”
The man at the table rose and extended a hand. His hair was dark blond, grizzled with white at the temples.More yellow ochre and some raw umber. And white gouache, I think, I’m not going to mask out individual white hairs, that way lies madness…
“I’m Jackson Kent,” he said, interrupting my musings on color. “Rose’s husband. You must be Miss Wilson.”
Ah. Suddenly much was made clear about why Mrs. Kent might prefer to work for a man who loathed everyone equally, regardless of the color of their skin. I wondered where the Kents had been married, and why they had chosen to live in a state where their union was considered illegal.But that is not my business, and if Mrs. Kent wishes to enlighten me, I’m sure she will.
I grasped his hand and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kent.”
I hadn’t quite noticed the tension in the room until it suddenly eased.Ah. That was a hurdle that we all had to get over together, I see.I took a seat at the table. “Do you work for Dr. Halder as well?”
