Claire turned, clutching the notebook to her chest. Her eyes widened as a woman stood in the shadows. Tall, red-haired, with eyes of two colors: one teal, one white. Scars marred one side of her face, twisting faintly in the candlelight.
Claire’s blood ran cold. She didn’t move, simply stared. It wasn’t until the other woman tilted her head with curiosity that she managed to find her voice.
“Hi,” she whispered. Her fingers tightened around the drawing she’d stolen.
The woman said nothing. Her gaze dropped to the paper, then lifted again, sharp as glass.
“I—I didn’t know someone lived here,” Claire stammered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your things. I was only curious.”
The woman’s lips parted slightly, and she took a step closer, her eyes narrowing on Claire. She wasn’t sure if it was anger in her face, or if the other woman was just surprised to see someone there. But then she got even closer, and Claire pushed herself away.
The other woman stopped, hesitating, as if not wanting to scare Claire. Then she spoke, her voice low and husky from disuse.
“Emerald…”
Claire blinked, confused. “What?”
The stranger reached out, her scarred hand trembling as she tilted Claire’s chin upward. “Your eyes,” she murmured, her mismatched gaze softening. “Emerald.” Her eyes then shifted to the top of Claire’s head. “Raven hair.”
Claire’s breath caught. She was looking at her. Taking in her details. Maybe for another drawing? Claire focused on the white eye. If she had little to no vision in that eye,and she was still able to draw these amazing sketches, this woman was blessed.
“I—I’m Claire,” she managed, her name barely more than a sigh.
A red eyebrow arched. “SisterClaire,“ the woman corrected quietly.
“Right. Sister…” Claire paused and hesitated. “And you?”
The other woman paused, her face contorting almost in pain. “Mirela.”
“Mirela,” Claire echoed, her voice gentler now. “It’s… nice to meet you, Mirela.”
Mirela didn’t reply. She turned away, picking up her notebook and a stub of graphite. Without another word, she sat near the straw bed and began to draw. Claire watched, spellbound, as her likeness bloomed again on the page, this time more vividly.
When she finished, Mirela tore the page free and held it out. “Here,” she said simply. “For your voice.”
Claire accepted it with trembling hands. It was stunning.
“Thank you.” Her hair was loose, her eyes bright. “This is…beautiful,” Claire said as she further inspected the sketch.
She swallowed hard and looked once more at Mirela who was making herself smaller, as if hiding away, not wanting to be seen. She looked uncomfortable.
“You’re the one who listens to us sing,” Claire said, half question, half statement.
Mirela nodded, her left hand rubbing her right forearm.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Mirela murmured.
“Thank you.”
“I am sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t! I thought I was going insane. I knew someone was here,” Claire said again, her cheeks warming. Silence pressed between them until she glanced around the room. “Do you live up here?”
Mirela’s jaw tightened. “I do.”
“All alone?”
Mirela shrugged. “The pigeons and gargoyles keep me company from time to time.”
