Maude disappears into the kitchen, and after a few minutes of clinking dishware, she returns holding a cup of tea and a plate of freshly baked madeleines. “I made you some tea, poor thing. You look so cold,” Maude says. “That should warm you right up.”
The smell of the vanilla and sugar wafts to my nose, and my mouth begins to water as she sets them down before me. I can’t remember eating a proper meal since the day before the gallery show.
After taking a sip of tea, I pause when I notice a framed photograph on a table: It is of Maude, Brooks, and a man in his sixties who must be Ivan. I can see Brooks’s resemblance to both of his parents, the intensity of his stare, just like his mother, and yet the confidence in his posture like his father.
“You gave me quite a fright,” Maude says. She’s warm and motherly. “Why are you out at this hour? Is everything all right?”
I pull out the painting. This is my chance to tell her the truth and ask for her forgiveness, and silence, in exchange for the painting. Her brows rise in surprise. “What’s this?”
“I—came to return it,” I say. “It’s—well, itwas—Ivan’s painting.”
She stares at me, and a stab of panic pierces the spot just below my rib cage. Perhaps this was a terrible idea. The confession spews out of me like water from a fountain: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen—I didn’t—I was using it as inspiration and then Isabella, the owner of the gallery, came to my studio and wanted to buy the painting, the one that your husband did, and I should have said no, but she offered me a lot of money, and I—”
I stop speaking when I see the look of utter disbelief on her face. “Are you saying that you took Ivan’s painting, and—” She pauses, struggling to find the words. “And passed it off as your own?”
“Um, yes,” I reply, wishing I could disappear into the couch. “But it’s worth something now. And I want you to have it back.”
“How much is it worth?”
I look at her, hopeful. “About a quarter of a million.” I hesitate. “Please don’t tell anyone. Brooks knows. He threatened me, I just need you to keep this between us. I can pay you, every few months, a portion of what I make—”
I stop short when she holds out a hand in the direction of the painting. “May I see it?”
Maude looks down atThe Muse, and I wonder whether she sees Ivan’s painting or the layers of paint that I’ve added on top of it. I wait, nervously, holding my breath. It’s difficult for me to read her expression. Is she relieved? Disturbed? Angry?
After a long while, Maude looks up. Her eyes have darkened, the warmth gone. I think she is going to ask about my offer, but instead she asks, “Is something wrong with the tea?”
I look down at the tea. “Uh, no, it’s great.”
“Good. I’ll get you some more,” she says and stands. She remains hovering over me until I’ve taken several long gulps. Satisfied, she nods and disappears into the kitchen.
My ears feel clogged, and my head is swimming from the confession. I feel lighter after telling Maude what I’ve done. I’m surprised she didn’t seem too upset by it, almost as if she had expected it. I glance at my phone for the time, but it’s out of battery. It feels very late, my eyelids very heavy.
Maude has a clock on the wall. The face is blurry and the numbers swim around. I blink fast and shake my head, but still I’m unable to make out the time. My stomach turns. Maybe it was the sugar in the madeleines. I should really go home and get some rest.
Maude takes her time in the kitchen, and my head feels so heavy that I lie down on the couch, relishing the feeling of setting my cheek to the cushion. I must have drifted to sleep because when I come to, Maude is speaking to me, pouring more tea into my cup, her shadow blocking the light, but her voice sounds far away, as if in a dream.
“You did the right thing, bringing this back to me,” Maude says, her voice calm, soothing. “You see, my son saw your picture in theTimesannouncing your upcoming gallery show. I recognized you, and we were utterly surprised when we saw Ivan’s painting in the background. Brooks went to your show with the intention of confronting you, but he said that you ran off before he could bring it up.” She tuts her tongue in disappointment.
“HannahBrennan, famous artist!Brennan, that’s your mother’s name, isn’t it? Impressive, the success you’ve had since we met last October. Brooks said that you looked so much like the woman in Ivan’s painting.” She laughs this off with a wave of her hand. “Anyhow, I told Brooks not to bother you again. That fate would have a way of sorting things out, and look at that: You’ve brought her right to me!” She claps her hands together, almost giddy.
I blink, confused. But wait ... There’s something that she said ... I stare at the painting, unnerved. I remember being so drawn to the woman in the painting, thinking she looked oddly familiar: her long, wavy hair, her eyes, her pale skin. A cold, unsettling sensation crawls over my skin: This woman in the painting, Ivan’s muse, is my mother.
Maude stands, and I watch as she moves about the room, tidying up. I open my mouth to ask her about it, but no sound comes out.The muse is my mother.The thought sends a ripple of dread through me. What does Maude want?
Seemingly unaware of my disquiet, Maude pulls a blanket from a basket and drapes it over me. “You’re welcome to sleep here for the night. I can’t send you out into the city at this hour.”
“What time is it?” I ask, but my words come out slurred, as if I am drunk.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Maude replies. “You did the right thing.”
My heart beats a slow and steady rhythm behind my rib cage as Maude’s words quiet to a drone in the background, and yet my thoughts are racing.What does she want with me?
Maude is hovering above me, holding the plate with the remaining madeleine. She stares down with an unreadable expression. “I’m so pleased that you’ve come back to me, Hannah.”
I try to sit up from the couch, but my head is so heavy. There is something wrong. I can no longer lift my arms. It is like I’ve been ... I’ve been ...Oh god.I stare at the empty teacup. “What did you do?” I try to say, yet my words are so mumbled that they do not make sense.
“Oh, dear.” Maude mutters something as she wraps me tighter in the blanket. I am so drowsy that I am not able to fully process the situation. At first I’m angry, not afraid. I’m stronger than Maude, my disoriented brain reasons. If she tries to hurt me, I’ll fight back. She continues to mutter to herself as she wraps the blanket up to my neck, tightens it. I inhale. It’s hard to breathe. Fresh panic rips through me. Now the fear comes.
