“Draw a picture of me. On the rock wall.”
He blinks. “Right now?”
“No, next Thursday.”
“Oh, good.” Oliver starts to put the dagger away.
“I was joking! Ofcourseright now!”
Is it my imagination, or does he look a little green? “Right,” Oliver mutters. “A portrait.” He poises the tip of the knife over the granite. “Of you.” He steps forward, blocking my view as he begins to etch on the rock. Twice, he looks over his shoulder to peer at my face.
I think of all the beautiful paintings hanging in museums around the world—muses captured on canvas: the Mona Lisa, the birth of Venus, the girl with a pearl earring. “Voilà,” Oliver declares, and he steps aside.
Carved onto the rock wall is a disproportionate figure with bug eyes, snake hair, and a flat line of a mouth. Apparently, to Oliver, I look like a Muppet.
“Not bad, eh?” he says. “Although, I don’t think Iquitecaptured your nose….”
No wonder; he’s drawn it as a triangle.
I hesitate. “No offense, Oliver, but you might not be the ideal choice to paint a picture of my room.”
He frowns at the portrait he’s drawn of me, and then smiles. “Perhaps not,” Oliver says, “but I know just the fellow who is.”
