Chapter Thirteen
Time ticks by. Seconds, then minutes, then at least an hour. The silence is broken only by Claude’s occasional muttering and movements. I refuse to look up and see what he’s doing, though occasionally I can see him pacing out of the corner of my eye, studying me from different angles.
I hate every second of it. The more he looks at me, the more certain I become that he’s finding new flaws.
I’m trying my best not to move, like he asked, but the urge to fidget is almost impossible to resist. Every time I push my glasses up, Claude grumbles under his breath.
I keep catching myself slouching, or shifting, or fighting the urge to fix my hair or clothing.
I’m trying to zone out and lose myself in thought, but I feel agonizingly trapped in my own body, aware of every inch of myself in a way that makes me itch.
The way I’m sitting feels stiff and unnatural.
Does it look weird? Is my hair in place?
Why didn’t I check before he started this process?
Now I’m locked into this pose, and my every flaw will be immortalized in a painting.
Not just any painting, but Claude de Vulpe’s first painting since being turned into a vampire.
It’s undoubtedly going to explode into public awareness, and then everyone will be looking at me, scrutinizing me…
I suffer in silence for as long as I can handle. Then I clear my throat and glance over at Claude. He’s standing in front of his easel, paintbrush raised, a frown etched onto his perfect features.
“I could use a break,” I say, and finally scratch the itch on my lip that’s been driving me half mad.
“What?” Claude startles, eyes shifting to me and then back to his canvas. “Oh. Already?”
“…It’s been at least an hour.”
“It can’t possibly have been…” He looks down at his watch and pauses, lips pressing into a thin line. “Ah. So it has.” He runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “Very well. A break.”
I stand and stretch, groaning with relief. My back releases a satisfying crack. As comfortable as the window seat is, any one position starts to feel terrible after enough time has passed. “Did you get what you wanted?” I ask.
“Hm? Oh. Well…” Claude frowns at his canvas. “You were perfect.”
I frown. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“It’s a slow process,” he says, defensiveness creeping into his tone. “Especially when one is as rusty as I.”
“Well, let me see…” I step toward him, and he yanks the easel back so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t break in his hands.
“Not yet.”
I stop, fold my arms over my chest. “Why not?”
“It’s not finished,” he says. Still defensive. “I’m particular about people seeing my works in progress.”
I study him, skeptical. He stares back, poker-faced, one hand still gripping the corner of the canvas as though he intends to rip it in two before letting me see it. Come to think of it, that does seem like the sort of dramatic thing he would do.
I sigh, relenting. “Fine. But I do have to see it at some point, you know.”
“Of course,” he says. “When it’s done.”
* * *
I expect to resume the process after a short break, but Claude disappears on me. I spend most of the night in my room, scrolling on my laptop and anticipating a knock at the door.
Sitting. Waiting. Doing nothing. I’m not used to spending my time like this, and it grates on me. I feel so lazy and useless. But there’s nothing to be done. Eventually, the smell of food cooking draws me out to the kitchen. Claude stands at the stove over what looks like a pot of stew.
“Beef bourguignon,” he says proudly, his lilting accent coming out full force, without turning to look at me. Apparently my bare feet on the tile are enough for him to identify my presence. “Lots of iron. Good for you after giving blood. I looked it up.”
I hesitantly approach, taking a deep breath of the meat and red wine. Rich, savory, decadent. “Smells good. Can I help?”
“No, no. I forbid it. Go, sit, it will be done soon.”
He brushes off my further attempts, and I sigh and relent, heading into the dining room. I’m still dressed in the outfit I wore earlier, since I wasn’t sure if he’d be painting me again, and I feel entirely undeserving of this princess treatment.
Nobody’s ever cooked for me like this. As a child, I learned to cook myself, because my mom would sometimes get so engrossed in her paintings that she’d forget to feed herself, let alone me.
It was the same with my roommates; I was always the one cooking up big meals to make sure everyone had something to eat.
After a while, it became part of my identity. I’m the one who takes care of people. Now that the opposite is true, I feel restless and uncomfortable.
But surely this can’t last forever. Claude likely just wants to make a good impression on me for our first few days together.
I keep telling myself that, even though all the way through dinner, Claude watches me eat like there’s nothing else he’d rather do.
* * *
The next evening starts much the same. Claude brings me coffee and breakfast. He drinks from me again; I try and fail not to be affected by it, again. Then we take our places in his studio: me in the window seat, him at his easel.
He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck while staring at me. “That’s not how you were sitting yesterday.”
“Isn’t it?” I look down at myself, eyebrows pulling together as I try to recall.
“No,” he says. “Your hand was resting on your thigh.”
“Like this?”
“Lower.”
“Here…?”
“No,” he says, a frustrated edge to his voice. “And your face was more turned toward the window.”
“Okay…” I try turning, but I can see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye.
“Your hair is wrong, too. There was a strand falling over your eye yesterday…”
I sigh. “What do you expect me to do? I can’t control every little thing.”
One second he’s next to his easel. The next he’s at my side. I jump and stare up at him as one of his cool hands takes my wrist and carefully moves it.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’s where it was. And your face…” His fingers gently grasp my chin, tilting it just so. “Yes. That’s it.”
His fingers feel cold against my suddenly hot skin. He’s very near, his eyes intense as they study me. I want to break the tension somehow, maybe make a joke or complain about his micromanagement, but instead I find myself tongue-tied as he maneuvers me into place.
“One last thing,” he murmurs, and coaxes one strand of hair out, draping it over my forehead. “And… perfect.”
He steps back, and I can breathe again. As he returns to his position at the easel, I curse myself for the foolish reaction. Claude is being perfectly professional, and here I am getting worked up about him touching me.
But the excitement of it quickly drains, leaving me itchy and restless again. Claude complains every time that I move, so I try to hold my position. There’s nothing to do but stare out the window, and while the view is lovely, I’m already starting to get sick of it.
When I shift to scratch an itch on my nose, Claude makes a soft, perturbed noise, and I glower at him. “I’m not an inanimate object, you know,” I snap. “You could always go back to painting landscapes if you’re so averse to me moving about.”
Claude sighs, twirling a paintbrush in his fingers. “It’s just that I want it to be perfect.”
Then you should paint something else. I bite back the comment, and the desire to fidget more out of spite. It’ll only draw this process out more. “How long do I need to do this?” I ask.
Claude frowns at his canvas. “I’m not sure.”
I sigh. “Wonderful,” I mutter, and return to staring out at the sea. My portrait is probably going to end up with a permanent scowl, but I guess that would be a faithful representation.
I shouldn’t complain. I’m getting paid for this. Paid very well, to sit here doing nothing. I’m sure a lot of people would be happy for this job, and this house, and Claude’s insistence on taking care of me. There must be some defect in me to be annoyed with it, even for a second.
But for me, the future I’ve always strived for is being entirely self-sufficient and stable. This undermines all of my ideas of what I want for myself… and I’m terrified of getting used to being taken care of when I know it’s a temporary situation.
I force myself to sit as quiet and motionless as possible. I let my mind wander as my gaze stays on the water outside. I count the waves crashing against the cliffs, think fleetingly of my mother and the call she never returned, wonder how Sophie and Elaine are doing, and…
“That’s enough for today.”
I blink, turning back to Claude, caught off guard by the subdued note in his tone. He sets down his paintbrush, shakes his fingers out, and rubs at his temples, sighing.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, standing and stretching myself.
“Mm-hmm,” he says. His eyes stay on his canvas, his mouth a pinched, troubled line. “That will be all, thank you.”