Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
"There is no question that many artists are very skilled at what they do," I say hesitantly, hoping he will not take insult with my words, "but I think you can tell when an artist is truly putting their heart into a piece.
The painting of the chateau in the foyer, did you see it?
" I wait for his nod before gesturing to the drawing on the wall.
"It is rather obvious, is it not? That more passion went into this simple, unfinished sketch than a painting that took days, if not weeks, to create?
You said it yourself, this one is full of life.
So much so that it almost seems to have its own heartbeat. "
Sometimes, when I stare at the coal-etched mirrors of myself and Kolfina, I am sure they are real.
I am sure I can see them breathing, sure I can see the vines from Kolfina’s chest spreading further up my arm.
Sometimes I close my eyes and picture myself there, in that half-sketched room, and I wonder if it would smell like charcoal and paper.
I wonder if I could feel Kolfina’s chest expanding with every breath, or if I could look up and see the woman behind the sketchpad I am trapped in.
"But I do not think the drawing has its own heart," I continue.
"I think it is Azizi's heart that beats within them.
I think each time she allows herself to truly create, she is putting a piece of her own heart into the mix of materials.
That is what makes her different from the other masters. That is what makes her special."
The older man watches me with a curious sort of gaze, and I let him. Fear still ebbs and flows in my stomach, and my feet still itch to run away, but Lord Alilovi? has an almost calming presence that works in paradox to the dangerous one.
Whatever he finds must satisfy him, for he nods his head and turns his attention back to the sketch.
How long would he stand here, taking in the details?
Does time even pass normally for a creature such as himself?
Could he stand here in this spot for weeks and not notice a single second passing by?
Jonas’ song begins to fade before moving effortlessly into another, one I recognize as Kolfina’s, as I’d long since memorized most of her works by now.
“May I ask you a question that means no offense, Lord Alilovi??”
He clicks his tongue in the same way my father does when scolding me, but his lips twitch in amusement as he raises a brow in my direction. “I do believe I told you to call me babbo, bestiolino. I am not your lord, nor are you my subject.”
“Ah, right. My apologies, Babbo Alilovi?.” I say quickly, ignoring the way my cheeks burn at the admonishment.
But the man only laughs and nods his head. “It is no matter. Go on then, ask your question. There is very little that offends me these days.”
I tuck my hands in my pockets to hide the anxious twitching of my fingers and take a deep breath. "You speak so highly of all your children, Azizi included. I would like to ask—that is, I mean... Are you proud of her?"
Pale eyes blink at me in surprise, and I think perhaps I have caught him off guard with the question. "Have my words so far not proven that I am?"
Perhaps to me, yes. And yet—
"I think you should tell her so,” I answer politely.
"Azizi told us you’ve seen some of her more…
unique works, but there are so many more that you haven’t.
She hides most of them away, partially because she is ashamed of them, perhaps, but mostly because she is afraid of what you would think of them. She worries about disappointing you."
Something in the vampire's shoulders tenses, and he takes a half-step toward me. Not in threat—at least, I do not think so—but I still fight the urge to flinch away from him. "She has told you this?" he asks.
"In her own way, yes." I only hope she will not be angry with me for saying so. "She holds your opinion higher than even mine or Kolfina's. Your approval, your pride, is all she wishes for, and she is afraid she has lost it entirely."
Bafflement crosses his face, then regret, sadness. He sighs, following my own posture to tuck his hands away in the pockets of his trousers.
"I must have done something truly terrible to have lost her faith so entirely, though I do not recall what," he admits, brow tightening over his saddened eyes. "I have never been disappointed in any of my children. I only wish for them to be happy."
I can see that, of course. I have not known the man for longer than a handful of days, but despite the monster inside him, I can see the love and kindness in his soul. The same as his daughter's.
"It is not always the direct actions of others that hurt us so much. Sometimes it is our own minds taking something innocent and twisting it into something it is not," I tell the man. "Azizi’s last gallery showing did a great deal of damage to her confidence and pride. She’s only just started to recover her love of painting again, but I think some part of her is still needing forgiveness.”
“Even though there is nothing to forgive?”
He sounds so genuinely despondent that I have to hold back a laugh. “Then tell her that. Until you do, I think she will continue to struggle in her attempts to regain your approval.”
I don't wait for him to reply, instead offering him a bow before leaving the room and heading upstairs toward the attic.
It’s not until I reach the top of the stairs that I hear the soft knock on Azizi’s studio door, and a smile twitches at my lips.
Perhaps now, all of us will have the chance to heal, if we allow ourselves to.