Chapter 17
I’m still unsure how I feel about my conversation with Alistair when I walk into the library the next morning.
I’m so caught up replaying our easy banter that I don’t even notice him standing in the middle of the room until I stumble into him.
“Whoa there, Howler,” he chuckles, holding my shoulders to steady me. When he glances down, his eyes widen. “Wait, are you wearing different clothes?”
I brush my hand across the borrowed bodice and split skirt that covers a pair of fitted trousers that Franchesca gave me. I’m positive that she made it all specifically for me, but I’m trying not to think about it lest I chicken out and give the clothes back.
“Yeah,” I say, still impressed by Franchesca’s craftsmanship. “I guess I decided that if I’m going to be free, I should start acting like it and stop looking for the strings.”
I’m not sure why I say the words out loud, but when Alistair smiles, I can’t bring myself to regret them.
“Freedom looks good on you, Lioness,” he nods.
Confused by the pleasure heating my cheeks, I step back. His presence is like a smoke ring, and I’m having a hard time thinking clearly while breathing his air.
So I shift my attention, trying to look at anything but him. My eyes snag on the low sofa table, where there are an assortment of fresh paints laid out beside a handful of unused brushes and a wooden pallet.
“I um…” Alistair stutters, moving to the fireplace and tripping over his own feet in the process. “I just thought that since you’re always pacing or trying to play with Narcissus while we work, that you might like to…I don’t know.” He groans, pushing at his hair. “I thought you might want to paint…or something.”
And then I notice the cloth spread across the floor and the paintings that have been removed from the wall by the fireplace. All so I can paint.
When I don’t respond, Alistair cringes and hides his face behind his hands. “Maybe it was a silly idea.” Seeing this rare show of awkwardness, I feel a renewed sense of patience for him. I’ve never seen him act so human before.
“You want me to paint a mural. Here?”
He drops his hands and rolls his eyes, disguising his embarrassment behind annoyance. “You don’t have to, I just thought that painting made you…happy.”
“It does.”
“Then yes,” he waves at the wall, “I want you to paint here.”
I cross my arms, annoyed with him for not being who I expected him to be.
“What did I do wrong now?” he asks, exasperated. “I didn’t insult your looks even though no one’s nose has ever been that large before, and I didn’t say any derogatory nicknames.” He pauses, tapping his chin. “Did I?”
I sigh, shaking my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Alistair. But we will be coming back to the comment about my nose.”
“So then what is it?”
“I’m just annoyed because I thought I knew who I was dealing with, and then you go and change on me. Now I don’t know how to feel.”
Instead of looking angry, he nods. “Believe me, Snow Cat, it doesn’t make sense to me either. I’m not exactly someone prone to change, so…I don’t know how to feel about myself at the moment.”
My stone heart begins to soften, blood filling the dried up crevices as a thrum of hope begins to pump new life through the long dead organ. I want to trust Alistair, but trust is dangerous. And someone related to the duke can’t be trusted blindly.
But then I think of the letter I found in Alistair’s room after I first arrived. It was degrading and filled with mockery. Orrin clearly doesn’t think very highly of his brother, only using him as a prop piece to accomplish his own goals.
But being a puppet might not bother Alistair. I’ve known since we met that appearances were something for him to manipulate for the sake of an end goal. Would he really be willing to give up his freedom to be Orrin’s lackey though?
The answer comes quick and certain. No.
Alistair is stubborn and cloaked in resentment. I can’t imagine him allowing himself to be used so freely. In fact, I suspect that he would be quicker to act against his brother than help him after being left here to rot…
“What brought on this change?” I ask.
He rubs his jaw, smiling ruefully. There’s mischief on his face, but it’s the fear in his eyes that makes my hope glow. He feels insecure. Which means that he cares what I think.
“I saw this painting that knocked something loose,” he says vaguely, not meeting my gaze.
“Oh? What did it knock loose?”
He gives me a pointed look that says he knows what I’m doing. But I just smile, and he groans. “Hope, Slither. It made me feel hope.”
His reluctant words breed dangerous things in my mind. For a moment, I imagine that he’s softening because of me. For me.
It’s a futile thought that will only bring pain, but I hold onto it anyway. Because hope is what keeps me going, what gives me the strength I need to survive and the motivation to find freedom.
I’ll nurture it, even if it destroys me in the end. Because if I don’t have hope, I’ll give up. And that is not an option.
I pick up a brush and twirl it in my hand, Narcissus twining around my legs. “So, what should I paint?”
Alistair purses his lips in thought and then smiles, this one full of genuine joy instead of plotting or victory at having the upper hand.
“Something…honest,” he replies, and despite my bones telling me to run, to view him as a threat and stay away, I feel a tether tightening between us.
I’ve been surviving for years, the only hope I allowed myself was one of freedom. But it’s not enough anymore. Not when freedom means loneliness. What I need is something to hold onto, something real. And even if Alistair lets me down, the hope that he won’t is enough.
Because after years of emotional isolation, it’s nice to have a friend.