Chapter 42
Chapter
Forty-Two
AMELIA
I can’t go back to sleep because I’m starving since I missed lunch and dinner so I get up, make myself decent, and open my bedroom door.
The house is quiet as I pad downstairs. My flats are silent on the hardwood, the foyer dim, and there’s no hum of voices, no clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.
Sara is nowhere to be seen, but her absence is a relief.
When I get to the kitchen, I spot Maria wiping down the counter with a damp cloth.
At my arrival, she looks up, her eyes crinkling with a smile.
“Miss Amelia, you’re up,” she says, her voice warm like a blanket. “I hope I didn’t wake you when I came up to knock on your door. You were asleep for so long, but Madam said not to bother you if you are sleeping."
"You didn’t. I was dead to the world," I reply.
“You must be tired after running this house all by yourself. I thought it would be a mess, but everything was spic and span.”
There is a strong smell of roasted chicken coming from the oven. "It was only the three of us. There was not much to do. Um… are there leftovers?"
"Of course," she replies. "Not leftovers, but your dinner. I’ll get it ready for you."
"Thank you," I murmur, and slide onto a stool. I look around. “Where’s Sara? Is she out?” I ask, my fingers trace the patterns in the granite surface of the island top, as I brace for the answer.
Maria shakes her head, her oven mitts pausing in the air. “No, I think Madam is in her bedroom. It’s Mr. Max who is not home.”
She sets a plate before me—chicken, golden and fragrant with rosemary, and potatoes crisp at the edges.
Knowing Max’s not home instantly deflates my mood.
Not wanting to talk any further, I eat in silence.
The chicken is tender and probably very tasty, but it feels tasteless on my tongue.
Still, I force myself to eat because I have a lot of stress and work to handle, and the last thing I need messing with my creativity is hunger pangs.
My deadline is looming, and sometime in the next couple of days, I must contact my publishers and send photos of my painting to get his approval.
Once that is done, I can finish the rest of the paintings in the series.
When I am done eating, I push it away and thank Maria before heading up to my studio.
I’m eager to spend the night here, making progress on my other paintings.
With some focus, I should be done in time.
The dragon was the hardest and most important.
It will be used for the book cover and every other merchandise that comes out of this publication so I had to get it right.
It’s an immense relief now that I have finished it, though it took forever.
It will be good to work. I can bury this ache in lines and color. I climb the stairs, my steps heavy, and push open the door. The scent of turpentine and paint settles over me like a familiar cloak. I flick on several lamps, and the mixture of amber and fluorescent floods the room and my easel.
My eyes go towards the dragon for my dopamine fix. I want to look at its emerald scales glinting like wet stone, wings spread wide, fierce, and vividly alive, and I want to feel that wonderful glow of pride again. It’s definitely my best work.
I walk up to it and freeze. My breath stops. What! I hope I’m mistaken. How can it be? I seize my lamp and rush to it. I hold the lamp high over the painting and gaze at it with disbelieving eyes. Forever seems to pass until I finally accept that what I’m seeing is actually truly there.
The cold blade of horror slices through my shock.
Jet-black ink has been splashed across the dragon’s face, the streaks marring its marvelous eyes. Like blood spilled on a sacred thing. I don’t even realize it, but my mouth opens and a scream comes out, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and jagged, shattering the stillness of the house.
Hot tears are spilling down my cheeks as I stare at the ruin of four months of work. Four months of unreplaceable, heart-wrenching work. My vision blurs, fury and confusion crashing like waves against a crumbling cliff. I look down, and my hands are shaking.
“What the fuck,” I curse over and over again.
I touch the ink and it stains my fingers. The paint underneath is not yet dry, and some of it comes off too. The painting is completely unsalvageable.
“What the fuck.”
The door swings open, and Sara rushes in, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Amelia, what’s wrong? Why’d you scream?” Her voice is sharp, laced with panic. She crosses the room, her gaze following my trembling hand as I point to the canvas. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, her face paling as she takes in the damage.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice horrified, her eyes darting from the painting to me. “This is… awful. Amelia, I’m so sorry.” Her fingers hover over the ink, not touching. She can see that my own fingers are stained with it. “I'm so sorry. Was it a mistake, or-"
I stare at her in shock and astonishment. "What? Mistake? I didn’t do this. Someone ruined my painting intentionally.”
"Oh my God, I’m really sorry," she says. And then she adds, "I hate to say this, but there’s only one person who could’ve done this. Jason. He was upset that you didn’t want to join us for lunch."
I shake my head, tears streaming faster, my voice a ragged whisper.
“No, Sara, it can’t be. Not Jason. He’s too sweet—he wouldn’t.
He knows how important this painting is to me.
He loves this dragon.” My words are desperate, a plea to shield the boy who’s become a part of my heart.
His crayon dragons are a mirror of my own work.
I can’t believe he’d destroy something we shared, something I poured my soul into.
"Maybe," she replies. "But he’s still a child, and he loves you a lot. It hurt him when you said no. Sometimes it’s hard for children to control their emotions. I’ll get him and ask."
Sara’s lips are pressed tight, her eyes narrowed, and her entire body is stiff with fury. She whirls towards the door and shouts, her voice loud and stern.
“Jason! Jason! Come here, right now!”
My stomach twists. Suddenly, the painting becomes unimportant, and the most vital thing becomes protecting Jason from Sara’s rage. Dread is like ice in my veins as I stand frozen, my eyes locked on the doorway.
Jason shuffles in, his dark curls flopping on his forehead, his gray eyes wide and wary with fear. He is clutching his stuffed bear like it is a lifeline. His small frame literally shrinks under Sara’s furious gaze.
“Jason,” she says, her voice harsh, “I know it was an accident. Of course, it was. You wouldn’t do something that despicable on purpose, so I’m not angry with you, but you need to tell the truth.
There's an ink stain on Aunt Amelia’s painting, and it's pretty bad. Did you do this to Aunt Amelia’s painting? Did you?”
His eyes flick to the canvas, then to me, and they fill with tears. His lip trembles, and he nods. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Amelia,” he says, his words cracking like thin ice.
“I… I did it. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.
” Then his tears spill over, rolling uncontrollably down his pale cheeks.
He opens his mouth and begins to bawl inconsolably.
My heart feels like it is a piece of glass splintering, love and sorrow flooding through the fractures.
I can’t bear to see him this way. I rush to him, drop to my knees, and pull his small trembling body into my arms.
I kiss his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears, and hold his body tight. When I speak, my voice is soft and soothing despite the raw wound of the ruined painting.
“It’s okay, little angel,” I murmur, my lips brushing his forehead, his curls tickling my face.
“It’s really okay. I wasn’t even that happy with it, you know? It needed something new. Besides, I spill ink on my work all the time. We’ll make another one, you and me, okay?” I force a smile, my voice steady, though my eyes burn, the loss of the dragon, a jagged scar I’m hiding for his sake.
Jason’s sobs grow louder, his small hands clutch my sweater, and the sound is beyond hurt.
Sara steps forward, her face tight, and pulls him from my arms, her grip firm, unyielding. “This is unacceptable. Come on, Jason.” Her voice is sharp, and edged with anger. “Let’s go.”
She leads him out, his footsteps dragging, and I hear her voice in the hallway, cruel and cutting.
“Stop crying like a little girl. It’s embarrassing.
I don’t want to have such a sissy for a son.
Be more like your dad—don’t you see how he never cries?
Don’t you see how he never has any damn emotions? ”
Her words strike like a whip, and I freeze, my breath catching.
Sudden fury flares hot in my veins. Now I know why Jason is so quiet and withdrawn when she is around. She is a bully.
Jason’s sobs echo, fainter now, and I’m left kneeling on the floor, my hands shaking, tears streaming down my face. The dragon, my work, has been splattered with ink and ruined—and yet it’s Jason’s tears, Sara’s harsh words, that tear me apart most.
I stand, my legs unsteady, and turn to the canvas. I sit on top of the stool and stare at it for hours, trying to figure out a way to salvage it. To hide this unmistakable damage. Try as I might, nothing seems good enough to salvage it. It breaks my heart, but I will just have to paint another one.
My chest is tight. Something feels off—wrong, like a shadow moving where it shouldn’t.
But first, one attempt to salvage. Maybe.
Just maybe I can. Gently, I dab at the painting with a rag.
The cloth soaks up some of the ink but smears it even more, making the damage deeper than I can fix.
The dragon’s eyes, once fierce, stare back dulled, and my heart feels like a cracked vase, leaking grief with every failed stroke.
I have to admit now that the painting is a lost cause.
The studio feels smaller, the air heavier, and all I want to do is run far, far away, but before I go away, I must help Jason. Somehow, I must help him by alerting Max to what is happening to his son.
Max has still not returned. He must be working late, catching up on all the work he didn’t do while Sara was away.
Slowly, I reach for a new canvas. I let my fingers graze the canvas’s edge.
It is like a ritual. Before I start a new painting, I always feel the texture of the canvas.
It is almost like a prayer. This canvas and I will be in close contact for weeks.
The texture is rough, as it should be, and there are no flaws.
Now, I must lose myself in it, and let work be my salvation.