Chapter Thirty-Four
THIRTY-FOUR
Nicole
“You must have the wrong place, Franco,” Nicole said as they arrived outside a darkened building.
Her speech came out slurred, like when she’d had a night on the gin, but she’d only had one drink today and that had been brandy.
She tried again, not wanting to sound churlish.
She needed this. “I only mean it doesn’t look like there’s anyone here. ”
“You know these bohemian artist types; they like their privacy.” Franco turned his head and grinned at her.
Nicole did her best to suppress a shudder as the light glinted off his canine teeth.
The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up, warning her not to follow him, but she ignored them.
She had been in much worse situations than this—posing for a room of snooty painters would be an easier way to make money than she was used to.
She followed Franco, her dirt-encrusted skirts sweeping along the cobblestones as he held open a heavy wooden door.
“This is some building,” she said as they entered, gazing in awe at the ornate domed ceiling. Her head swam slightly. “I’ve never been in a place like this before.”
“The salon has not been held here before,” he admitted as she followed him through the once-grand foyer. “They like to move around, to keep it secret.”
She noticed that there were footprints in the dust and that Franco followed them.
She clutched the tarot card he had given her earlier, buoyed by the thought of dressing like an empress.
He had promised she would be wearing a fine silken gown, and afterward she would have a place to bathe and scrub her nails clean.
She hadn’t had a chance to do that in so long.
Nicole followed him up the wide, sweeping staircase, and she marveled that such a place could be empty when people like her were so often on the streets.
When they reached the first floor, she noticed the buckets of dried plaster and stonemason’s tools laid out on paint-splattered canvas sheets.
The building wasn’t abandoned after all; it was being renovated. That’s why it was empty.
There was a hissing noise as Franco lit a small gas lamp. He held it aloft as he dragged the dustsheet over the doorway to one side.
“Just in here,” he said.
Nicole blinked sleepily as she stepped into the finished room.
The flame revealed warm mahogany panels that encased the walls up to her waist, and she ran a tentative hand along the wood.
Golden chinoiserie wallpaper glinted in the dark and she longed to touch that, too, but the man caught hold of her hand.
“Where is everyone?” she asked, eyeing the simple wooden chair in the center of the room. An embroidered gown was laid across it and she itched to pick it up, to feel some fabric other than roughly spun wool against her skin.
“They will arrive when you are ready.” Franco set down the lamp, illuminating an easel and a roll of paintbrushes. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“You didn’t tell me you were a painter too.”
“I am.” He nodded. “Now I will leave you to change.”
Nicole waited until he retreated into the unfinished hallway, leaving the lamp with her.
She shed her brown dress quickly, dropping the filthy fabric to the floor.
It wasn’t dusty in here, she noticed. Instead, the wooden floorboards were swept and tidy.
She picked up the gown and stepped into the skirt, lifting the bodice to her chest and threading her arms through the long, puffy sleeves.
It was old-fashioned, like something well-to-do ladies had worn when she was a child, but it was cool and silky against her skin.
She found a series of buttons down the front and fastened them quickly before starting to twirl on the spot, stumbling slightly.
The low light in the room threw her shadow into the corner.
It weaved in time with her, making her laugh.
“Perfect.” Franco’s voice made her heart race, jumping out from the shadows as he reentered the room. “I knew you would be.”
“What do I do now?” she asked, nerves creeping back in as Franco approached and guided her toward the wooden chair.
“All you must do is sit. And when everything is in place, you shall be immortalized on canvas.”
“Sit,” Nicole repeated, perching on the seat. Her eyelids were heavy in the gloom, and she felt the sudden urge to yawn.
“Give me your hand,” Franco said, his voice slightly muffled.
Nicole tried to oblige him but found that her limbs did not want to comply. She just needed to sleep for a few minutes, that was all. Then she would sit for the artists. She was aware of a sharp sting in the crook of her arm, felt the pain as a needle punctured her skin, but she didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
Her eyes remained closed as she felt the slow tug of blood being drawn from her veins, smelled its metallic tang when it hit the air. She tried to fight, to protest as Franco bound her body to the chair, but her voice had been stolen, just like her purse full of pennies.
She had no choice but to sit there as he worked, trapped inside her own body, until blessed darkness took her away.