Chapter 3
The cerulean's wrong. Too green. Like pond scum.
"You look seasick," I tell the half-finished landscape.
The painting doesn't defend itself. Rude.
My studio smells like turpentine and yesterday's shepherd's pie.
The gravy's gone shiny. The peas are gray.
Matthias brought it yesterday—"You're too thin," he'd said, which is ridiculous.
My corsets disagree. Violently. But I ate half anyway because disappointing Matthias feels wrong.
Now the rest sits by my easel, abandoned in its cracked pottery dish.
Should probably eat it. The potatoes are still.
.. potato-shaped. Mostly. Mrs. Harwicke's half payment is already allocated—rent, supplies, that new canvas that called to me last week.
Food's... optional. Creative meal planning.
That's what we're calling finding that block of sharp cheddar on sale.
Good cheddar. The kind that makes your jaw ache.
The brush moves wrong. My magic stirs under my skin, trying to turn the innocent landscape into something else. Something true. The sky wants to be angry. The trees want to lean away from each other. Even the happy little cottage I planned looks like it's screaming.
"Stop that." I add more blue. More happiness. More lies. "Nobody wants honesty at night."
My magic disagrees. It's been disagreeable since last night, when I painted him.
Keeps trying to add details I didn't see.
Details I couldn't have seen. Like the way his hands shake just slightly when he thinks no one's looking.
Like those headaches he probably gets. The kind that sit behind your eyes.
"Nope. Not thinking about that."
But I'm already looking at his portrait, propped in the corner. Even in the bad light, he looks tired. The kind of tired that needs soup. Good soup with barley and vegetables cut small so they cook through properly.
My studio door doesn't open.
That's the first wrong thing. It doesn't open, doesn't break, doesn't even rattle. The shadows in the corner just... expand.
I should scream. Screaming seems appropriate. Instead: "Oh, that's not good for the paint. The draft."
The shadows solidify into him. Shadow-man. Standing in my studio like that's reasonable.
He's taller than the painting suggested. Broader too. His coat probably cost more than my entire existence. Everything about him screams danger—the way he stands, the way shadows curl around his fingers, the way his eyes catalog exits I didn't know I had.
"You're letting all the warm air out." The words fall out because apparently my mouth works independently of my survival instincts. "I mean, I know you're here to kill me, but heating costs money."
He stops mid-step. Actually freezes. His face does something complicated—surprise? Confusion?
"You know why I'm here." His voice sounds expensive. Dark. The kind that probably makes people confess things.
"The painting." I gesture with my brush, accidentally flicking cerulean across my shirt. Great. Another stain. This one looks like a bird. Or a squashed blueberry. "I figured someone would come eventually. Though I expected less shadow travel and more normal door usage. Tea?"
"Tea." He repeats it flatly.
"Or coffee? I think I have coffee. Somewhere.
" I'm already moving toward my tiny stove, because having my hands busy seems better than standing still.
There's yesterday's kettle. A chipped mug with paint on the handle.
"You look like a coffee person. Black, probably.
No sugar. Sugar's probably too cheerful. "
"Stop."
I stop. Not because he's scary—though he is—but because he's staring at the painting like it personally betrayed him.
"Did you mean to paint my soul?"
The question hangs between us. I put down the kettle I don't remember picking up.
"I never mean to." The honesty tastes bitter. "It just happens. My magic doesn't understand boundaries. Or privacy. Or appropriate timing. I'm sorry."
He moves closer to the painting. Up close, I can see what my magic caught—the exhaustion in his shoulders, the careful control that costs him everything. He stands like someone who's forgotten how to rest.
"You see too much." He's not looking at me. Can't stop looking at himself, painted true. "This is why you have to die."
"That seems like an overreaction." I should be terrified. Should be begging. Instead I'm noticing he's not wearing gloves and his hands have those little scars from shadow magic. Like paper cuts but deeper. "Are you alright?"
He turns. Slowly.
"Am I alright?" Each word precise. "You painted my face. My actual face. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Made you look very attractive yet approachable?"
His eye twitches. "I've killed people for less than this."
"Yes, that's rather evident." I fidget with my brush.
The bristles are getting stiff. Should have cleaned it hours ago.
"But you seem upset about more than just the painting.
When's the last time you ate actual food?
Not coffee. Food with vegetables. Cooked vegetables. Carrots maybe. Everyone likes carrots."
"Are you seriously asking about my dietary habits while I decide how to kill you?"
"Well, someone should." The words tumble out. "You look underfed. That can't be good for you."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if laughs could be strangled. The shadows pull tighter around him.
"This is not how this conversation goes." He's gripping my painting's frame. "You're supposed to beg. Or run. Or at least have the decency to be properly terrified."
"Oh, I am terrified." I am. My hands won't stop shaking. The brush rattles against my palette. "But being scared doesn't mean I can't worry about your health. Those aren't mutually exclusive. Have you considered supplements? They make gummy ones now. Shaped like bears."
"Supplements." His voice has gone flat. Dangerously flat.
"Or soup? Soup is good. Very nutritious." Words tumbling faster now. "I make excellent soup. Well, adequate soup. Edible soup. The vegetables are usually cooked all the way through. Sometimes I add barley. Do you like barley? It's very filling."
He's staring at me like I'm a broken clock somehow telling the right time.
"Are you going to kill me or are you going to keep having an existential crisis in my doorway?" I gesture vaguely. "Because if it's the second thing, you should probably sit down. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I don't sleep." The admission sounds involuntary.
"That explains so much." I move toward my chair, keeping my movements slow.
Like approaching a feral cat. "Sleep deprivation affects decision-making.
You need at least six hours. Eight is better.
Have you tried chamomile tea? Or warm milk?
My mother used to add honey to warm milk. Said it fixed everything."
He makes that strangled-laugh sound again. "You're insane."
"Probably." I sit, because standing while he looms is making my neck hurt. "But I'm also right. When's the last time someone asked if you were okay?"
The question hits something. His shadows pull tighter. For a second, his face does something almost human before the mask slams back.
"Never." Raw. Then harder: "It doesn't matter."
"It always matters." My magic stirs, wanting to paint this moment. The way his control cracks just enough to show the person underneath. "You matter."
He laughs. A real one this time, though it sounds like it hurts. "You have no idea who I am."
"You're someone who stands in moonlight looking lost." I fidget with a paint-stained rag.
Used to be a dish towel. Now it's mostly cerulean.
"You're someone who carries everyone else's safety and forgets to eat lunch.
You're someone who probably has a favorite mug but won't admit it because that's too normal. "
He goes completely still. The shadows sharpen.
"You paint one picture and think you understand me?"
"No." I meet his eyes, even though it makes my head hurt a little. "But I'd like to."
Something breaks in his expression. For one moment, he looks exactly like the painting—exhausted, isolated, desperately human. Then the walls rebuild themselves.
"You're dangerous." An accusation.
"I sell paintings at a market stall and live on cheese." I gesture at my disaster of a studio. Empty mugs everywhere. Paint tubes squeezed to death. That sock I've been looking for hanging from an easel. "How am I dangerous?"
"You see things people spend lifetimes hiding." He's backing toward the shadows. "You look at monsters and offer them tea."
"Everyone needs tea." Defensive. "Even monsters. Especially monsters. They probably have stomach issues from all the stress."
He shakes his head. "This was a mistake."
"What, not killing me? That seems like a good mistake. The best kind, really. Very considerate."
"Don't—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing it just enough to look human. "Don't put the painting on display. Don't paint me again. Don't... don't look for people who don't want to be found."
"But what if they need—"
The shadows swallow him before I can finish. Only the sudden absence of cold remains, and a lingering scent—darkness and expensive cologne and something medicinal. Probably for the headaches.
I'm alone.
With a half-finished landscape that wants to scream.
With his portrait watching.
With the sudden realization that I just survived an assassination attempt by accidentally offering therapy and tea.
"Well." I tell the empty studio. "That happened."
My hands won't stop shaking. The desperate need to paint what I just saw—him, human and hurting and probably skipping breakfast—burns under my skin.
"Cheese." I decide. "This calls for cheese."
I have that lovely sharp cheddar. Supposed to last the week but extreme situations call for extreme measures. I cut thick slices, uneven pieces. The first bite is sharp and real and grounds me.
"You should be dead," I inform myself between bites. "Normal people who paint crime lords end up in canals."
But he'd looked at the painting like a mirror he'd been avoiding. Looked at me like I was impossible. Left me breathing when every instinct probably screamed otherwise.
"He needs vegetables." I tell the cheese. "And sleep. And probably one of those neck pillows for the tension headaches. Do shadow assassins use neck pillows?"
Already planning what to leave on the windowsill tomorrow. Nothing obvious. Just bread maybe. The good kind from Emmerson's. With butter. Real butter. Maybe some of those carrots Emil gave me. Cooked soft. In a proper container so they stay warm.
"You can't adopt assassins," I tell myself firmly. "They're not stray cats. They don't need feeding schedules."
But my magic hums, satisfied. Like when I've seen something true. When I've helped, even accidentally.
The portrait watches me plan care packages for my would-be killer.
"This is going to be a problem," I tell the painting.
It doesn't disagree.
I eat more cheese. Good sharp cheddar that makes my jaw work for it. Stare at the shadows, wondering if he's still watching. Wondering if he knows I'm already worried about whether he owns proper pillows. The supportive kind. For his neck.
"Next time," I tell the darkness, "I'm making soup. With barley. And vegetables cut properly small."
The shadows don't answer, but something in their quality suggests they're listening.
I go back to my landscape. Try to paint happy trees. They come out looking worried, which seems appropriate. One of them definitely looks like it needs a nap.
Outside, the city sleeps. Inside, I paint concerned forests and plan nutritional interventions for someone who came to kill me.
Just another Tuesday.
The cheese is half gone. My hands have stopped shaking. Somewhere in the shadows, a dangerous man is probably regretting his life choices while suffering from sleep deprivation and malnutrition.
Good.
He should eat something first though. And maybe try that chamomile tea. With honey.