Chapter 10 #2
"No, you said no portraits. So now we're discussing your tragic relationship with natural light." I'm already unpacking supplies. Just to have something to do with my hands. "Do you have curtains? Even ugly ones would help."
He watches me pull out brushes. "What are you doing?"
"Organizing. These get tangled if I don't separate them properly." I glance at him. "You could sit while I organize. If you wanted. Not for a portrait. Just sitting. Like humans do."
"I know what sitting is."
"Do you though? Because that stance suggests otherwise." I arrange brushes by size, very carefully not looking at him directly. "Standing like that's got to hurt your back. Your shoulders are practically at your ears."
"My shoulders are fine."
"Your shoulders are writing their own tragedy up there." I find a chair, dust it off with my sleeve. "Here. Sit. For your spine, not for art."
"I'm not—"
"When's the last time you just... sat? Without planning someone's demise or reviewing territory disputes?" I push the chair toward the window. Where the light happens to be perfect. "Five minutes. What's five minutes to someone immortal?"
"I'm not immortal."
"You act like you are. All that lurking and looming." I'm mixing colors now. Just to keep them fresh. "Very immortal behavior."
He's still standing, but I can see him wavering. The chair's right there. The light's warming that spot. His shadows have stopped writhing quite so aggressively.
"This is manipulation."
"This is concern for your posture." I test a brush. Still soft from this morning's making. "And maybe a tiny bit of manipulation. But mostly posture worry."
"If I sit," he says slowly, "you won't paint me."
"I won't paint you without permission." Which is true. I'll just... sketch. Mentally. Store the details.
He sits like it physically pains him. Probably does.
"See? Much better. Your vertebrae are probably singing." I pretend to organize paint jars. "Now turn slightly toward the light. For your health. Not for artistic reasons."
"This is still manipulation."
"This is healthcare." I'm definitely not memorizing how the light catches the silver in his hair. "When's the last time you got proper sunlight? You're practically translucent."
"I work in shadows."
"You live in shadows. Different thing." I accidentally knock over a brush. Have to get closer to retrieve it. "Even shadow workers need light. For balance. And bone health. And not looking deceased."
"Deceased?"
"Very elegant. Fashionably deceased. But still corpse-adjacent." I'm close enough to see the exact shade of tired under his eyes. "Which is why you need vegetables. And sunlight. And maybe a portrait session to document your gradual return to human coloring."
"You just said—"
"I said healthcare. Portraits can be healthcare. Art therapy. Very legitimate." I retreat to safer distance. "One session. For medical documentation."
"That's not what portraits are for."
"Says who? I make the rules about my portraits." I'm already sketching in my mind. "You can't just declare what portraits are for."
"I literally can. Artist's prerogative." I test a brush against my palm. "Besides, this is basically medical documentation. You're clearly suffering from chronic shadow exposure."
"That's not a real condition."
"It is now. I'm documenting it. For science." I accidentally knock over a jar. Nothing breaks, thankfully. "And posterity. And because the light's doing something very nice to your cheekbones right now."
"Stop looking at my cheekbones."
"Can't. They're very prominent. Architecturally speaking." I retrieve the jar. "You should eat more. Your face is all angles. Handsome angles, but still. Very sharp. Probably hurt to sleep on your side."
"I don't—" He stops. Takes a breath. "One session."
"One session," I agree, already knowing I'll need at least four. But we can negotiate later.
He's quiet for a moment. The light really does make him look more human. Less shadow construct, more tired man who needs a nap.
"Where's the best light?" he asks finally.
"North-facing windows. This room's not terrible but..." I look around. "Too many people walking by. You need somewhere private for proper sitting."
"Private."
"Well yes. Can't have you worrying about who's watching while I'm trying to capture your bone structure." I'm already planning. "Somewhere quiet. With good light. And a comfortable chair because that tension in your shoulders is going to translate to canvas."
Footsteps in the hallway. Quick, purposeful. The doorway—still those two guild members trying to peek without looking like they're peeking.
"Is that Finn again? He's very interested in your artistic development." I wave at the doorway. The footsteps scatter. "Should I set up facing away from the door? Give them a better view?"
He's on his feet before I finish. "Not here."
"But we just got the chair in the right spot—"
"Too exposed. Too many windows." His shadows are agitated again. "My private study. Floor above this one. No guild members."
"Your study?" I gather my supplies. "You mean your actual personal space? Where you do your... shadow things?"
"Where I work. Alone." He emphasizes the last word. "There's one window. North-facing."
"Oh. Well that's perfect then." I'm already moving, bags bumping against my legs. "Lead the way. Unless we're shadow-traveling? My turnips are still recovering."
"We'll walk."
He takes a route I haven't seen—narrower stairs, older. Probably servant passages once. I have to turn sideways at one landing, holding my breath as my chest brushes the wall. Everything smells like old wood and secrets.
"Do you often bring people up here?" I ask his back.
"Never."
"Oh." That probably should worry me more. "Well, I promise not to touch anything deadly. Or read any secret documents. Or rearrange your furniture. Much."
He stops at a heavy door, produces a key. The lock clicks with quality mechanisms. Inside is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at all.
It's... organized. Brutally organized. Bookshelves lined with ledgers, all spine-perfect.
A desk that's seen better decades but polished to spite time.
One window, as promised, currently blocked by curtains thick enough to stop arrows.
No personal items. Not even a sad plant.
Just weaponry displayed where other people display family portraits.
"This is depressing," falls out before I can stop it.
"This is functional."
"Functionally depressing." I set down my bags. "When's the last time you opened those curtains?"
"Light compromises security."
"Light compromises vitamin D deficiency." I march over, yank the curtains apart. Dust billows. We both cough. "Oh. Oh that's... when did you last clean these?"
"I don't clean curtains."
"Clearly." I wave away dust clouds, squinting at the sudden brightness. Perfect light though. Filtered through old glass and atmospheric dirt. "We might die from spore inhalation but at least we'll die well-lit."
He's glowering at the open curtains. "Someone could see in."
"Who? Pigeons? You're several floors up." I'm already rearranging, pulling a chair into the light. His chair, from behind his desk. The leather's worn soft where he sits. "Here. Much better than that wooden torture device downstairs."
"That's my—"
"Chair, yes. And you're going to sit in it. In the light. Like someone who isn't allergic to sunlight." I dust off the seat with my sleeve. "Come on. Before your shadows get ideas."
He sits like it's physically painful. All that careful control costs something.
"I feel exposed."
"You feel lit. There's a difference." I'm setting up my easel, trying to find the right angle. Have to squeeze between his chair and a weapons rack. My hip bumps a sword hilt. "Sorry. Didn't mean to jostle your... is that a femur?"
"Decorative."
"Right. Of course. Decorative bones. Very normal." I adjust my position. "Could you turn slightly left? Your right. No, that's too much. Just... here."
I reach out to adjust his shoulder and he catches my wrist. Not hard, but firm. His fingers are cold.
"Ask first."
"Sorry. May I adjust your position? For artistic purposes. Not murder purposes."
He releases my wrist. Nods once. I touch his shoulder carefully, angling him toward the light. He's all tension under expensive fabric.
"There. Perfect. You can see the actual color of your skin now. Which is pale but not corpse-pale. More 'I work indoors' pale."
"I don't live in a cave."
"You live in shadow. Same principle." I retreat to my easel, start mixing colors. "When's the last time you just... sat in sunlight? Without planning someone's demise?"
"This morning. When you forced me to."
"That was five minutes of aggressive compliance. Doesn't count." I'm getting his skin tone wrong. Too pink. He's more gray-undertoned. "I mean really sat. Maybe read a book. Had tea. Watched dust motes."
"I don't watch dust motes."
"You should. They're very soothing. Like tiny, lazy snow." I glance up. He's watching me instead of the dust motes. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like you're cataloging weaknesses."
"I'm always cataloging weaknesses."
"Well catalog the dust motes instead. I need you looking natural, not planning where to hide my body." I add more gray to the mix. Better. "Besides, we both know you're not going to kill me."
"Confident."
"Accurate. You've had multiple opportunities. Instead you're letting me rearrange your furniture and criticize your curtains." I start sketching the basic shapes. "Face it. You're domesticated."
His shadows flare. Just for a moment. "I am not domesticated."
"You're sitting for a portrait in your private study. That's at least partially domesticated."
"Do not compare me to a cat."
"Too late. Already did." I'm getting the angle of his jaw now. It really is architectural. "Very elegant cat though."