17. The Paintings Are Listening #3
“And in supernatural productions, there are more ways still,” Anneliese says. “Vampire stillness. Fae trance. Witch binding. Shifter suspended breath. Siren sleep. Glamour death. A body can appear dead to human eyes, magical eyes, even ritual sight, without crossing fully.”
The pieces hum inside me. My mother’s voice. Dorian and Anneliese at Foglight discussing supernatural Romeo options. Mara and Caleb dying onstage. A place where death is performed in so many forms that the walls no longer know which version to hear.
“That’s why the playhouse matters,” I whisper.
Anneliese’s face tightens. Not because the clue fails. Because it might just work.
“You already thought of this…before."
She stops beside a fallen cedar slick with moss. “I suspected the theater had become complicated.”
“Complicated? My hair is complicated in humidity. This is a supernatural loophole hiding in a murder scene.”
“Possibly.”
“Do not possibly me.”
Her eyes flash. “Possibly is honest.”
“So is terrified. Try that one.”
The words hit. Anneliese looks away.
For one long moment, the only sound is the creek below and the crows shifting above us.
Then she says, “If the theater can confuse the listening, then it may allow truth to be spoken there.”
“It doesn’t know what is scripted and what is true,” I add.
Hope bites into me again. Hard.
“But?” I ask.
“Places that confuse old magic can also confuse protection.”
I hate this sentence immediately.
“If we use the playhouse as a blind spot, we may be able to speak freely,” she says. “Or we may step into a space where the curse cannot hear us clearly, but something else can move unseen.”
“You’re afraid of it working,” I say.
Anneliese does not deny it. That is answer enough.
“The playhouse is our door,” I say.
“Yes,” Anneliese says quietly.
“And you know how to open it.”
Her silence is not denial. It is fear wearing centuries of manners.
Anneliese turns back toward the studio without answering. Because apparently the official communication style of Everwilde’s older supernatural residents is say one alarming thing, then walk away dramatically through mist.
I follow her down the path, boots slipping on wet leaves.
“No,” I say.
She keeps walking.
“No, absolutely not. You do not get to confirm the playhouse is a magical blind spot, imply it may also be a murder door, and then retreat into woodland aesthetics.”
A crow caws overhead. “Thank you,” I tell it. “Exactly.”
Anneliese glances back. “The crow was not agreeing with you.”
“It sounded supportive.”
“It's hungry.”
“Support can have layers.”
Her mouth curves despite herself, then fades. “Fate, I cannot explain what I do not yet understand.”
“That is extremely convenient.”
“It is extremely true.”
We reach the studio porch. The windows reflect the woods behind us, dark and distorted.
Anneliese pauses with her hand on the door. “I need to verify the spellwork.”
“What spellwork?”
Her silence is elegant.
Infuriatingly so.
“The one you are not telling me about,” I say.
She opens the door. “Yes. Just give me a little time.”
Inside, the paintings are exactly where we left them. That does not make them feel less smug.
The unfinished portrait with no eyes sits on its easel near the far wall. Its mouth is still only a charcoal suggestion, but somehow it looks more complete than before. More attentive.
My skin prickles.
Anneliese removes a slim leather-bound book, a silver stylus, and a small vial of dark pigment from a locked cabinet.
I cross my arms. “That looks like a plan.”
“It looks like it’s time for you to go.”
She picks up my coat from the chair where I left it and hands it to me. I shrug into it with more dignity than I feel. “I have had my daily allotment of cryptic women.”
I point toward the unfinished portrait. “And that thing needs to stop looking at me without eyes. It’s rude.”
Anneliese does not turn.
That is how I know she is afraid of it.
Good.
Or terrible.
Probably both.
I walk to the door. Every canvas watches me pass.
A gallery of witnesses.
A room full of mouths pretending to be art.
At the threshold, I look back.
Anneliese stands beside the worktable, one hand resting on the leather-bound book, the other near the vial of dark pigment. She looks less like an ally than a queen guarding a poisoned map.
“If you test that spell without telling me what it means,” I say, “I will come back.”
“I know.”
“And I’ll bring Mina.”
A faint smile touches her mouth. “That is a serious threat.”
“Yes. She has labels.”
I step onto the porch.
The mist swallows the edge of the woods, and the studio door closes behind me with a soft click.
I make it three steps down the path before the air changes.
Not the forest.
Behind me. Inside.
I turn.
Through the nearest window, I just barely see the unfinished portrait on its easel. Its painted head moves. Slowly. Impossibly. Toward the window. Toward me.
A whisper slides through the glass, thin as a brushstroke dragged over bone.
We told you not to trust her.
My heart stops.
The portrait’s mouth is still unfinished.
But somehow, it manages a dry, deceptive smile.