Chapter 21
Phaedra stared into the bowl, a frown darkening her brow.
She stirred the molten contents, urging it to change, to finally don the hue it was meant to capture.
But it didn’t. Couldn’t, in fact. And although she knew the truth, it felt impossible to abandon her trials, hoping that by some desperate miracle she might still succeed.
She needed to succeed. Needed to find some way to accomplish this unattainable task, because if she didn’t… Then it was over. Then she would have failed.
Her throat tightened, and she glanced at the parcel sitting on a stool beside her easel, feeling the gentle tug of the wonder within.
She could almost see its radiance through the drab walls of its packaging, pulling at every fiber of her being to do it justice.
And she wanted to do nothing more. If only she knew how.
With a sigh, she turned to rummage through her vials, searching for something that would both brighten and enrich, something that would finally help if not to attain then at least touch upon the color pulsing in her mind.
To approach that intoxicating shade to which she would close her eyes at night, only for it to bleed into her dreams, leading her through endless verdant hallways to the emerald flash just out of her reach.
She added a pinch of light shimmering powder to the jade mixture in the bowl, and though the color lightened into an iridescent hue as she stirred, it was nowhere near what it should have been.
An exasperated groan broke from her lips, and she pushed back the errant strands of hair falling into her eyes.
Maybe this was what her dreams had been trying to tell her.
That she would forever chase the perfect shade, hunted by the steps of inevitable failure drawing ever closer, all the while being mockingly urged on by the success of others around her.
She glared up at Ana’s portrait hanging on the wall opposite her. “Well, I know how you did it,” she muttered.
“You do?”
Phaedra whipped her head toward the door, the unexpected sound shocking her out of her mounting frustration.
Nathaniel stood in the middle of the room, the surprise on his face mirroring her own.
But what troubled her more than her failure to notice him enter was the budding hope on his face, suppressed but straining against its bonds.
Phaedra straightened, a stab of guilt contorting her features for the assumption she had involuntarily injected into his thoughts.
She pulled her lips into a tight smile. “Mr. Hawthorn, good morning.”
He took a tentative step, then another, a fine line forming between his brows. “What were you saying? Just now.”
She loosed a breath. “It was nothing.” At the sight of his raised brow, she added, “Truly. I apologize if my ill-chosen words have given you false hope. Unfortunately, that is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” he asked.
“I…” She bit her lip, then with a reluctant sigh, she resigned herself to her fate. He needed to know.
“The color,” she began, motioning toward the table in front of her. “I am having trouble getting it right, and it is… vexing.”
She braced her hands on either side of the bowl, and Nathaniel stepped to her side to peer into its contents.
“I’m trying all that I can, but…” She stirred the molten wax once more, then tipped the bowl so he might see the swirling hue better.
“We may have to accept that it is impossible to recreate in this medium. And what I was so unceremoniously expressing just now was that I know how oil painters achieve that color.”
She felt his gaze move from the paint to her, but she could not bear to look at him, to witness the disappointment that was sure to come. She pushed the bowl away, then turned to face her own attempt at capturing Ana’s likeness.
“They can utilize a wider range of pigments, and blend them to their liking, so even if the result is not a true match, it is still very near. In my case, the possibilities are more limited. Most of the pigments that would contribute to that particular shade do not blend well with wax, and I have failed as of yet to even come close to an alternative.”
There was a pause, before he said, “I see.” His voice was careful, and Phaedra could almost imagine his thoughts turning onto the same avenue as hers. Was this the end then? If getting it right was that important—a thing she herself no longer doubted—it had to be.
Bitterness cut into her, the admission of her failure lacing its already jagged edge with poison. Its sting burned her eyes and traveled down her throat, stifling her voice. It was low and shaking as she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to try. I know it’s important to you.”
“It’s—” He turned to her, but fell silent, his attention snagged as his eyes landed on the painting. The word flowed from his lips like a reverent breath, “Beautiful.”
He approached slowly, his eyes taking in every detail of the lone figure sitting before the mirror, pen poised above the pages of a journal, head dipped and eyes fixed on her other hand lost in the fabric rippling across her lap.
The dress itself seemed as if woven of light, hugging and flowing in all the right places.
The rest of the room blurred into shadow, as if the only illumination came from the radiance enveloping her body.
Phaedra watched as Nathaniel raised his hand to the panel, his fingers gliding just above the surface, following the strokes of her brush.
There was something so tender about the gesture, almost to the point of intimacy, that she felt her body tighten, as if it were her skin and not her work he would be tracing.
She turned back toward the table, her teeth clenching, her arms closing around her middle as if they would contain the heat washing over her body. She stared into the mocking depths of the bowl, hoping the dismay it inspired would calm her thundering heart.
This was not right. She should not be thinking such things—feeling such things—let alone behaving like some lovestruck schoolgirl instead of the grown woman that she was.
Maybe it was a good thing that all of this would soon come to an end.
That she would be free of this place, free of such musing and of his presence, and then—
“What would you think,” Nathaniel said behind her, “about fashioning the dress from the fabric itself?”
“What?” She turned, the unexpected words shunning every other thought from her mind.
He stood by the stool now, his face pensive as he stared into the open package. A sliver of emerald shone over the edge of the parcel, and Phaedra wondered how he could bear it. To be so very near and not touch it. To merely stand there and look.
“For the painting,” he said. He glanced at her, then straightened as he saw her expression.
“I’m… sorry, it was just a silly idea. I merely thought that if we were to construct the semblance of a dress from the fabric, we may attach it to the painting.
That I could maybe find someone to sew it, and then—”
“No!” she cut him off with a vehemence that surprised them both. He stared at her, uncertainty marring his features, and she closed her eyes with a frustrated sigh, trying to gain control of her obviously slipping mind.
“I apologize, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said finally.
“It seems I am not myself today. What I meant to say was yes, it can be done. I have personally not created anything like it before, but… I find it an interesting idea.” She shot him a tentative smile, and was relieved to see his expression smooth.
“And what I also meant was that I can do it myself. I can sew the dress. I am not a skilled seamstress by any account, but I think my capabilities would be more than enough for what is needed here.”
“All right.” He nodded. “I shall send someone with the supplies.”
“Thank you,” she said almost absently as he walked out, her eyes slipping to the parcel once more. There was a tremor in her breath, as if air could finally reach her lungs again.
As if the leaden fingers of a painful grip had finally released her.