The paintbrush danced across the canvas.
Crows scattered through the sky, gnarled branches wed at the darkness, and the moon was devoured by thick clouds-on the canvas, andscape shrouded in the gloom of night.
It was andscape born from Felicity''s brush.
All M could do was imagine Felicity''s inner world, slipping into her state of mind, mimicking every stroke and style. She poured out the despair and terror buried deep in Felicity''s soul, capturing it again, line by line, for Cossio to see.
Sometimes-
Art speaks to the soul more deeply than words ever could.
In the dimly lit studio, a woman veiled in gold released the man''s hand from the brush. She stood as motionless as a marite, her gaze fixed silently on the man beside her.
His breathing grew heavier.
He reached out with a trembling hand, his fingers hovering above the crows struggling to take flight on the canvas. For a long time, he was silent. Then, his voice broke the stillness, low and hoarse with pain.
"Darling, does it hurt that much?"
He understood the painting.
M said nothing.
She knew he wasn''t speaking to her, and he didn''t expect an answer. Still, just as he''d said... it did hurt.
From the day she married into the Montgomery family,
From the very first moment she saw Felicity-
She sensed immediately that beneath that gentle woman''s exterior was a soul battered and bruised by pain.
At first, M didn''t understand. She couldn''tprehend it.
But after only a few days here, she realized where Felicity''s suffering came from, even if she didn''t know the reason why.
One thing she did know-
The man standing before her was undoubtedly at the heart of it.
She picked up the brush.
The tip hovered over the neck of a crow. Sensing her intention, the man''s hand closed painfully around her wrist. M ignored the ache, pushing through the pain as she dragged the brush in a deep, stark line across the crow''s throat.
-Severed.
Her wrist throbbed so fiercely it felt as if the bones might snap. The brush fell to the floor with a faint tter. She said nothing, bracing herself for the man''s anger.
After a long while, the pressure on her wrist eased.
He let go, gently rubbing her bruised skin, even lowering his head to kiss it softly, blowing a cool breath across the sore spot.
"Darling, why are you always so sad when you''re with me? What can I do to make you happy?"
His voice was full of helplessness.
He bent to pick up the brush, dipped it in paint, and ced it back in M''s hand. Wrapping his hand around hers, he guided her to the wound on the crow''s neck, quickly painting a few bright green leaves over the gash—startling and out of ce on the somber canvas.
Now,
That ugly wound, the very mark of the crow''s beheading, looked almost like a few wayward leaves had fallen on its neck-no trace of violence, only a hint of whimsy.
Behind the veil,
M''s eyes were sharp with scorn.
-A wound is still a wound. Hiding it doesn''t make it disappear.
-The harder you try to cover it up, the more obvious it bes.
He didn''t even have the courage to face the pain he''d caused. What a coward.
M threw down the brush, stood up abruptly, and walked straight out. Suddenly, she felt suffocated her chest tight, breathless.
She couldn''t stay in the studio any longer.
Ignoring the man behind her, she tore off her veil and hurried downstairs to her room. She made straight for the bathroom, clutching her chest as she retched over the sink, fighting the wave of nausea and pain, finally sliding to the floor, spent and trembling.
She couldn''t keep up the act much longer.
Art was always about emotion-and stepping into someone else''s pain only made
it worse, especially when those feelings weren''t as foreign as she tried to pretend.
Every brushstroke, every emotional rey, was like carving a fresh wound in her own heart.
It was suffocating.
She sat in silence until midnight, the pain in her shoulders and hands finally snapping her back to reality. She had to keep up the pretense, no matter how much it hurt. Pushing down the roiling feelings, she dragged herself to bed and forced herself to snatch a little sleep.
By morning, when she saw Cossio again, she was calm.
He wasn''t angry about her abrupt departure the night before. Instead, he''did out avish breakfast-the only time she''d eaten her fill since arriving. Still, worried about her stomach, she forced herself to stop before she''d had too much. After the meal,
He surprised her again by taking her out of the old manor. He told her she''d been so downtely because she never left the house, so he was taking her out for a pic in the woods.
M said nothing.
Well, he wasn''t wrong. She was tired of being cooped up inside-getting out wouldn''t be so bad.
They drove along winding roads to a lush clearing on the ind. Shrouded in a gold gown and veil, M let Cossio, dressed in a deep blue suit, lead her toward an open meadow.
A gentle stream ran nearby.
A few young men in crisp uniforms stood waiting in silence, everything for the pic already prepared.
Seated on a soft chair, M couldn''t see, but she could hear the rush of water, the chirping of birds and insects close by, smell the rich scent of grass and trees, and feel flower petals drift onto her skirt.
The vastness of nature eased the weight in her heart, if only a little.
The sunlight shimmered on her golden gown. Cossio sat by the stream, sketching -though M knew, without seeing, that he wasn''t painting her. She could never figure out what went on in his mind.
He always seemed to have too much time.
Here in the manor, he was everywhere and nowhere-never quite present, never
quite absent. She couldn''t guess what he wanted.
He couldn''t possibly keep her here forever, could he?
...
After soaking up some sun and nibbling at a few pastries, she felt her mood lift.
Finally, M rose and wandered carefully toward the man painting by the stream. Unsure of her footing, she took each step slowly. As she neared, Cossio came to steady her, guiding her toward his easel to show her the painting.