The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Thirty-One

Viridian laid a hand over his daughter's mouth as she jerked awake. "Hush. Don't wake your sister," he whispered.

Under his touch he could feel her nod of agreement and silently he withdraw, waiting outside the girls' room until Blossom emerged, the golden chapel gown pulled on over her nightdress.

She stumbled in the darkness, but managed to feel her way up the the stairs leading to the studio. Viridian made sure to keep two steps behind, just in case she slipped.

Viridian winced as his heavy foot creaked the floorboards. He froze in place, his arms outstretched as he held his ludicrous pose, but the house remained silent, and he let out his held breath in relief.

Hope had been fast asleep when he'd eased himself out of their makeshift bed. It was too late by the time his patron left to think about fitting together the old marital bed, so the two of them just dragged up their mattress and collapsed onto it, completely exhausted.

They'd sold a painting, which would usually have been cause for celebration, but not this night. Hope had been skittish all the way through dinner, laughing in that high-pitched way of hers which she only did when she was nervous.

He'd tried catching her alone to ask what was happening, but she'd avoided his gaze all evening, turning her shoulder towards him whenever he got close enough to whisper anything to her. Even after Lord Patron had left, all she'd wanted to do was sleep. He understood that well enough, but he couldn't fathom why she would ever agree to show their daughter's name book to him.

He'd put everything into making a name book for his eldest daughter. When she'd been a baby, so small that he was terrified that he might crush her every time he lifted her from her crib, he'd spent sleepless nights worrying about her naming. He'd heard, through a friend of a friend, who'd come across a whisper that there was a man willing to sell that precious privacy for nothing more than mere gold.

They'd talked about it at length, he and Hope, and in the end decided that the price didn't matter. It was something they needed to do for their child. Hope had almost cried when she saw the bottle. 'So small! Barely enough for twenty pages, if that.' She'd been amazed when the freshly scribed pages had poured out of him. He never told her that it was not the ink he had bought, and she never found the scars, nicked into the soles of his feet.

Hope didn't like to talk about her past, but it didn't take a great deal of intuition to see the way that she clutched at her own name book, that there was a darkness lurking there. Viridian had always presumed that her husband had been cruel to her, but whenever he asked, her jaw would tighten and her back stiffen, as if an iron gate had clanged shut between them. He didn't press the issue.

Even in sleep, worry seemed to tug at her lips, drawing lines that across that sweet face. Viridian had always hoped that she would open up to him, that the years would wash away whatever pain she carried would lessen with the distance travelled, but it was not to be. It was a constant sense of shame to Viridian, that he had failed her in this regard.

He found Blossom waiting for him in the studio, stifling a yawn and wiping the sleep from her eyes. She turned her back to him, balancing her hands on her hips so that he could lace up the back of her gown.

"You have the ribbons?" She nodded, pulling them out from her sleeve, and handed to them for him to tie. One around each wrist, and the final one tied around her neck.

That done, he squeezed her shoulders tight before moving over to his easel. He busied himself, collecting brushes and paints as his daughter settled herself in her pose.

His sketches were missing from the table, of course. Just as he had known they would be. His Lord Patron wore his jacket so tight, placing a single coin within its pocket would have ruined the line. The pair of them must have thought him a fool not to notice the sheath of papers pressing themselves against the earl's chest when he came down from the studio. No matter, he didn't need them.

Taking a fresh piece of sanguine chalk, he sharpened it with a knife into a point, and barely looked at the canvas, his eyes fixed on his daughter, he set to work. His strokes were broad at first, marking out the extravagant dress as it swept the floor, then moving onto her hands, held in front of her, clasped as if in prayer, and then her face, tilted upwards to show off her slim neck.

As he curled round her jaw-line, the chalk snapped in his hands, a with a sigh he reached for the knife and drew it back into a point.

Blossom used the opportunity to yawn and wriggle her shoulders.

"You alright there?" The words came out sounding more strained that he had hoped for.

"I'm fine," said Blossom. "Just tired."

Viridian felt his stomach lurch with guilt at the thought of dragging his twelve year old daughter from her bed to act as his model. "And you're alright with all this? The painting I mean."

He'd kept her in ignorance at first, of course. The less people knew about what he was doing, the better. And living in the capital, so close to the nest of masters, even a young girl was a liability if she knew the fate of her portrait, but he had not raised a fool and Blossom soon worked out that what they were doing was treason.

She must have caught something in his voice because she turned around to face him.

"It's fine," she said, smiling. "I want to help."

He had to satisfy himself with that. He nodded, picking up the chalk once more. "And you can't tell Mama," he said, hating himself even more for even asking.

Blossom rolled her eyes before lifting her hands and taking up her pose once more. "I know," she said, almost regally. She lifted herself, straightening her back, and as if frozen by a sudden chill, became utterly still.

Viridian watched her for a moment, wishing to all the gods that he could have chosen some street brat to model for him instead of his own daughter. It was too late now.

With a sigh, he turned back to his work, and started. He had forgotten he had picked up this sanguine chalk with which to map up the painting. It was disconcerting seeing his daughter sketched out in that blood-red shade. With the ball of his thumb he smudged her hair-line.

"Blossom," he said, noticing that she had moved. Her head tilted to one side. She jerked up at the sound of her name and resumed her both, but moments later he realised she was doing it again, straining off to one side as if listening out for someone.

And then he heard it too. A drum being beaten somewhere in Dakley. The chalk slowed in his hand and stopped. Blossom must have noticed the lack of industry because she turned round.

"What is it?" she asked at last.

"I don't know." With that he got up and moved over to the window. The glow of the fairy-lights reflected off the glass and he couldn't see a damn thing outside. Throwing the chalk to the ground, he gripped the frame and pulled the stiff window open with a heave.

The sound of the drum rushed into the studio. It was closer than he had thought.

"Is it the masters?" squeaked Blossom. "Are they coming for us?" She staggered to her feet, the dress a mound of silk in her arms.

He didn't answer. Instead he leaned out, trying to catch a glimpse of the drummer. Across the street, he could see his neighbours doing the same thing. "No, not the masters," he said as the liveried figure came into view. If it had been the masters, he doubt he would have even got so far as opening the window. He knew that drum. He'd heard it before, and hoped to never hear it again.

"Then what?"

Viridian pulled himself back into the studio, and slammed the window shut, bolting it tight. "War."