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His fingers flex on the keys. His resistance is token, as pointless as ever, but some staunch, deep-rooted stubbornness still compels the attempt. He does not have that same naivety he did at the start, the hope that a reminder of his suffering might bring mercy. Still he struggles. The mindless thrashings of an animal in a trap.
I want to die . This at least, she cannot take away. She has given them all form, but there are things that paint cannot reach. The people here are painted, and they are alive, with their own wit and intelligence and spirit. Yes, they are alive. He is alive, to his discomfit. This he has never denied, though it might have made certain choices easier.
No matter now. There are no choices left to him. Only the drumbeat in his head, I want to die , the only thing he knows for sure.
The thought of oblivion is enough to soothe him, enough to settle his nerves and begin his concert with unshaking hands. Her circus act. He–the real Verso–went to a circus once, with hoops of fire and elephants in chains.
The music is rote. Her friends, once his, smile up at him in their pretty suits. They do not see the horror that is now her face. He sees. Perhaps she wants him to see. Someday she will not be able to hide it from them, and what then?
A rising wave of nothingness inside him. He has seen this world from above, seen it for the toybox it is, has touched its borders and eked out a life in the ruins of a family that was never his. In a hundred years of being his own shadow, he’s never been so hollow.
He finishes the piece without realizing it, hands stilling on the keys when muscle memory brings it to an end. Applause, an ovation. This is the new Lumière, triumphant and untouchable. A sparkling evening, symbolic of the golden years to come. A thousand dolls in a thousand seats. He bows, back bent. Thinks of a boy without a face, painting, painting, painting until the canvas rots.
—
Are you all right? Sciel, almost too bright to look at. Full with child, no more blood on her face. A doting husband fetching her a fan. The summer heat turning her bronze. We saved the world, you know. There’s no need to look so dour.
She said she’d destroy him if it meant getting her husband back, and now she has, and he is destroyed. But that is not her fault. This is her life. He cannot hate her for wanting to keep it, even if the idea is alien to him.
They all must know what will happen to her. Lumière would prefer to forget the Paintress and the gommage and the years of orphans and hopelessness, and who can blame them? They turn from the memory of their families dissolving, of cracked faces and empty skulls. But Sciel and Lune were there, saw the Paintress, saw what she became. They could not forget.
And if they know that, they know what she has done to him. They must, on some level, know. And perhaps that makes them sad, but what small price is one man’s pain, one girl’s self-destruction, in the face of annihilation?
I’m fine, he says.
—
You’re my brother. I want you to be happy.
I am happy, he says. I want to die.
Her eyes are luminous, too blue. All of her is over-saturated, red hair gone crimson as blood. She embraces him. He freezes.
Verso, she says, and when he looks down, her face swirls with pigment. Please.
The familiar pull of his strings. His arms raise and tighten at her back. Is it compelled, or is it some remnant of the man he used to be, the man who loved his sister, who died for his sister? He will always choose to suffer for the sake of others. It is something he used to take pride in. Now he wonders if it is merely the distant echo of a better man.
I never fit in here, you know, she says, into his chest. His shirt is wet. Is it tears, or paint? In Lumière. I love them, but I’m different from them. That’s why I need you. You’re why I…
His hand shakes and the movement startles them both, enough for him to step back. He’s breathing hard.
You’re afraid, she says. No, Verso. You cannot hate me too.
I don’t hate you, he says. And it’s the truth. But you know I’m not real.
You are real. The fierce denial surprises him.
The nothingness recedes for a moment. He expects to find rage underneath, but it’s just sorrow, deep and cold as a glacier. I’m not Verso, Alicia. Verso is dead.
Wants to say: Verso gave his life for you, and you threw it away to live in a dream where you can pretend it never happened.
You’re wrong, she says, and starts to weep. You’re real. You’re as real as Gustave.
He holds her again, and says nothing.
—
Renoir comes again, because how could he not? The same story, now his daughter instead of his wife. Another Dessendre woman to fail. His eyes are mad, bloodshot, but he speaks to her with gentle care. He does not look at Verso at all. Come home, he says. It is time to come home.
But she is a better Painter than her father ever was, and Renoir must know that. She takes after her mother, after all. But a father’s love never considers futility. He dies with a brush in his hand.
The world saved, again. A celebration, fireworks lighting up the Eiffel, wine and bawdy songs. His sister’s body a smear of red and blue and black as she twirls in a dance with her friends. They can all see it now, but no one says a word.
They think she suffers for their sake, to give them a chance at life. And she does–she does. Because she cannot bear more grief. He knows this.
He is not Verso; he cannot save her. She will die here, in this dollhouse, and there is nothing he can do. And when that day comes, there will be no Painter left to stop Renoir. He lets himself luxuriate in the thought: the unraveling, reality rent like it never was, an end once and for all. The final fade to black. This is not eternity. He will rest. It is only a question of when.
A new drumbeat: I am going to die.
That night, at the opera, he does not fight when his fingers rest on the keys. She smiles.
He closes his eyes, and plays.