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It’s strange. In the aftermath of the fire, time grinds to a halt. The Canvas confuses matters further.
Then, things seem to spin back up again. Weeks turn into months. A year passes, fumbling and awkward as the Dessendre family tries to find itself again. The days grow colder and shorter as they approach the anniversary of Verso’s death.
And perhaps, more importantly—what Aline tries desperately to remain focused on—Alicia’s birthday. The Paintress worries her hands together as she wanders the manor’s hallways, attempting to think of something suited. Things have improved between them these past few months, but still feel…tenuous.
Aline sighs.
Of the pair of them, Renoir has always been the gift-giver.
Verso took after his father in that respect, if only when properly motivated. They are both romantics at heart, and that capacity for love leads to these sorts of expressions. She has sheets of musical compositions from her son. She has a second, simpler wedding band to wear while she paints, this one matched to Renoir’s own. She has jewelry with stones the color of her eyes, plants he has scoured from the far corners of the earth because he imagines she will enjoy them, on and on.
This penchant extends to their children. Clea has imported clay and tools fashioned by the finest artisans in Paris. Alicia has not one but two typewriters and more journals than she’ll ever hope to fill. Until the fire. Then the journals are kindling, a little more paper to fan the flames. All of Alicia’s poems—many of them quite good—, her novella, her personal thoughts, her scribbled scenes, years of work, all gone in the span of an evening.
After the fire, she rebuilds her collection, bit by bit. The residual burns on her hand make it difficult to grip a pen for too long. Alicia reserves it to communicate with the rest of them, particularly when signing is too complicated for their still-developing skills. It’s easier, she admits, to work at her typewriter, puttering away until Clea barges into her room demanding blessed silence.
Aline supposes this is all a long-winded way to say she’s not particularly adept at gift-giving. Practical offerings? Yes. Sentimental pieces? Certainly not.
Alicia does not need a third typewriter. Inks and paper certainly did not qualify as thoughtful gifts.
Aline purses her lips. Her youngest has taken to painting more warmly following the Canvas. She could—
—What? Buy her paints? Another canvas? God, all the girl had to do was head down to the warehouse and have her pick of those. The ‘gift’ would be impersonal at best, self-serving at its worst.
Jewelry would aggravate her still-sensitive skin. Alicia had never been fond of it to start, aside from the stray few brooches. Clothing—well, back to impersonal.
Verso’s voice fills her head. Enough time has passed that it’s her son’s voice as it was, not the agonized screams he’d lapsed into near the end. If only you had a resource on hand—someone who excelled at these things. Someone you’ve admitted excels at these things.
She scowls. Off with you.
No, you’re right. Far better to stand here navel-gazing in Alicia’s doorway. By all means, perhaps divine inspiration will strike. Verso goes silent for a moment, and then. Maman, you are terrible at this. Seek help.
It is all too easy to imagine him leaning in the doorframe, flashes that devil-may-care smile that’d never quite reached his eyes. The Verso in her head shrugs, looping his hands at the small of his back, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. In a lazy voice, the shades drawls, It would be a shame to disappoint Alicia after all the work you’ve both done—
Enough. The Verso-ghost fades.
Unfortunately, the Verso-ghost is also correct.
~~~~~~~~~~
Renoir offers her a fond, if tired, smile when she returns to their room. He sets his book aside, reaching for the half-drank bottle of wine on the coffee table, a fine cabernet sauvignon they’ve proven partial to these past months. Her husband pours a second glass. He holds out his hand to her rather than offering the wine, leading her to settle beside him.
“Progress?” He asks. Aline purses her lips, biting back the instinctual response. If she is here, then clearly not. He shakes his head, chuckling. “Ah.”
“Ah,” she agrees, leaning forward to collect the wine. The Paintress drags the tips of her fingers across the rim, leaning into her husband’s side. “Go on, then, advise me. It’s what you’ve been longing to do.”
“I have had every faith in you, mon amour.”
“Liar.”
Renoir’s eyes glitter in that way they only ever seem to manage when he’s been drinking; he looks younger, lighter. “A degree of faith, then.” He drapes an arm over her shoulders, pulling her near enough to press a kiss to her forehead. “You make things more complicated than necessary. You know our daughter.”
“Apparently not.” She takes a testing sip of the wine, letting the rich flavor blossom across her tongue. Aline offers him the glass; sharing is the theme of the evening. “You know how this pains me—”
“I do.”
“—What would she enjoy, Renoir? Not need—enjoy.”
The Dessendre patriarch hums, drinking from her glass. “Alicia still prefers to while away her hours reading.” More gently, he adds. “And she will always welcome aids for her writing.”
“Sheafs of paper, is it? That will show a mother’s love.”
He huffs, tugging on a strand of her hair. “It’s a wonder you head the Painter’s Council if that marks the limits of your creativity, Aline.” Renoir softens, taking one of her hands and bringing it to his lips before she can properly raise her hackles. His breath tickles against her skin. “A pen—something custom, perhaps? If that feels too small, ask after her favorite authors.”
“She says the rubber pens irritate her burns.”
His expression brightens. Renoir's hand slips from her shoulder to the curve of her hip, fingers drumming across the flare of bone. “There you are—a fine starting point.”
He offers to make any necessary introductions among his contacts, should she need them. If nothing else, it feels like progress.
~~~~~~~~~~
There’s no shortage of options.
Quill pens, some made with the plumage of exotic birds—these she finds strikingly beautiful and unique. Aline pauses, worrying the feather between her thumb and forefinger. Lovely as it is, the stem is too thin. Alicia’s fine motor skills had suffered in the aftermath of the fire; more than a year removed, and she is still working to improve. Clutching the quill for long stretches would leave the muscles in her hand aching.
There were metal pens (pretty, though not unique) and ivory ones. The latter were lovely, but—
—not right. Alicia is a creature of color, violent, vibrant reds, not bone-white. The Paintress leaves the shop empty-handed.
It's by chance or luck that she happens across the glass-blower's shop. Dozens of pretty ornaments glitter in the display, catching the evening light and refracting in a kaleidoscope of color. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Aline ducks inside.
The artisan presents her with a beautiful glass pen, blue and green like the sea. Aline holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that to inspect the different colors. It feels cool against her skin. The gentleman brings her a pot of ink, voice bright and cheery as he points out the differences between this pen and traditional varieties.
“You’ll find it as useful for inking your art as any writing, Madame Dessendre,” he advises.
“Do you take commissions? Specific colors?”
He nods. “Wouldn’t be much of an artisan otherwise, Madame.”
Phoenix red would suit her daughter—phoenix red and gold.
~~~~~~~~~~
The pen sits in one of her desk drawers for another week. Aline cannot shake the feeling that it is too little.
“Have you considered asking Alicia?” Clea drawls. Her eldest never looks up from her own canvas, sweeping her brush from her palette in one effortlessly smooth arch.
“Your father suggested as much.”
“One of you remains reasonable, then—a relief.”
Aline purses her lips. “And what is your gift, Clea?”
There’s a moment of silence. Clea clears her throat. “I have no intention of helping you plot, Aline.”
“Ah. You have no ideas.” Her eldest throws her a tart look. Aline smiles. Less graciously, she suggests, “Have you considered asking, Ali—”
Her eldest’s expression darkens. Laughing does not improve the situation.
~~~~~~~~~~
Teasing aside, Renoir and Clea do have the right of it—a galling admission, but what could one do? The gift feels insufficient, and there’ll be no righting it without asking Alicia. She’s back where she started everything, loitering in Alicia’s doorway, wringing her hands.
Her youngest remains hunched over her desk, fingers flying over the keys of her typewriter. Line after line of text appears, almost by magic. It is a brand of creation Aline can barely fathom—a world of ink, black and white.
Wrong, she thinks. Fire blazed red.
She pushes that thought down and away, irritation flaring. No, no, they’ve been working at this; they’re moving past this. The Paintress chews her cheek until she tastes the gentle tang of blood, a hint of pain flaring. It pulls her back to the present.
“Alicia?” Her daughter starts. Aline winces as Alicia’s fingers momentarily stutter. Her vocal cords have recovered enough for her to hiss something that sounds dangerously close to a profanity. The Paintress folds her hands across her stomach, taking a step forward. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Alicia’s lips quirk up in that curious way that occasionally unsettles her. Not the expression of a mild-mannered, if willful, child, but a survivor. That other girl no longer felt fear in the traditional sense. Her youngest pushes the chair back from her desk, turning to face her fully. She motions to the bed.
She hesitates, swallowing. Aline reaches out, brushing a hand over the back of her child’s head, smoothing the wild red hair back into place. It’s grown longer than she’s ever kept it, shining and healthy. Alicia’s lips quirk up as she turns into the touch. She reaches up to clutch her mother’s wrist, warmth bleeding through her gloves. Alicia threads their fingers together, allowing the other woman to pull her to sit on the mattress.
She’s not good at this. Never has been. With Verso, it had been simple—piano, painting, dance. All her passions, all Renoir’s heart. With Alicia—
—It’s strange, staring into a face so similar to one’s own. The same passion, the same drive—they are too damnably similar, obsession driving them onto divergent paths.
“You are well?”
Alicia pulls a notepad from her breast pocket. Yes. Writing—and painting. I painted earlier.
She smiles. “You’re improving. That isn’t why I’m here.” Alicia cocks her head to the side. “Your father suggested I come to you for this—I…was hoping to gift a book. You may have better suggestions.”
Her daughter nods. Maman, the library has hundreds of books.
“Do you have a favorite?” Alicia scribbled down a title, a hint of coloring flooding her cheeks. Aline touches the words, keeping her voice gentle. “What do you like about?”
Maman.
“You said it yourself, lapin: the library has hundreds of books. What makes this one different?”
Alicia sighs. She points to the typewriter.
“It'd be easier to type?” A nod. “Would you prefer I return later?” A moment's hesitation, and then a second nod.
Aline takes her leave.
An hour or so later, Alicia finds her in one of the sitting areas off the main hall. She thrusts two full pages into her mother's hand before slumping down beside her on the couch.
Her notes are extensive—thoughts on characters, theme, and the quality of the prose. Aline makes mental notes. Working from literary text is not her preferred medium, but she is not unfamiliar with the act. Already, her mind is alight with images, Alicia's obvious inspiration calling to her own muse.
Alicia continues wringing her hands.
Aline taps her wrists. “Stop that. This is exactly what I needed.” The Paintress stands, already angled towards the atelier.
Her youngest smiles softly. Could I watch—
“No.” More clipped than she intends. Aline exhales. She's too old, too stubborn, for apologies to come easy. She squeezes her child's shoulder instead, smoothing her thumb between the collar of her blouse and the pitted skin beneath. “I'll come to you with any questions.”
Aline sets to work that night.
~~~~~~~~~~
The glass pen represents Alicia—achingly beautiful, outwardly fragile. That undersold the magnificence of the piece, both pen and young woman. Fires hot enough to kill only serve to shape them into something magnificent.
The book jacket is them, she supposes—the marriage of their crafts. It's been years since she worked on a piece so small. The detail work leaves her hands aching near the end.
Without the crutch of dipping into the Canvas, feeding it with her chroma and emotions, Aline must rely on raw talent. Alicia adores the gentleman in a way that is more hero worship than girlish adoration. When she asks, Alicia's penmanship is uncharacteristically sloppy, slanting too far to the right.
He reminds me of someone.
“Verso?”
Alicia shakes her head. Almost.
Gustave, then. She wields that as she can, weaving what she knows of the engineer into the scene. The colors are rich. Aline allows the watercolors to bleed into one another. The result is…conflicted—an even marriage of harmony and discord. It's good, if a touch too experimental for her tastes.
Eventually, the piece is finished. Aline tucks it away alongside the pen.
~~~~~~~~~~
There’s no grand party. Alicia makes it quite clear she doesn’t want one. The fire is still fresh enough in all their minds that neither Renoir nor Aline makes a fuss over this—this year, a dinner between the four of them will be more than enough.
Clea presents her sister with a new journal.
Renoir’s gift comes in two parts—a signed first edition of one of her favorite stories and fencing lessons. The second gift has Alicia scrambling up from her seat to embrace her father, eye bright.
Aline hesitates. Foolish, it’s damnably foolish, she knows Alicia will like it.
It just isn’t fencing, damn Renoir.
“For you, lapin.”
Alicia’s touch is achingly gentle as she unwraps the book. Her eye widens.
The glass pen matches the red of her hair. The cover…
Her daughter beams, touching the character’s faces. She sets the gifts gently aside.
More delicately than with Renoir, Alicia moves to embrace her mother. Her youngest tucks her face in Aline’s throat, inhaling a shivering breath. The Paintress clutches her daughter close.
It’s not fencing, but—
—It’s enough. It’s enough.