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1
Alicia is tiny. So very tiny.
She’s only a week old, Aline reminds herself, but neither Clea nor Verso ever seemed quite so small, so delicate in her arms. Her daughter feels light, almost insubstantial. Her birth had been the easiest out of the three children, sliding into the midwife’s hands with little issue.
Alicia is not only small, she is quiet. Her cries are not the ear-splitting shrieks that Clea had so often indulged in; nor are they the sobbing cries that Verso had been fond of. She fusses when she is upset, only crying if nobody attends to her right away - a rare occurrence. Aline cannot help but worry.
Her beloved husband is always quick to soothe her anxieties. “She’ll find her voice,” he reassures Aline with a gentle kiss to the brow. “Don’t worry, my love. Give her time to grow.”
Aline has never been so grateful for his steady presence. Clea had been born in the middle of summer; Verso at the tail end of winter. The lingering fatigue that had chased their births had faded quickly in the light of the sun. Now, she is not so lucky; Alicia’s birth fell in midwinter, when her moods are darkest. Despite the ease of the birth, melancholy and exhaustion hang over her shoulders like a heavy mantle. Some days, she can barely muster the energy to feed Alicia.
Renoir has offered to find a wet nurse, but Aline refuses. She nourished both of her older children from her body and will not let little Alicia be the exception. And even in her darkest moods, she cannot help but smile at the sight of her daughter clinging onto her with a strength that belies her size.
So eager to hold tight already, Aline thinks fondly. Gently, she strokes Alicia’s head, where vibrant red curls are already showing. “You’ll fit right in.” She whispers softly. She has a hundred other words she wants to say, caught in the back of her throat.
My beautiful daughter. My Alicia.
You’ll grow strong and proud. But you’ll always be the child I held in my arms.
You’re precious. Perfect. No matter what the world tries to tell you.
I love you.
But fatigue weighs heavy on her voice. And Alicia has already drifted back into sleep.
There will be time enough later. When spring sunlight thaws her heart and banishes the shadows. When Alicia grows into her voice. They have years ahead of them yet, to speak their hearts to each other.
2
“Maman?”
Aline forces her bleary eyes open. The headache still pounds behind her temples with vicious intent. Through the haze of pain and nausea, she sees a blur of white and red, barely as tall as the edge of the bed. Is Clea shorter than I remember? She wonders, before her vision clears and her thoughts finally get themselves in order.
Little Alicia stands at her bedside, pale eyes huge with worry, clutching a piece of paper to her chest. “I drew you a picture,” she chirps, “Papa said you weren’t feeling well, so I drew you a picture ‘cause you love painting!”
Aline can’t help but wince. Normally, she loves her daughter’s voice; right now, any sound crashes against her eardrums like a physical impact. “Set it on the table, dear, and I’ll look at it later.” She rasps.
“But Maman-”
“Please, Alicia.” It takes every ounce of self-control she has to keep from snapping the words at her daughter. Already, nausea threatens to overwhelm her again. Alicia looks downcast, but slips the paper onto the bedside stand and darts out of the room. Aline barely even registers her absence before blissful sleep claims her again.
Late in the evening, when the sickness finally abates and she feels well enough to sit up and nibble on the crackers Renoir offers her, she picks up the drawing. It’s scribbled in what looks like oil pastels; a large round yellow-and-brown shape wrapping stubby arms around two stick figures, one tall and one small. The smaller one has a scribbled mane of bright red hair, while the larger one has a (very) messy bun of darker hair. Herself and Alicia being held by Esquie.
It’s rough, smudged, and childish, but it brings a warm smile to her face.
She feels the bed dip as Renoir slips next to her and she leans away, “My love, you’ll get sick.”
“Then I’ll get sick.” He wraps his arm around her waist and, with a sigh, she surrenders and lets him pull her close. “I’ve been without you for too long already, my marvel.”
“Hopeless romantic.” She can’t help but tease. Her body still aches with exhaustion and she leans further into his tender embrace, letting her head fall against his chest. His heart beats a familiar rhythm against her ear; his breathing like the soothing crash of waves against shore. She wonders idly if she’ll fall back into sleep here, perfectly comfortable in his arms, despite dozing for so much of the day.
He reaches for the piece of paper still in her hands, gently angling it so he can see more clearly. “Is that…?”
“Alicia,” Aline murmurs, “She wanted to make me feel better.”
“How did she…” Renoir chuckles low in his chest. “Determination runs deep in our family, it would seem. I had assumed she was unable to reach the door handle.”
Aline huffs out a soft laugh of her own at the image of tiny Alicia stretching up to try and open the door. She lightly brushes her fingers across the picture, careful not to smudge the colors any more than they already are. “I fear I was in no fit shape to appreciate her gift when she delivered it.”
“She came to me in quite a state. She wouldn’t say why, but she was half-convinced you were dying.” He catches her hand and rubs gentle circles over the back of it. “She has inherited your propensity for worry, it would seem.”
If she were not so comfortable, she would dig her elbow into his ribs until he was driven from the bed. “My propensity for worry.”
He chuckles again. “Don’t fret, mon cœur. She’ll forget as soon as she sees you up and around.”
She sighs deeply, letting her eyes flutter closed. She’ll reassure Alicia tomorrow, she tells herself. Tomorrow, when fog doesn’t linger over her mind.
3
Aline studies her daughter’s latest attempt at painting. The gerberas’ petals are sloppy and uneven, the pale pink a painful contrast to the dark green background. The red camellia at the painting’s center looks more like a smudged rose. Her trained eyes pick up hints of green smears in the flowers; evidence of hasty brushwork. The background is indistinct to the point of looking unfinished.
It’s passable, for a beginner’s painting. But Alicia should be far from a beginner by this point.
The twelve-year-old girl in question fidgets on the bench next to her. They’d moved their weekly lesson to the glasshouse today, hoping that a change of scenery would inspire Alicia’s creativity. It’s had… mixed results. Alicia is somewhat more motivated to paint the flowers she enjoys, but by the end, she still fidgets and rushes through the painting.
“Is it good enough, Maman?” Alicia finally blurts out, “Can I go back to my room?”
Aline bites back a sigh. Her daughter’s words indicate the heart of the problem. No matter what Aline tries, Alicia doesn’t see painting as anything more than a chore to be done with. She has no passion for it - it’s obvious in her work.
Be patient with her, my love, murmurs Renoir’s voice in the back of her head, but Aline doesn’t know how much more patience she has to give. Alicia is half a decade behind her siblings in progress and shows no signs of improvement. Regardless of her feelings, she’s the daughter of some of the most prominent artists in Paris. If she doesn’t overcome this hurdle soon, Aline fears her daughter will be a social outcast; a pariah amongst the Painter families.
“Maman?”
She doesn’t know what she can say. Aline is a perfectionist, through and through, and she’s not one to lie for the sake of flattery. But criticizing Alicia’s work will only discourage her further.
“Alicia,” she finally sighs, and her daughter visibly wilts, catching the disappointment in her tone. Aline swallows back the criticisms on her tongue at the sight. Alicia is still trying to please her, despite her unwillingness to paint. “I know you can do better.”
Alicia scowls mulishly. “I can’t,” she mutters, “I’ve tried.”
Aline doesn’t argue directly. She’s tried before - it led to a half-hour circular argument between them that ended up nowhere. Alicia is convinced that she is unable to paint like her family and has thrown the full force of Dessendre stubbornness behind that belief. Aline tries a different tactic. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck if you slow down, little butterfly.”
“Then it’ll take twice as long and still be just as bad.” The girl grumbles.
Aline valiantly resists the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of her nose. She casts about desperately for what her husband might say, but comes up with nothing. “Go on then,” she finally says, “We’ll try again next week.” Alicia is up and moving before she’s barely finished speaking, darting past the easel and down the stairs, likely fearing that her mother might change her mind if she lingers too long.
Aline sighs again and looks back at Alicia’s painting. She’s at her wit’s end - she feels as though she’s tried everything to coax Alicia to paint. Nothing works. Renoir keeps saying to give her more time, more space - I was nearly twenty when I Painted my first Canvas, my love, we cannot all be as effortlessly talented as you - but she cannot bear to twiddle her thumbs and wait for Alicia to pick up a brush.
Skip practice for a day and you’ll know. Skip for two and your peers will know. Skip it for a week and your audience will know. That lesson of her youth, repeated by her dance teacher and reinforced by her painting tutor, has been drummed into the fabric of her soul. She’s given Alicia as much time as she can reasonably allow; any more would only cause what skill she’s picked up to atrophy.
Another voice drifts into her head, this one Verso’s. You should be gentler with her, Maman. She flourishes under compliments, not criticisms. She tries, but - perfectionism is her fuel, her fire. She has always seen empty flattery as worthless, worse than worthless. Every mistake is an opportunity, a chance to do better on the next painting, a reason to keep trying. She has never been one to debase or devalue herself with false compliments, to herself or others.
Perhaps Renoir would be a better teacher for her youngest, but… Aline is a prideful creature. She is the strongest, most gifted Paintress of her generation, and she refuses to let her children have anything but the best.
Alicia will find her gift. She will. She’s a Dessendre - their blood is paint, their nerves linen and cotton. It’s as much a part of her as breathing.
4
Aline hesitates before the door to the library. Her husband is asleep; there is only one other who would be here at this hour.
Their relationship has been strained, of late. Alicia clings to the notion of being a Writer rather than a Painter, no matter how much they try to dissuade her. It's one thing for Verso to take up music, another thing entirely for Alicia to want to Write. Perhaps, if things were different, if they weren't on the cusp of all-out war…
But things aren't different, and they are on the brink of war with the Writers. Alicia seems unwilling - or unable - to grasp the gravity of the situation. Their whole family could fall under suspicion, accused of collaborating with the enemy - hardly reasonable, for any who knew them, but reason so often falls to the wayside in times of war.
Aline sighs softly. They've spoiled Alicia, sheltered her from so much of reality. She’s loath to admit it - is it not love, to want the best for her children? To protect them from harm, from suffering?
Would that she could keep them safe under her wings forever.
A storm is coming; that much she is sure of. If it were possible to hide them all, body and soul, within the safety of a Canvas… Aline shakes the yearning from her bones. The siren song of a Painter’s world calls to them in different ways. Where her husband struggles with control, she aches for safety; a place where nothing could ever touch her family.
She takes comfort in knowing that, should she ever succumb to its call, Renoir would come for her in the same way she once did for him. He is her tether, her grounding force, her gravity. She only dares to fly as high as she does because she trusts him, always, to guide her to ground.
Now if only she knew what to do to guide Alicia.
Gently, she pushes open the door. As she thought, Alicia is curled up in an armchair, engrossed in a book. Two more rest on a nearby stand; whether they are books Alicia plans to read or has already finished, Aline isn’t sure. Her daughter doesn’t notice her approach, even as she steps close enough to start picking out words on the page.
Aline coughs lightly and Alicia starts, looking up from the book. “Maman! I didn’t - ”
“See me?” Her lips twitch upwards. “I noticed, lapin.”
Even in the dim light of the solitary lamp, Aline can still see Alicia’s cheeks color slightly. “I’m not a child anymore, Maman. I’m too old for childish nicknames.”
“You’re not sixteen for a few hours yet, ma petite fée lapin.” She cannot help her smile as the color in Alicia’s face rises higher. As a little girl, Alicia had loved every nickname they had showered upon her, in stark contrast to Clea’s undying disdain for them. Now, she tends to see them - especially the longer ones - as childish affectations instead. “Speaking of - you should be in bed, Alicia. You don’t want to be exhausted for our guests tomorrow.”
Her daughter sighs and looks away. “I still think it’s pointless, Maman.” She grumbles. “Why make such a big deal about my birthday? I won’t even know most of these people!”
“Because, Alicia,” Aline reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair away from her daughter’s face; Alicia habitually leans into her mother’s touch. “Like it or not, you’re still the daughter of the Head of the Painter’s Council, and sixteen is an important age. You can’t hide away from the rest of society forever.”
“I can try.” Mutters Alicia, and Aline has to bite back another smile at her daughter’s grousing tone, so very much like her brother’s.
“Regardless of how much you may wish to try, the invitations have been sent and the guest list assembled.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’d like to put your writing skills to use and pen an explanation to personally turn away each guest at the door?”
Alicia squirms uncomfortably in her seat. “No, Maman.” She finally admits.
“Then off to bed with you, Alicia. Your book will wait for another day.”
Aline brushes a soft kiss over her daughter’s forehead as she passes; a gesture almost rote in its familiarity. For a brief moment, she is seized with the sudden urge to pull Alicia close, to wrap her up and promise her, reassure her that everything will be all right, that her family will always love her -
The moment passes. Alicia steps by and is gone, back to her room.
5
It’s midnight. She stands outside the room that has been her daughter’s for the past months, trying to work up the courage to go in.
Aline has barely looked at Alicia since the fire, since the burns, since Verso -
She cannot think about it. She will not, or her nerve, her sanity will break. She presses her hands to the door, pressing ever so gently against it, moving it inch by inch.
The sound strikes her first. Her daughter's breathing is labored, rasping in her ruined throat. She can hear it even before she eases the door fully open. The smell is next. Rubbing alcohol and antiseptics; the sharp scents failing to fully cover the lingering odor of fever-sweats and sickness. The weather is too cold yet to open windows and air the room.
Swallowing back her trepidation, Aline steps into the room.
The pale moonlight washes out the room's colors, casting everything in gray; a graphite sketch. Fragile, delicate, ghostly. Alicia's hair is the only spot of color untouched - a touch of flame among the ashes.
Fire, like the one that had taken her son.
Alicia's face is unbandaged, the wounds freshly healed over. Her skin is pallid, twisted like soft candlewax. She is still, so still; her only movement in her rasping breaths. She looks -
Ghastly. Pale and ashen. The moonlight throws her scars into greater relief; Aline's stomach twists at the sight of them. The dark, empty hole where Alicia's eye once rested stares accusingly at her from across the room, as if it can see right through her.
Aline is frozen. The image burns itself into her mind next to Verso's ringing screams.
She’s taken care to be so, so quiet, but - a flicker of movement. A subtle shift in the rhythm of Alicia’s breaths. She sees a glimmer of pale blue, like ice, pinning her in place. Alicia’s lips part ever so slightly.
Time slows to a crawl, the moment stretching for what feels like an eternity. A hundred words echo in her mind, but when she opens her mouth, there is nothing in her throat.
What should she say?
I should’ve done more; I shouldn’t have been so harsh; I’m sorry this happened to you.
What does she want to say?
Your fault; foolish child; you took him from me.
Meaningless platitudes or searing poison? She cannot bring herself to say either.
Even a simple I love you feels too hard to speak.
“...Ma…ma…n…?” Alicia’s voice is whisper-quiet, cracked and hoarse. (The doctors say that she’ll never regain her full voice. The damage is too extensive.)
What little remains of Aline’s will breaks. She flees.
+1
The Canvas left its marks on all of them. In the deep lines on Renoir’s face; in Clea’s razor-sharp independence. In the marks on Aline’s heart.
In a cruel twist of fate, it’s Alicia who’s changed the most by it. Aline can see the painful yearning in her face, the grief for a life unpainted. Unmade. Her daughter is a stranger to her now; she only has herself to blame.
If only wounds of the heart could be wrapped up in balm and bandages and left to heal on their own. Time only does so much. Aline fears that they will remain half-broken shadows of their former selves forever.
She tries anyways, on the days that she can manage it. She reaches out, offers small gestures of comfort. A flower from her garden for Alicia’s hair, a gentle caress across her scarred cheek. She listens. She watches. She learns the little ways that Alicia communicates without words.
Slowly, piece by piece, she reassembles her broken heart.
Slowly, day by day, Alicia emerges from her shell.
Summer’s glow fades to autumn colors.
They sit in the glasshouse, side by side. In a rare twist of roles, Aline reads while Alicia draws. Aline glances over and sees the shape of a flower, cradled in a pair of hands she does not recognize.
Alicia abruptly sets her oil pastels down, flexing her hand with a wince. Even with the gloves protecting them, her hands are such delicate things after the fire, weakened and tiring easily from months of atrophy. Despite her newfound disabilities, both her writing and art skills have progressed in leaps and bounds. There is steel to her now, brittle iron tempered by flame.
(The cost was too high, taking its price in flesh and ink and Alicia’s innocence. Aline mourns her son and her daughter both; what was lost and what they could have been.)
Alicia sets her sketchbook aside and deliberately catches her mother’s gaze before nodding towards the stairs. Aline understands immediately. “I’ll be down later, Alicia.” As her daughter turns to gather her supplies up in her arms, Aline is suddenly struck with the sudden need to say - something. Something more
The words are difficult for her to say; they always have been. They never seem to encompass everything she wants to say.
Words never are. It's why she prefers the multilayered language of art.
But it's not a language her youngest has picked up in the same way. Alicia had always favored the straightforwardness of words. And Aline - Aline has learned painfully well how fleeting, how ephemeral their time may be.
(She still mourns the words forever unspoken to her dear Verso.)
“I love you.” The words fall from her lips like stones. Such simple, small words. Je vous aime. But she can see the weight of their impact in Alicia's expression, in the way Alicia freezes, her eye huge and round and shining.
Little Alicia would’ve thrown herself into her mother’s arms. Now, Alicia moves more carefully, more deliberately. A soft press of scarred lips against Aline’s forehead and the light brush of fingers against her cheek.
I love you, in her mother’s language.
It’s enough. It’s enough.