Her steps languid and slow, she wandered over to the farthest arc of the wall, to a space littered with Nicholas’s finished canvases.
His paintings were unlike anything Mira had seen before, unlike any of the watercolors and oils she had seen when she attended the Royal Academy’s annual exhibition. Nicholas worked in massive scale, his lines bold and irregular, creating raw wounds of ochre, crimson and bluish-black. Nicholas’s art was anguish, and Mira shuddered in visceral reaction.
Only one painting actually hung upon the wall. It was a portrait of a woman, a woman with midnight hair and moonlight eyes. Her figure was surrounded by an indistinct, swirling mass of color, as though she hung suspended in a thunderhead. One hand was raised in invitation, and she seemed to stare directly at Mira. She was not smiling, but Mira got the impression that she was amused by something, some great cosmic jest to which only she was privy.
“My mother.” Nicholas had come to stand directly behind Mira without her hearing him move, and she started at the sound of his voice.
“I do not remember her clearly. I was young when she died. But I dream of her sometimes, and this is how she looks to me then.”
“She was beautiful.”
Nicholas paused. “Yes, she was.”
After another beat of silence, he continued in a more brisk tone of voice. “So, Mira-mine, what do you think of my work?”
Mira turned to look at him. He was staring at her intently. He lifted one corner of his mouth in a jaunty smile, and cocked an eyebrow teasingly. But Mira recognized the moment as a watershed, her response as vital.
“It is wonderful,” she replied. Her voice was firm with conviction. “I have never seen such passion on canvas before. It is deeply moving.”
Nicholas flushed with pleasure.
“I am glad you approve, Mira. Most people, I think, find my work unsettling. Alarming, even. Tastes these days seem to run to portraits.” He glanced toward the portrait of his mother, and his brow wrinkled in consideration. “Other than that picture of my mother,” he said, his words slow and measured, “I have not painted a portrait in a decade, at least.” His head swung around abruptly, so that he faced Mira squarely. “Would you be willing to sit for me?”
She was stunned. “Me? Oh, Nicholas, I don’t… I am not certain I would be the best subject.”
“Of course you would,” he said, warming to the idea. “It would not take much of your time. I work largely from memory. I would only need to sketch you, which would take no more than an hour. Perhaps we could do it right now. And then I might need you to sit once more, when the work is almost complete, just to be certain that I have captured the play of light on your skin and hair.”
Mira worried her lower lip, and turned to look at the portrait of his mother. The former Lady Blackwell was a striking woman, and Mira was a poor substitute. She was not certain she could tolerate Nicholas scrutinizing her with his artist’s eye.
Still, she thought, the sitting would give her time to talk to Nicholas while he was distracted, perhaps less guarded. Who knew what she might be able to learn about the murders while he sketched.
“All right,” she finally agreed, however hesitantly.
He smiled. “Excellent.”
He looked around the studio, humming tunelessly. “Why don’t we have you sit here, just beneath this window?” He directed Mira to a graceful retiring couch covered with indigo brocade.
She sank down to perch right upon the edge of the couch, squaring her shoulders in what she hoped was a serious and refined pose.
Nicholas laughed. “Mira, relax.” He gave her shoulder a gentle shove, and then reached down to lightly grasp one of her ankles in his large, warm hand, swinging her leg up to the couch. “Lean back and put your feet up. Make yourself comfortable. And try to forget what I am doing.”
Forget what I am doing. As if she could. She leaned back against the thick satin pillows and tried to relax. But she was acutely aware that Nicholas would be watching her, staring at her with critical eyes, observing each and every flaw in her features and committing them to canvas.
As Mira tried to settle in, Nicholas moved to an easel and took up a piece of charcoal. He studied her, eyes narrowed in a squint, for just a moment before he touched the charcoal to his canvas and began to sketch.