Chapter 1, cont.

She sat back, unsatisfied. She dipped the miniature in her bucket, washing it clean, prepared to start over. She contemplated her sketches, seeing her subject again in her mind's eye. No simple daub was going to satisfy, not for this subject. She wet her brush and dipped it in burnt umber, washing the color over the ivory. Chiaroscuro - it was a painstaking technique, one she had not used for years, but this time. . .well, perhaps thirty dollars was not too much to ask, after all.

She felt a frenzy seize her. She painted all night, layering wash after wash across her oval. Burnt umber and sepia for the skin, emerald for the eyes, blue-black and violet for the hair. Her lamp was sputtering when she finished - she extinguished it and got up to open the drapes. She picked up the miniature by the edges and examined it critically. Yes, she had done it. She nodded in satisfaction, then frowned to herself. What was it about this woman that excited such strong feelings? She knit her brow. Something. . .she could not catch it, though she tried, in vain. She sighed and put the miniature back in its holder to dry before she applied the clear lacquer that would protect the colors.

She glanced over at her bed - she should sleep since she had been up all night - but found it particularly unappealing. No need to go to the docks, she had plenty of money. She took up her sketchbook, her pastels and her hat and made her way down to the seashore.

She walked along the sands, climbed over the rocks, looking for a vista to draw, but she could not settle. Armand's assessment was fresh in her mind - she shuddered. It was not true that she could not feel, it was only true that she tried not to. Emotion had never brought her anything but agony, but it was certain that something was stirring in her now, and she did not know why. She wasted several hours in these ruminations, her mind running in circles like a mouse on a wheel. Finally, she returned to her room.

The painting was thoroughly dry, and as she carefully lacquered it, she contemplated the likeness once more. Molly looked out at her, the image full of warmth and good humor. It was good, the best work she had done in years. The question that haunted her was, "Why?"

She threw herself on her bed and tossed and turned for a few hours until dinnertime, when she realized she had eaten nothing yet that day. This was unlike her, she'd always been of strong appetite. She sighed and went out for dinner, returning only to find a fitful sleep until the morrow.



She arrived early at the market, setting up her awning but not bothering to set out her samples. She sat down with her knitting and found that the rhythm of the needles calmed her admirably. As she saw Molly scurrying toward her, she was able to present her usual serene demeanor.

"Is it done?" Molly asked excitedly.

"Yes," Marguerite said, opening the pasteboard box she had stored the miniature in, carefully cushioned with cotton wool.

Molly gasped. "Oh, my, it's exquisite. You flatter me."

"Not at all," Marguerite assured her. "I hope I have captured you."

Molly took the box and examined the painting more closely. "Well, it's a thing of beauty, anyway," she smiled. "I do believe you've outdone yourself."

"I do believe I have," Marguerite agreed, returning Molly's smile. She had known it was good, but still Molly's praise warmed her.

Molly reached into her purse, took out a twenty dollar gold piece and handed it to Marguerite. "Wait," she said, rummaging in her purse and taking out another five. "I think you deserve a bonus."

Marguerite looked at the coin hungrily, then pushed Molly's hand away. "No," she said, "I've already charged you far more than I usually do. I'm well-paid. Go have it mounted - there's a jeweler in town who does excellent work."

Molly shrugged and noted the down the address Marguerite gave her. "Thank you," she said. "This will be a most excellent wedding gift."

"Best wishes," Marguerite said. "I hope you shall be very happy."

"I shall," Molly assured her, offering her hand. "It was very nice to meet you. I wish you well."

"Thank you," Marguerite said.

Molly took her miniature and departed. Marguerite watched her go, still wondering what about her had roused Marguerite so, but doubted she would ever know.