Five Sisters (44 page)

Nathaniel was furious when they told him the news. He didn't understand what was so serious about a temperature drop and coughing up blood; their serious expressions upon the issue only served to anger him all the more. He'd felt worse than this before, he thought, so why should this time be any more important or more devastating than the others?

But what really got him heated was when they told him that it was his decision to choose which option he wanted to go with. If they were the doctors, shouldn't they be able to decide what to do? But it wasn't as simple as that. His disease was a mystery
so,
therefore, its remedy was also a mystery.

Nathaniel had never been forced to decide what was best for his own health in such a serious situation before and he dreaded making the decision now. If he were to make the wrong choice, the only person he could blame was himself.

It was an undeniably cloudy day and the threat of a storm loomed overhead, yet the bad weather could do nothing to lower the spirits of Brook Lindsey and Emy St. James.
The sun, though hidden, peaked out at moments, casting a ray of bright light upon the darkened streets. Already December, the town of Norrance was caught in the start of a very long and very cold winter. Icy winds swept through the streets while the temperature
hovered
just degrees above freezing.

Brook and Emy sat upon a bench in the center of the city, Brook sketching in his notebook and Emy looking around herself with bright eyes.

To her right, a pair of musicians with fingerless mittens, tattered jackets, and old violins was playing a melody that carried seamlessly with the wind. Every so often a person passing by would toss a few coins into the rusty cans beside them on the ground and the violinists would smile and nod in gratitude. To Emy's left a woman wearing a headdress of oriental silk scarves was standing upon a crate and belting out a few choice passages from the scroll in her hand, proclaiming her poetry for all to hear with a confidence Emy could only dream of possessing.

She sat primly, with her mittened hands in her lap and her feet crossed at the ankle, admiration and
wonder
filling her head as she gazed further down the street towards artists trying desperately to sell their paintings and sculptures, singers serenading the town with operettas, and brilliantly lit theaters that Emy hoped to enter in the coming days. She wore a clean white cloak, whose broad collar folded over the top with the faint designs of cream-colored thread. The hat atop her head, though white as well, was adorned with a thick, black silk ribbon around the brim that fell off the back in a large bow. Beneath it, waves of light brown hair crept slowly down her back, shifting slowly with the chilly winds. Her dress was made of miniscule stripes, evenly spaced, in two dark shades of blue. A hand-me-down from Sara, the skirt of the dress was a few inches too long, so, accordingly, the hem was filthy with dirt and scuffed from where she'd accidentally tread over it with her shoes.

When finished regarding her surroundings, Emy's attention turned to Brook and his sketch.

His gloves sat beside him, leaving his hands prey to the cold winter climate. They were numb and white, but nevertheless moved steadily across the paper with a stick of charcoal. His coat, made of
a warm
but itchy black wool, came down to the knees of his gray tweed pants. And his hat, a very monotonous dark gray plaid, dipped down on his forehead, providing a sliver of a shadow that fell across his eyes.

As he drew, Emy turned her head sideways for a better look of his paper, which was blocked partially from her view by his hand, lingering over the sketch until momentum struck.

On the paper, an image featuring a small boy, an older man, and a speckled Dalmatian was coming into sight. The outlines of all three subjects had been lightly drawn, and now Brook was adding in more detail, glancing up every so often as he did so.

Emy gazed ahead of them, but couldn't see exactly where he was looking.

"Who are you drawing?" she asked.

Brook pointed ahead of their bench and slightly to the left, "See that little boy and his grandfather, just there?"

Emy nodded, "Oh, I see them now . . . It's very good, you know."

"No, no," Brook denied, "They move around so often I'm not able to catch the details very accurately. It's very sloppy." Continuing his drawing as he talked, he said, "Are you very hungry yet? There's a café just across the way that I've heard makes the most scrumptious scones."

"Perhaps in an hour or so," Emy agreed, "I'm afraid I ate so much at lunch I won't be hungry for quite some time."

Brook laughed, "Yes, that lamb was rather filling, wasn't it? No matter. If you like, we could simply skip supper and have a scone this evening."

"I would like that very much."

"And you still want to go to the theater tonight? I believe they are showing
Much Ado
About
Nothing
."

"Of course."
Emy agreed before pausing, glancing from Brook's sketch to his models, "Do you think anyone ever knows when you're drawing them? Has anyone ever gotten upset over it or anything?"

Brook shook his head, "As of yet, no one's been angry with me over it. Plenty of people know I'm doing it but most don't mind too much. Honestly, they should really expect it in an artist's town like Norrance. I'm not the only one who enjoys sketching random people for practice," he added the last details to the dog's black spots, "I only wish they wouldn't move so much. Trying to draw someone in a single attitude when they're constantly moving about is next to impossible. What I really need is a true model. Someone who knows I'm drawing them and is willing to sit still for me until I finish," he glanced towards Emy, a faint glimmer in his eye, before returning to the drawing and adjusting the pattern of the old man's hat.

Emy raised an eyebrow, "What was that
look
for?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Brook, you don't want me to . . ."

"Only if you wanted to."

"Oh, but I couldn't be a model. You know that," she murmured, blushing, "I don't like to be stared. And for such a long while too."

"You don't have to," said Brook, "I was only suggesting it as a possibility."

"I know . . ." Emy sighed, "But I don't want to say no based purely on my own bashfulness."

"It's not so bad really," Brook added, looking not at Emy but only at his paper, "We wouldn't do it all at once. And if you ever felt uncomfortable, I'd stop immediately."

"Well," Emy said finally, feeling her cheeks grow hot, "Perhaps I could do it . . ."

With a smile and wide eyes, Brook looked up, shocked, "Really? Are you sure?"

Emy nodded, "I think so."

"Well then," Brook finished the last few details on his sketch, "Shall we begin?"

*****

Although the subject of a painting is certainly its most important element, the effects of the background, setting, and props should not be underestimated. As soon as Emy agreed to model for Brook, her mind instantly set to wondering exactly what he would want her to be doing. Would she simply sit in a chair in an empty room? Would she be set in an awkward pose holding several props? Would she have to change her clothing or her hair or somehow contort her facial expression? Holding Brook's assurances in mind, however, she was fairly certain it wouldn't be anything too uncomfortable.

Walking around the town a bit with Emy at his side, Brook searched his mind for how he would like Emy to be situated in his painting. After all, such an important feature could not be denied a good amount of thought. It took some time, but with a bit of inspiration his answer became dreadfully clear. And he related it to Emy as soon as his mind had sorted out the details.

"Alright," he said, walking quickly across the street, "I think I've got it."

Emy followed shortly behind and questioned meekly, "What is it?"

"Okay, here's my idea," Brook pointed ahead of them, towards an old stone bridge, "I want you standing just up there."

"On the bridge?"

"Yes, on the bridge. Not directly in the middle, but a bit off center," by this time they'd reached the bridge and Brook modeled the position himself while explaining so that Emy would understand, "Rest your arms on the ledge just here and lean over just a bit; I don't want you to have perfect posture in this, hunch your shoulders a little. Not too much though.
Just enough so that you look a little frail, dainty, sweet.
A perfectly straight back is beautiful but unrealistic. Try it, just here."

Emy attempted the same position Brook had done while he adjusted her appearance a bit- tilting her hat slightly askew, setting a few locks of hair in front of her shoulders, dusting off the broad, stiff collar of her cloak.

"Yes, that looks lovely," Brook nodded, "Is it an easy position to hold?"

Emy nodded, "Very. But are you sure this is what you want me to wear? It's not very pretty, is it?"

"It's not exquisite, no. But I like it this way. It's more natural than if I had you all dolled up."

"And I feel as if I'm in the way," Emy whispered, glancing behind her at the passersby, "Are you sure there's not somewhere better I could stand? Somewhere where there aren't a lot of people passing by me?"

"No, no. It's fine. You're not bothering anyone. And it'll make for a more interesting picture."

"And where will you stand?" continued Emy, "You're not going doing this from behind, are you?"

"'Course not," Brook shook his head and began walking off the side of the bridge, holding his sack of tools and canvas. He headed then to the left, where there was a suitably sized area of grass and trees that sat just beside the river that ran through the bottom of the bridge. He shouted back up to her, with a wide grin, "I'll stand right here!"

"Oh Brook," Emy wailed, "I don't like this at all!"

"What do you mean? It'll be perfect! I've got a great view from right here."

"But everyone's staring at me!"

"You deserve to be stared at!"

"Brook, please!"

Brook headed back towards the bridge and once reasonably close to Emy, though still standing upon the grass, he questioned seriously,
"
Do you not want to do this? Because, like I said, you really don't have to. Don't feel pressured about it."

Emy sighed, "I just wish everyone would stop looking at me. Once you headed out there and people recognized what I was doing they all just started staring. If it was only you, it'd be different."