The Artisans (14 page)

My fingers move to one of my designs, and I pull the page closer. Using a palette of charcoals, browns, plum, dove gray, and black, my gaze scans the colored pencil drawings. Coats lined in fur, pants that button or lace up the front, brocade vests, and tall boots. Top hats in suede fashioned to mimic smooth bark grace the heads of my male models. In one of my favorites, a girl wears a corseted dress in dusky rose. Its skirt spreads helped by the blooming gray crinoline underneath, giving the impression of a dying flower. The cuff at her wrist loops around her first and third finger in thorny spikes. After a time, I lift my chin. Gideon’s gaze stays fixed on mine. A crease between his eyes makes me pause. “Sorry, but you
did
ask. I get carried away.”

“Wait, is that a smile?”

My cheeks burn. It is. I didn’t realize.

He stands. Gideon peruses my work as he strolls about the room, the manikins with their patterns and scraps of cloth pinned here and there. He stops at my inspiration board. Somehow his staring at my art makes me feel naked and exposed. I wonder what he thinks. Not that I care.

“You work quickly.”

“Mostly.” Always have, even to the point of sleepwalk-sewing, but I don’t see the point in sharing that particular weirdness.

“You can tell a lot about a person through their tastes, wouldn’t you agree?”

Yes. “I guess so.”

“I know a great deal more about you than I did last night, Raven Weathersby.” Voice smooth as a cello, the way he says my name sends a shiver through me. He lifts the new pocket watch I’ve transformed into an insect with moving parts from the table. The jewelry soldering iron Jamis bought worked perfectly, splitting the cover in half to form two wings.

“The gears won’t run.” Why I feel the need to explain to him, I have no idea.

“Pardon?”

“My Steampunk-beetle-watch ideas are a series I started before coming here. I don’t have the parts to complete that one.”

He places the half-finished project on the table. “You’re quite brilliant, so much passion, and excellence, and maturity for someone self-taught. You’re amazing.”

All of the sudden, I’m staring at my fingers in my lap. Lacing them together seems like the most important thing I’ll do all day.

“I’m going to make a great deal of money with these ideas.” And just like that, the moment is gone, and I want to kick him in his nether regions. “Get me the final list of materials you’ll need. I want to order immediately and start production.”

“I’m not finished. There’s not enough here yet to—”

“Now that I know what turns you on, I’ve got something I want to show you.”

My mouth pops open.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, girl.” His lips curve. “It’s a place. I’m going out of town, but when I get back, we’ll go. I have a feeling it will …” He runs a finger along the black feather pinned to my corkboard. “Produce some interesting results.”

What? “You’re leaving again?”

“Ah, see? You
did
miss me.” He smiles and shakes his head. “You should be well enough upon my return for our outing, I think.”

That reminds me. “Can my friend, Maggie, spend the night? Can I have friends … stay?”

“I’d prefer you did not.”

Um, let’s be clear. “Prefer or forbid?”

“The answer is no. Short visits from the pair who deliver your schoolwork is all I’ll permit.

No apology. No regrets. No nonsense. The same controlling, arrogant guy he’s always been stands in front of me. I don’t know why I bothered asking. I push my drawings away and lean back. My side throbs where my ribs smacked the tree last night, and the trolls in my head are hard at work with their pickaxes.

The misery must show up on my face because Gideon says, “There are pain meds next to your bed. Make sure you take them on time. If you never let them wear off, the pain won’t get so bad.”

A frown tugs at my mouth. “I’m not a fan of drugs.”

“No, of course, how could you be. Your stepfather’s illness made sure of that.” I glare at him, but his expression is as innocent as a baby fawn’s. He lifts my diary from the desk.

“Hey! That’s private.”

“I already read it. Last night, while you were sleeping.”

Well, shit. “Isn’t there anything of mine you recognize as off limits?” I’d scream but my head hurts too much.

“Not really, no.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“So you’ve said.” He opens the book. I stiffen. Terrified he’s going to read my own poetry to me. Out loud. “You’re a fan of Poe. I didn’t understand the reference to your cat’s name until last night. I learned we both like Frost, and Keats, and Whitman as well.”

He likes poetry? “Look, if you don’t mind, I’ll try again to explain how some things are personal. Per-son-al. You understand?” I hold out my hand. “Give me my book.”

He ignores me, turning a page or two. “Ah, this one here … ”

Just shoot me.

“When we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted to sever the years, pale grew thy cheek and colder, thy kiss; truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. In secret we met in silence I grieve that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee after long years, how should I greet thee? With silence and tears.”

He snaps the diary shut. “Lord Byron?”

My eyes widen, shocked he knows the author. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” He shutters his gaze. “Where did you hear this?”

“English Lit?”

“My mother wrote it in one of her journals.”

His story trumps mine. “That’s nice. Can I have the book now, please?” He places my diary on the table where I can’t reach it without getting up. His long fingers tap the top cover in a possessive gesture. Jerk face.

“You wrote this again in your own hand. Under the clipping you taped here, you took the trouble to copy this one poem. Why?”

Because of the poet’s passion, the longing and desperation in his words, and how, in the quiet, secret places, deep in my heart of hearts, I want to know what that kind of love and devotion feels like. That’s why. But Mr. Sensitivity isn’t going to get that out of me. “There isn’t always a why, Gideon.”

“Sure there is. Do you believe him, the poet, or is he speaking of an ideal? Are you a believer in love?”

“Yes.” Of sorts. There are different kinds of love. “Can’t you hear his honesty? The poem came out of his experience. That can’t be faked.”

“No, but … ”

“But what?” I’m curious now. I guessed at his father-worship from the trinkets I saw in his office, but that doesn’t mean Gideon loved him. True, he’s known loss, a lot of it. Maybe that’s what’s left him so unfeeling and ambitious. A guy like that reading poetry seems an off mix, though.

Gideon rubs the dark gold stubble on his jaw. “I think people confuse the idea of romantic love with lust and desire. My father said love is a fantasy, a fleeting dream that destroys your soul. He believed in passion, justice, and in what you can consume, control, and discard with your own two hands.”

“I don’t believe people are disposable.” I bite my lip. He’s drowning in a vat of acid cynicism and doesn’t even know it. I’m almost sorry for him. How’d he get so jaded at nineteen?
Love is a fleeting dream that destroys your soul.
Did love destroy Ben? My hypocrisy pokes me in the chest, accusing. Isn’t that why I’ve never wanted to do more than date a boy once or twice and move on?

My mother believed in magic. She told me once that magic is seductive, smooth going down but leaves a bitter taste in your mouth long after the spell wears off. I wonder if magic was her code word for love, and if her view affected mine. I lift my gaze and find Gideon watching me. Handsome, and rich, and smart, maybe the only one keeping his heart locked in a cell of bitterness is him, right? Or does his father’s memory and poisonous words bleed through to stain his son? I have to admit I don’t know Gideon well enough to guess.

Who cares? He’s over my head, and his issues are none of my business anyway.

“What are you thinking?” Gideon’s curls fall across his forehead and he whips them back exposing both eyes, green and blue. A girl could get lost in there if she wasn’t careful. His fingers stroke the cover of my little book of poetry. The third finger on the right bears a gold and onyx ring.

I shrug. The motion hurts and stops me short. “Don’t judge others unless you’re prepared to be judged yourself.” I cross my arms over my chest, as if that protects me from his penetrating stare. “That’s from the Bible, you know.”

“Is it?” His lips hitch up on the ends. “Clever, even true. Now why don’t you tell me what you were really thinking?”

Stubborn, tenacious, he won’t stop asking until he hears what he wants, so I tell him straight out. “I was thinking that it’s hard not to judge you. But what you said, about your father and love … it’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

***

When I wake the next morning, a basket tied with an enormous black bow sits on my worktable. Attached to the bow is a playing card, the Queen of Hearts, with the words ‘For Raven’ penned in black marker on the back. Under that are at least twenty pocket watches and parts in all shapes and sizes.

I’m resting on a chair Jamis refers to as a
chaise,
on a porch Jenny calls a
veranda.
She has fussed, scolded, and petted me since she learned I fell rescuing my cat from a tree.

That was three days ago. The woman won’t let me do anything, and I’m so bored, I called Mags and Dane and asked them to come over and keep me company. I don’t have to beg hard. While I know they love me, they also love Jenny’s snacks. The three of us recline, stuffing our faces with chocolate-raspberry torte. I’ve never eaten a torte before, and I know I speak for all of us when I say we could get used to this part of captivity.

“Fallout is in two weeks,” Maggie says. “I don’t suppose the warden will let you out of your cage to go with us?”

While I’m not the most social of creatures, nor have I had much time, I do like to dance. Fallout is the first of three annual dances our high school throws, the others being homecoming and prom.

“Doubtful,” I answer. “He gave me a resounding no when I asked if you could spend the night.”

“What if we ask him?” she counters. “He can’t keep you locked up here for the entire year can he? It’s indecent.”

Dane lights a cigarette. “Are we ever going to meet the guy?”

“I don’t know. He said he was going out of town again.” Dane is the single most intense person I know—until I met Gideon, that is. Aggressive, opinionated, masculine the two of them in a room together could be a real dogfight. “Dane, if you do meet him, be cool, okay? For my sake … and for Ben’s.”

He grimaces. “I won’t like it, but I will. What I’d like is to rip his head off and shove it up his ass.”

“Dane!”

His grin is terrifying. “Those are my
thoughts
. On the surface, I’m frickin’ Mother Theresa.” He takes a long drag, releasing the smoke through his nostrils like a dragon.

“Mother Teresa. That’s exactly the image of you I carry with me,” Maggie says, her sarcasm at full throttle. “In other news, I’m not seeing Joseph Pate anymore.”

I watch two leaves chase each other across the flagstone flooring. “I didn’t realize you were seeing Joseph Pate at all?”

“I’m not. Well, one date. He was late, texted while I talked, and he smokes. His loss.”

I try not to look at Dane, but I can’t help it. “I didn’t think you cared about smoking.”

“Meh, I didn’t either. Then I decided while it looks cool, I don’t really like how it tastes. Might as well fall in love with a non-future lung cancer patient as not, right?”

“Your logic is stunning,” I say. Maggie gives me a goofy smile. Meanwhile Dane’s crushing his cigarette butt under his boot with a vengeance. I want to strangle the pair of them. “So, who are you going to take to the dance instead?”

“You?”

I snort. “It’s a Sadie Hawkins dance, hon, though we would make a cute couple.”

“Oooh, tongues will wag,” she giggles. “Okay, I forgot about the part where girls ask the guys out.” She peeks at Dane. “What about you, handsome? You want to be my date?”

“Suu-rep.” Dane’s face turns an uncomfortable shade of purple. I’m guessing his answer is an equally unfortunate combination of ‘sure’ and ‘yep.’ “Yes. Sure, that would be good,” he stammers.

Poor guy. If I owned a katana, I’d loan it to him so he could slit his guts and end his suffering right here and now.

“Uh huh.” Maggie faces me and says, “Got my date, now what are
you
going to do?” Behind her, Dane’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of shocked euphoria is priceless.

“My epic plan is to miss the dance. I’ll sew, maybe argue with Gideon a while, and if I’m really lucky, a couple dozen ghosts will meet up in my room for the Harlem Shake.”

“I love that dance!” Maggie swivels to face Dane. “Don’t you love that dance?”

He comes out of his stupor enough to answer quietly. “I love it.”

Maggie pauses. Her pink lips part as if she’s going to say something, but she presses them together again.

“I love it, too.” My grin is huge. I’m enjoying this far too much.