They spend every afternoon for the next two weeks in this way: Alecto arranged gracefully across some form of chair, stool, or ottoman, and Joshua with his head down, buried in his work, his fingertips stained red, black, and chalky white.
Alecto observes his painter as much as Joshua studies him, commits to memory the arch of his high cheekbones, the curl of his golden hair, the way his brow would furrow gingerly when he was particularly focused. He looked particularly charming like that, Alecto thought, so lost in the details of his work that it was impossible for him to hide his clear love of the craft.
They start to talk, of course. Alecto couldn't stand the intense silence for very long and would often comment on anything that came to mind. Recently, he brought up something he had read in a local penny dreadful, a series he had been particularly taken by and had discovered, on pure accident, that Joshua was also an avid reader. A sort of warmth began to finally spread in the space between them and after nearly a full month, Alecto realized how much happier he had been having his painter in his home, at his dinner table, and by his side during their frequent morning walks by the sea cliffs.
But curiously, after all this time, a single portrait had not yet been completed. And the dark rot of his previous commissions, stacked and covered in hiding in the North Wing, is making Alecto worry.
A day ago, he cuts himself on a rosebush in the garden. It stuns him, the red line against his palm. Even more so when it doesn't immediately close and starts to ache.
Time is starting to tick again for Alecto Crabtree.
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Alecto observes his painter as much as Joshua studies him, commits to memory the arch of his high cheekbones, the curl of his golden hair, the way his brow would furrow gingerly when he was particularly focused. He looked particularly charming like that, Alecto thought, so lost in the details of his work that it was impossible for him to hide his clear love of the craft.
They start to talk, of course. Alecto couldn't stand the intense silence for very long and would often comment on anything that came to mind. Recently, he brought up something he had read in a local penny dreadful, a series he had been particularly taken by and had discovered, on pure accident, that Joshua was also an avid reader. A sort of warmth began to finally spread in the space between them and after nearly a full month, Alecto realized how much happier he had been having his painter in his home, at his dinner table, and by his side during their frequent morning walks by the sea cliffs.
But curiously, after all this time, a single portrait had not yet been completed. And the dark rot of his previous commissions, stacked and covered in hiding in the North Wing, is making Alecto worry.
A day ago, he cuts himself on a rosebush in the garden. It stuns him, the red line against his palm. Even more so when it doesn't immediately close and starts to ache.
Time is starting to tick again for Alecto Crabtree.