Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I can’t go back to sleep because I’m starving since I missed lunch and dinner so I get up, make myself decent, and open my bedroom door.
The house is quiet as I pad downstairs. My flats are silent on the hardwood, the foyer dim, and there’s no hum of voices, no clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen. Sara is nowhere to be seen, but her absence is a relief. When I get to the kitchen, I spot Maria wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. At my arrival, she looks up, her eyes crinkling with a smile.
“Miss Amelia, you’re up,” she says, her voice warm like a blanket. “I hope I didn’t wake you when I came up to knock on your door. You were asleep for so long, but Madam said not to bother you if you are sleeping."
"You didn’t. I was dead to the world," I reply.
“You must be tired after running this house all by yourself. I thought it would be a mess, but everything was spic and span.”
There is a strong smell of roasted chicken coming from the oven. "It was only the three of us. There was not much to do. Um… are there leftovers?"
"Of course," she replies. "Not leftovers, but your dinner. I’ll get it ready for you."
"Thank you," I murmur, and slide onto a stool. I look around. “Where’s Sara? Is she out?” I ask, my fingers trace the patterns in the granite surface of the island top, as I brace for the answer.
Maria shakes her head, her oven mitts pausing in the air. “No, I think Madam is in her bedroom. It’s Mr. Max who is not home.”
She sets a plate before me—chicken, golden and fragrant with rosemary, and potatoes crisp at the edges.
Knowing Max’s not home instantly deflates my mood. Not wanting to talk any further, I eat in silence. The chicken is tender and probably very tasty, but it feels tasteless on my tongue. Still, I force myself to eat because I have a lot of stress and work to handle, and the last thing I need messing with my creativity is hunger pangs. My deadline is looming, and sometime in the next couple of days, I must contact my publishers and send photos of my painting to get his approval. Once that is done, I can finish the rest of the paintings in the series.
When I am done eating, I push it away and thank Maria before heading up to my studio.
I’m eager to spend the night here, making progress on my other paintings. With some focus, I should be done in time. The dragon was the hardest and most important. It will be used for the book cover and every other merchandise that comes out of this publication so I had to get it right. It’s an immense relief now that I have finished it, though it took forever.
It will be good to work. I can bury this ache in lines and color. I climb the stairs, my steps heavy, and push open the door. The scent of turpentine and paint settles over me like a familiar cloak. I flick on several lamps, and the mixture of amber and fluorescent floods the room and my easel.
My eyes go towards the dragon for my dopamine fix. I want to look at its emerald scales glinting like wet stone, wings spread wide, fierce, and vividly alive, and I want to feel that wonderful glow of pride again. It’s definitely my best work.
I walk up to it and freeze. My breath stops. What! I hope I’m mistaken. How can it be? I seize my lamp and rush to it. I hold the lamp high over the painting and gaze at it with disbelieving eyes. Forever seems to pass until I finally accept that what I’m seeing is actually truly there.
The cold blade of horror slices through my shock.
Jet-black ink has been splashed across the dragon’s face, the streaks marring its marvelous eyes. Like blood spilled on a sacred thing. I don’t even realize it, but my mouth opens and a scream comes out, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and jagged, shattering the stillness of the house.
Hot tears are spilling down my cheeks as I stare at the ruin of four months of work. Four months of unreplaceable, heart-wrenching work. My vision blurs, fury and confusion crashing like waves against a crumbling cliff. I look down, and my hands are shaking.
“What the fuck,” I curse over and over again.
I touch the ink and it stains my fingers. The paint underneath is not yet dry, and some of it comes off too. The painting is completely unsalvageable.
“What the fuck.”
The door swings open, and Sara rushes in, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Amelia, what’s wrong? Why’d you scream?” Her voice is sharp, laced with panic. She crosses the room, her gaze following my trembling hand as I point to the canvas. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, her face paling as she takes in the damage.