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)
My chest is tight. Something feels off—wrong, like a shadow moving where it shouldn’t.
But first, one attempt to salvage. Maybe. Just maybe I can. Gently, I dab at the painting with a rag. The cloth soaks up some of the ink but smears it even more, making the damage deeper than I can fix. The dragon’s eyes, once fierce, stare back dulled, and my heart feels like a cracked vase, leaking grief with every failed stroke. I have to admit now that the painting is a lost cause.
The studio feels smaller, the air heavier, and all I want to do is run far, far away, but before I go away, I must help Jason. Somehow, I must help him by alerting Max to what is happening to his son.
Max has still not returned. He must be working late, catching up on all the work he didn’t do while Sara was away.
Slowly, I reach for a new canvas. I let my fingers graze the canvas’s edge. It is like a ritual. Before I start a new painting, I always feel the texture of the canvas. It is almost like a prayer. This canvas and I will be in close contact for weeks. The texture is rough, as it should be, and there are no flaws.
Now, I must lose myself in it, and let work be my salvation.
Chapter
Forty-Three
AMELIA
All the windows are open, but even hours later, the air in the studio is thick and suffocating with the smell of turpentine.
I have stopped thinking, and my hands move quickly as I repaint the background and the main shape of the dragon. To my surprise, my body remembers exactly the strokes I did before. I am so focused that the soft knock on the door causes me to jump. I turn, and my breath catches as Jason peeks through the door. His eyes are hesitant, but he steps inside.
“Hey, little angel,” I say, setting down my brush.
“I can’t sleep, Aunt Amelia. Can I please keep you company for a while?”
My heart melts. "Sure," I respond, my voice trembling.
He comes in and sits cross-legged on the rug.
“Can I draw?” he asks, his voice small.
I nod, pulling out a sketchpad and pencils for him. He starts scribbling, and I watch, trying to focus on his quiet presence.
“Amelia,” he says suddenly, his pencil pausing, his eyes fixed on the paper, “I… Can I tell you something?"
"Sure, sweetie," I reply, holding his gaze, trying my best to assure him that it will be okay, that I will be okay.
He lowers his head again, but eventually speaks. "I didn’t spill the ink. I would never do that to your dragon. I love your dragon. I only said I did ‘cause I knew Mommy wanted me to. She looked at me like… like she needed me to say it, and I was scared that she would hit me if I didn’t.”
His voice trembles, his fingers tighten on the pencil, and my breath stops, shock slicing through me.
My heart is like a drum, pounding with realization. Jason’s words confirm it—his dimmed spark, his quiet withdrawal whenever Sara is nearby. Is Sara being strict? Fine, young children probably need it from time to time, but for Jason to outright lie and take the blame for something that he didn’t do out of fear of her is completely unacceptable. It is clearer than ever now that it is her treatment of him that has made this sweet boy into a shadow of himself.
I swallow, my throat tight with sadness for this sensitive little boy. “Oh, Jason,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You don’t have to take the blame for things you didn’t do. Don’t do that. Don’t ever do that.”
His eyes glisten, but he doesn’t speak. His pencil begins moving again. He looks pitiful that I start to burn with rage at Sara. It flares hot in my veins. I can’t let this go—not for me, not for the painting, but for Jason, Max’s son, the boy I love like my own.
“Wait here, little angel,” I say gently. “And draw something amazing for me, okay?”
I kiss his forehead and walk out of the room. It’s time to have a conversation with Sara. I’m not going to deal with her harshness towards him because that is for Max to deal with, but making him take the blame for what he didn’t do is something that neither she nor I should condone.
First, I go to her bedroom, well, I guess, their bedroom, but I get no response to my knock so I head downstairs. The house is quiet, save for the faint tick of a clock. The conservatory’s glass doors gleam in the moonlight. I push through and find Sara’s there, perched on a wicker chair, calmly sipping from a teacup. She looks up, her eyes narrowing.