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eveglassA new story, right under the wire for today’s session. After an unsettling afternoon with Elizabeth and Chase Cartwright, Marie decides some drastic measures are in order…
January 4, 1883
My dearest Annie,
Happy New Year! I hope it was as wonderful for you as it was for me. Captain Faraday and his colleagues are back from India. Did I mention that last week? I was so happy to see him – many of us here were worried he would never return. He is very tired from his long trip, of course, and it seems like his entire organization has descended upon him like wolves. Except instead of tearing him to shreds, they are leaving pieces of paper on his desk for him to deal with. The poor man! I hope he gets some rest soon, but I suspect I won’t see him very much for the next few weeks.
Instead, I have been spending time with Mr. Collins, who I wrote to you about a few weeks ago. Mr. Collins is not so interested in art, but we have been seeing the sights of New York together. Maybe one day I will be able to introduce you. Please do come visit! I miss you so!
We will be travelling again soon, so my letters may be slow to get to you again. I promise to write faithfully. I hope I don’t get sick. Rail travel has been bad for my health lately. Please remember me in your prayers. I can use all the assistance I can get.
Your loving sister,
Marie
Marie gazed at her reflection in the mirror. It was a new mirror, having been installed only the day before. It hung a full five feet and reflected the morning light from the window on the opposite side of the room. She had never owned a mirror so large. But she had the money, and she’d decided if she were going to paint a self-portrait, she might as well do it properly.
It surprised her that she had never considered a self-portrait before. Certainly plenty of artists had painted her over the years, each in their unique styles, but somehow she had never considered doing so herself. Not until she’d met Chase Cartwright. Not until he had instilled the seeds of doubt in her mind about her own nature.
Worried green eyes stared back at her, framed by a cascade of auburn waves. She had already set up her easel and palette, mixed her paints, and cleaned her brushes. Her smock was carefully tied over her gown. She admitted to herself that she was procrastinating. “It’s better to know,” she said quietly to her reflection.
In truth, she wasn’t even certain if she’d be able to see patterns through a mirror. She had never tried before. So much of her time with Elizabeth had been spent finding a perfect vantage point, moving until the light was just so, until the feeling of otherworldliness was overwhelming. She did not feel any eldritch patterns off herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. People became used to themselves in any number of ways. What was one more?
She nodded to herself, and her reflection nodded back. “Best get started,” she whispered.
She was in her father’s house in Paris, the one where she had grown up. It smelled of cigarettes and cheap wine. The furniture barely held together, a mass of singe marks, stains, and shreds. It was dark, the single shaft of light from the window harshly fell upon her so she could barely see.
Her father stood over her, eleven feet tall, as massive as he must have seemed when she was a little girl. “You’re worthless,” he said. His voice reverberated off the walls. He took a swig from the bottle he held in his right hand. “People love you because you’re pretty, but when you’re not pretty anymore, then what?”
Marie shook her head and took a step past him. The shaft of light followed her. “You’re broken,” came another voice. “I taught you my secrets and you can only use them to bring men to insanity.” Pierre moved suddenly into her vision, his eyes crazed and accusatory. Red paint dripped from his fingertips. “Look what you did to me.”
Marie pushed past him, though her hands were trembling. “You’re a monster.” Captain Faraday blocked her way. He trained a gun on her. There was no sympathy in his expression. “Why else would you be attracted to Cartwright? You deserve what monsters get.”
Marie squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled forward towards the door she knew must be close.
More people invaded her space, their words coming closer together as they pressed inwards. “Monster,” “freak,” “broken.” Their clothes brushed against hers, their hands grabbing and tearing. “Menace.” One caught hold of her hair. “Coward.” Another grabbed her arm. “Grotesque.” Fingers were on her face, reaching for her eyes. “Unworthy.”
She screamed and forced her way forward, every step a struggle. Something caught on her leg and she fell against the hard floor. Their words pelted down on her as hard as their fists. “No one could ever love a demon like you.” She couldn’t get up. She started to crawl, her hands punctured by loose nails and splinters. “You will doom the world.”
She was at the door and she pushed on it with all her strength until it creaked open and she plunged headfirst out of it, the hands behind her grasping only at air.
She was falling, high above the world.
The air was clear and cool against her face, drying her tears. She was not afraid of the fall. The wind lifted her up like a leaf and she drifted on it, gliding back and forth. It tousled her hair and fluffed her dress. It sang to her.
Far below, she saw a labyrinth stretched out in all directions, as intricate and vast as the world itself. It was a kaleidoscope of color and texture, from verdant green hedges to glossy black marble. She wanted with all her being to paint it.
It loomed closer until she could make out individual paths, and then the features of the walls. The wind dropped her lightly within it, and with a final swirl, it dissipated.
She was standing between two brick walls stretching off ahead and behind her. The sky was a perfect blue. She brushed off her dress and straightened her hair. She wondered what she was supposed to do.
She walked forward, and had only gone a few dozen paces when an intersection came into view, branching off to the left and the right. Standing within it was a little boy. She vaguely remembered him as the baker’s son from down the block. They had played together as children when she was not welcome at home. He smiled up at her. “My mama bought me marbles,” he said proudly. “Will you play with me?”
Marie smiled back. “Not today, I don’t think.”
The boy looked disappointed, but only for a moment. “Next time!” he enthused.
Marie walked past him and took the right-hand branch. The walls were far too high to look over, and impossible to climb. She ran her hand gently along as she walked, feeling the rough texture over her fingers.
A woman stood before the next intersection. She wore a crimson dress of the latest style. Her black hair was piled in layers beneath a delicate hat. Marie had seen her sometimes walking her dog in Central Park. They had occasionally exchanged friendly words. “Good day to you,” she said.
“Good day,” Marie replied, at a loss for what else to do.
“Have you been to see Iolanthe yet? It’s supposed to be quite the spectacle. Though I personally just go for the music.” She held a shopping-bag with one arm, its contents threatening to spill over.
Marie shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Oh, you must.”
“I will,” said Marie. “Good day.”
She took the left-hand path this time and followed it for a few minutes. The brick began to take on ever-so-slowly a darker hue.
A young man lazed against the wall of the next intersection. She had worked with him sometimes in Montmartre, when the painters wanted both male and female models. He was clean-shaven, or perhaps not quite old enough to grow a true beard. A sheet draped around him, toga-style, revealing toned muscles beneath.
“Marie!” he exclaimed. “Say yes.”
Marie regarded him curiously. “Say yes to what?”
“To Edgar’s request for a session. I promise I shall whisper all manner of naughty suggestions in your ear that will make you blush, and I shall act on all of them when we are done.”
Marie found that her cheeks were already flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said with the hint of a smile. “Not this time.”
“Marie, you’re breaking my heart,” said the young model, but he did not stop her from passing by.
She walked further into the labyrinth, as brick gave way to wood, which turned to iron trellises covered in flowers. Every time the path branched, someone was waiting for her, eager for a snippet of conversation. Some she recognized from childhood, others from her travels, and some she did not yet know but felt like somehow she would.
She lost track of time. The sky never changed from its uniform cerulean hue.
As she walked further, the conversations triggered little memories that settled onto her mind like fine dust. Dangling her legs into the Seine with her first crush, scandalously showing him her ankles. Catching a flung set of beads at the New Orleans parade. Drinking absinthe until dawn at the Lapin Agile. There were other thoughts, too, that flitted away before she could capture them. She wondered if it was possible to long for the memory of things that hadn’t happened yet.
She approached an intersection where frosted glass abutted mother-of-pearl, and she missed a step. She did not recognize the woman by sight; it had been far too long. It was the smell that reminded her: the scent of peonies and sweet milk that touched memories long buried. She wore working-class clothes twenty years out of date, and her face was smudged with dirt. She beamed with happiness.
“My baby girl,” she whispered.
Marie ran to her and embraced her. They were not so different in age, not now, but she placed her head against the woman’s chest as a toddler might do. “Maman.”
Her mother stroked her hair, the gentle motion lulling her to quiet. They stayed that way a long time, with her mother’s gentle caress soothing whatever tension was left in her. Finally, Marie pulled back and smiled, the pure smile of youth and innocence.
Her mother put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. Her gaze was full of pride. “You’ve come such a long way,” she said. “But you still have so far to go.”
Marie looked at her hopefully. “Can’t I stay here with you?”
A hint of a smile touched her mother’s lips. “My princess. The time is not right. You must wake up now.”
She was not as sad as she thought she would be. Her mother’s words rang true to her. The time was not right. She knew she couldn’t stay.
Her mother lifted herself up on tip-toes, her legs strong from dancing. Marie breathed in the smell of her one last time, cherishing it, guarding it. For one brief moment, they locked eyes, Marie’s brimming with possibility, her mother’s with love. Her mother leaned in and placed her lips gently on her daughter’s forehead. “Wake now, my princess.”
She blinked several times. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the window. Fleeting images of her trance still danced in her mind: something about a woman she loved, perhaps? And a maze? And… the smell of something sweet?
She shook her head. It was gone, the way it always was. No matter how much she wished to hold on to it, within seconds it had dissipated.
Her arms were exhausted. Her feet ached. Her joints were stiff, and she rolled them to release the pressure that had built up from standing in one place for too long.
She opened her eyes and looked at her canvas, caught in the perfect light of golden hour. She stared at it. Before her was the painting of a cat, white and grey with brilliant blue eyes, against a pale green background. The lines were close and precise, the colors realistic. It was intensely beautiful.
It was not what she had seen in her trance, she was almost certain of it. And yet, there it was.
Something about it called her to look closer, and she gasped despite herself. What she had taken to be narrow brush strokes were, if anything, even finer. The pale green background, which she had first taken for decorative work and nothing more, was on closer inspection the exact color of the ocean as light dappled off it. The waves undulated, each carefully painted, but with no sense of scale. It might have been so close she could dip her hand into the pure water, or so far that even ships would be mere specks against the backdrop.
Looking closely, she saw that the white of the cat’s fur was made up of tiny stars, close-packed together. Only in the greys was the black of the sky visible at all, eclipsed by the brightness of a shining night. It faded backwards like the Milky Way, each point of light beckoning like a distant sun.
It was the eyes, though, that she kept coming back to: blue flecked with silver and gold.
She leaned in even closer, and saw that each eye reflected a cityscape, circling around the pupil. Each tiny fleck was in fact a dome or turret, plated with precious metals or jewels. She had never seen anything like it. She had no idea her brushes could even be used for work so fine. She felt herself captivated, drawn in by the magnificent vista, wondering where it might be.
Someone cleared their throat to her left.
Marie straightened and looked over to see two men sitting on chairs just within her doorway, carefully angled so they could not see the canvas. She recognized them from the first floor of the Aegis building, though she was not certain of either of their names. They did not wear uniforms, but their postures bespoke military training. They looked like they had been sitting for some time.
She supposed she should have been startled to see them, but she wasn’t. She felt like nothing could startle her, not now. “What time is it?” she asked them.
“Nearly five o’clock, ma’am,” said the brown-haired one. “We’re under orders to bring you back to headquarters once you’ve finished painting.”
Marie smiled at them. “I’m glad you didn’t stop me while I was in the middle of it.”
“No, ma’am,” said the blond. “Standing orders are never to wake you when you’re painting unless you or Aegis are in imminent danger. But you do need to come back with us now, ma’am. You missed your check-in and your appointment with your doctor this afternoon.”
Now that she thought about it, she had chosen to paint on a day she was scheduled to meet with Doctor Evans, for precisely this reason. If something had gone wrong, if the self-portrait had driven her mad, then at least it wouldn’t have been too long until someone came for her. She almost laughed at the idea now.
“Do I have enough time to prepare my canvas for transport?” she asked them. “I want to take it with me.”
The two agents exchanged a glance, and then the blond one nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She cleaned her brushes carefully and placed her paints into tiny jars. She found her push-pins and went about securing a blank canvas a half-inch in front of her painting, to ensure the elements would not damage it. She caught the sight of brilliant blue eyes for just a moment before she wrapped the whole thing in a carrying cloth.
It was only when the painting was securely covered that the two agents made their way into the room to take up station beside her. “Do you want us to take that, ma’am?” asked the brown-haired agent.
Marie shook her head. “No, I’ll carry it myself.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Her stomach rumbled. She realized she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “Do I have time for a light meal before we go?” she asked them, already suspecting the answer. “I’m very hungry.”
The agents exchanged looks again, a silent communication going on between them. “No, ma’am,” said the blond. “Our orders are to bring you back immediately.”
“But we could get something for you on our way to headquarters,” put in the other one. “How do you feel about pizza?”
“I hear you were painting this afternoon.” Doctor Evans sat in his usual chair, as formal as ever.
Marie, for once, did not lie on his couch but sat across the table from him, as though they were back on the train. She nodded.
“What did you paint?”
She thought about this a moment. “I had intended to draw a self-portrait,” she said carefully.
“Have you ever painted a self-portrait before?”
Marie shook her head.
“So why now?” the doctor pressed.
Marie took a long breath. “I believe it was because I’d met Mr. Cartwright,” she said. “Captain Faraday said that monsters – dragons and ghouls and sea-beasts and the like – are drawn to him. They can smell him, he said. So can Mademoiselle Elizabeth and Monsieur Batu. When we went out on Tuesday for ice cream, I also smelled what they smelled.” Honey, Elizabeth had said. But it wasn’t. It was something smooth and sweet and otherworldly. Intoxicating.
“How did that make you feel?” asked Doctor Evans.
Marie thought about it. “Afraid,” she said at last. She looked up, her eyes locking with the psychiatrist’s. “I was worried I was a monster. I don’t feel like a monster. I feel like a person. But how could you know? I imagine there are a great many monsters who don’t realize what they are. And there are people who don’t realize they have the mythos about them, like Mr. Thompson. I thought, ‘Perhaps I am what they all fear and just don’t know it.’”
The doctor nodded slowly. “And this prompted you to paint yourself?”
“I wasn’t even certain it would work. I’ve never tried to see patterns through a mirror before. And even if there were any, I didn’t know if I’d be able to see them. Like hearing your own heartbeat or smelling your own odour – we tune it out of ourselves. We do not realize. Perhaps it would be like that with me.”
“And yet you decided to try anyway.”
Marie nodded.
“What did you paint?” Doctor Evans asked again.
“May I show you?” asked Marie.
“Of course. You may show me any of your paintings, if you wish to.” Marie had never seen the doctor go mad from looking at any of her canvasses. She wondered briefly why that was. Had he inured himself through long years of service with Aegis? Or did he save it for when he was out of her presence, keeping himself together just long enough to conduct his sessions before collapsing into a screaming fit? Did he himself have a psychiatrist that he spoke to about his troubles? She realized she had never thought to ask such questions before. She wondered if he would answer them.
She carefully removed the covering cloth and the facing canvas to reveal her work. She set it up on the easel Doctor Evans kept in his office just for her. “What do you think?” she asked, as though he were some famed appraiser.
Doctor Evans looked at the canvas. Then he moved closer. He wiped his glasses and replaced them on his nose, staring intently. He stayed there for nearly thirty seconds, and Marie let him. She would have spent far more time looking at all the little details of what she had painted if it hadn’t been for the Aegis agents.
Finally, Doctor Evans seemed to regain control of himself and stood up. “This is exquisite work,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Doctor Evans sat down at his seat again, angled so that the painting was still in his periphery. “It’s not your usual style.”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea why that might be?”
Marie shook her head, momentarily frustrated. “No. In truth, I have no idea why I drew it at all. Why should a self-portrait of myself turn into a cat? I don’t think I saw a cat while I was in my trance, docteur. I don’t remember what I saw – I never do – but I don’t think it was this.”
Doctor Evans thought about it, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Marie. Some things even psychiatry doesn’t have the answers to.”
Marie sighed. She had hoped Aegis would have the answer for her. But it was no true loss. She would figure it out one day.
The doctor recovered himself and slipped on his mask of professionalism. “How do you feel, having painted it?” he asked.
Marie thought about it. In the rush to reach Aegis, she had not taken stock of herself. She felt the ache in her limbs and her back, the fatigue in her arms. But she also felt clear-headed, as though she had spent the day in relaxation and conversation instead of standing still in her studio.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Relieved, maybe? It could have been so much worse. But I still don’t understand what it means.” She shook her head. “I’m very tired, docteur. Do you think perhaps we could meet tomorrow instead? My painting sessions do not usually last so long as today’s.”
Doctor Evans nodded. “Of course. I’ll schedule you for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He paused a moment, regarding her. “If I may make an observation, however, you are displaying almost none of the nervous tics you exhibited the last time we met. Clearly something about this painting was therapeutic for you, remarkably so.”
Marie smiled. “If you say so. May I take it home with me, do you think? Or will Aegis keep it for their vaults?” The last thing she needed was for any visitor to her apartment to go mad. And even less, for it to be stolen when she was on the road. But it comforted her to look at this one. Perhaps Aegis would make an exception.
Doctor Evans wiped his glasses and took another look at the painting. “You would have to talk to Captain Faraday about that. That’s a decision that can only be made by the Director of Operations. But it is my professional opinion that this canvas would not be damaging to viewers and should pose no deleterious side effects. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Marie chose not to respond to the doctor’s last cryptic point and busied herself with preparing the canvas for transport again. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said when she had everything ready.
Doctor Evans nodded. “Quite. Good evening, Marie. If I may say so, I feel that this is an excellent sign.”
Marie smiled. “Thank you, docteur.” She picked up her canvas and left the small office. She did not have anywhere to be until afternoon tomorrow, and she very much looked forward to investigating the details of her latest work.
Clarity and Confusion
January 4, 1883
My dearest Annie,
Happy New Year! I hope it was as wonderful for you as it was for me. Captain Faraday and his colleagues are back from India. Did I mention that last week? I was so happy to see him – many of us here were worried he would never return. He is very tired from his long trip, of course, and it seems like his entire organization has descended upon him like wolves. Except instead of tearing him to shreds, they are leaving pieces of paper on his desk for him to deal with. The poor man! I hope he gets some rest soon, but I suspect I won’t see him very much for the next few weeks.
Instead, I have been spending time with Mr. Collins, who I wrote to you about a few weeks ago. Mr. Collins is not so interested in art, but we have been seeing the sights of New York together. Maybe one day I will be able to introduce you. Please do come visit! I miss you so!
We will be travelling again soon, so my letters may be slow to get to you again. I promise to write faithfully. I hope I don’t get sick. Rail travel has been bad for my health lately. Please remember me in your prayers. I can use all the assistance I can get.
Your loving sister,
Marie
*****
Marie gazed at her reflection in the mirror. It was a new mirror, having been installed only the day before. It hung a full five feet and reflected the morning light from the window on the opposite side of the room. She had never owned a mirror so large. But she had the money, and she’d decided if she were going to paint a self-portrait, she might as well do it properly.
It surprised her that she had never considered a self-portrait before. Certainly plenty of artists had painted her over the years, each in their unique styles, but somehow she had never considered doing so herself. Not until she’d met Chase Cartwright. Not until he had instilled the seeds of doubt in her mind about her own nature.
Worried green eyes stared back at her, framed by a cascade of auburn waves. She had already set up her easel and palette, mixed her paints, and cleaned her brushes. Her smock was carefully tied over her gown. She admitted to herself that she was procrastinating. “It’s better to know,” she said quietly to her reflection.
In truth, she wasn’t even certain if she’d be able to see patterns through a mirror. She had never tried before. So much of her time with Elizabeth had been spent finding a perfect vantage point, moving until the light was just so, until the feeling of otherworldliness was overwhelming. She did not feel any eldritch patterns off herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. People became used to themselves in any number of ways. What was one more?
She nodded to herself, and her reflection nodded back. “Best get started,” she whispered.
*****
She was in her father’s house in Paris, the one where she had grown up. It smelled of cigarettes and cheap wine. The furniture barely held together, a mass of singe marks, stains, and shreds. It was dark, the single shaft of light from the window harshly fell upon her so she could barely see.
Her father stood over her, eleven feet tall, as massive as he must have seemed when she was a little girl. “You’re worthless,” he said. His voice reverberated off the walls. He took a swig from the bottle he held in his right hand. “People love you because you’re pretty, but when you’re not pretty anymore, then what?”
Marie shook her head and took a step past him. The shaft of light followed her. “You’re broken,” came another voice. “I taught you my secrets and you can only use them to bring men to insanity.” Pierre moved suddenly into her vision, his eyes crazed and accusatory. Red paint dripped from his fingertips. “Look what you did to me.”
Marie pushed past him, though her hands were trembling. “You’re a monster.” Captain Faraday blocked her way. He trained a gun on her. There was no sympathy in his expression. “Why else would you be attracted to Cartwright? You deserve what monsters get.”
Marie squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled forward towards the door she knew must be close.
More people invaded her space, their words coming closer together as they pressed inwards. “Monster,” “freak,” “broken.” Their clothes brushed against hers, their hands grabbing and tearing. “Menace.” One caught hold of her hair. “Coward.” Another grabbed her arm. “Grotesque.” Fingers were on her face, reaching for her eyes. “Unworthy.”
She screamed and forced her way forward, every step a struggle. Something caught on her leg and she fell against the hard floor. Their words pelted down on her as hard as their fists. “No one could ever love a demon like you.” She couldn’t get up. She started to crawl, her hands punctured by loose nails and splinters. “You will doom the world.”
She was at the door and she pushed on it with all her strength until it creaked open and she plunged headfirst out of it, the hands behind her grasping only at air.
She was falling, high above the world.
The air was clear and cool against her face, drying her tears. She was not afraid of the fall. The wind lifted her up like a leaf and she drifted on it, gliding back and forth. It tousled her hair and fluffed her dress. It sang to her.
Far below, she saw a labyrinth stretched out in all directions, as intricate and vast as the world itself. It was a kaleidoscope of color and texture, from verdant green hedges to glossy black marble. She wanted with all her being to paint it.
It loomed closer until she could make out individual paths, and then the features of the walls. The wind dropped her lightly within it, and with a final swirl, it dissipated.
She was standing between two brick walls stretching off ahead and behind her. The sky was a perfect blue. She brushed off her dress and straightened her hair. She wondered what she was supposed to do.
She walked forward, and had only gone a few dozen paces when an intersection came into view, branching off to the left and the right. Standing within it was a little boy. She vaguely remembered him as the baker’s son from down the block. They had played together as children when she was not welcome at home. He smiled up at her. “My mama bought me marbles,” he said proudly. “Will you play with me?”
Marie smiled back. “Not today, I don’t think.”
The boy looked disappointed, but only for a moment. “Next time!” he enthused.
Marie walked past him and took the right-hand branch. The walls were far too high to look over, and impossible to climb. She ran her hand gently along as she walked, feeling the rough texture over her fingers.
A woman stood before the next intersection. She wore a crimson dress of the latest style. Her black hair was piled in layers beneath a delicate hat. Marie had seen her sometimes walking her dog in Central Park. They had occasionally exchanged friendly words. “Good day to you,” she said.
“Good day,” Marie replied, at a loss for what else to do.
“Have you been to see Iolanthe yet? It’s supposed to be quite the spectacle. Though I personally just go for the music.” She held a shopping-bag with one arm, its contents threatening to spill over.
Marie shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Oh, you must.”
“I will,” said Marie. “Good day.”
She took the left-hand path this time and followed it for a few minutes. The brick began to take on ever-so-slowly a darker hue.
A young man lazed against the wall of the next intersection. She had worked with him sometimes in Montmartre, when the painters wanted both male and female models. He was clean-shaven, or perhaps not quite old enough to grow a true beard. A sheet draped around him, toga-style, revealing toned muscles beneath.
“Marie!” he exclaimed. “Say yes.”
Marie regarded him curiously. “Say yes to what?”
“To Edgar’s request for a session. I promise I shall whisper all manner of naughty suggestions in your ear that will make you blush, and I shall act on all of them when we are done.”
Marie found that her cheeks were already flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said with the hint of a smile. “Not this time.”
“Marie, you’re breaking my heart,” said the young model, but he did not stop her from passing by.
She walked further into the labyrinth, as brick gave way to wood, which turned to iron trellises covered in flowers. Every time the path branched, someone was waiting for her, eager for a snippet of conversation. Some she recognized from childhood, others from her travels, and some she did not yet know but felt like somehow she would.
She lost track of time. The sky never changed from its uniform cerulean hue.
As she walked further, the conversations triggered little memories that settled onto her mind like fine dust. Dangling her legs into the Seine with her first crush, scandalously showing him her ankles. Catching a flung set of beads at the New Orleans parade. Drinking absinthe until dawn at the Lapin Agile. There were other thoughts, too, that flitted away before she could capture them. She wondered if it was possible to long for the memory of things that hadn’t happened yet.
She approached an intersection where frosted glass abutted mother-of-pearl, and she missed a step. She did not recognize the woman by sight; it had been far too long. It was the smell that reminded her: the scent of peonies and sweet milk that touched memories long buried. She wore working-class clothes twenty years out of date, and her face was smudged with dirt. She beamed with happiness.
“My baby girl,” she whispered.
Marie ran to her and embraced her. They were not so different in age, not now, but she placed her head against the woman’s chest as a toddler might do. “Maman.”
Her mother stroked her hair, the gentle motion lulling her to quiet. They stayed that way a long time, with her mother’s gentle caress soothing whatever tension was left in her. Finally, Marie pulled back and smiled, the pure smile of youth and innocence.
Her mother put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. Her gaze was full of pride. “You’ve come such a long way,” she said. “But you still have so far to go.”
Marie looked at her hopefully. “Can’t I stay here with you?”
A hint of a smile touched her mother’s lips. “My princess. The time is not right. You must wake up now.”
She was not as sad as she thought she would be. Her mother’s words rang true to her. The time was not right. She knew she couldn’t stay.
Her mother lifted herself up on tip-toes, her legs strong from dancing. Marie breathed in the smell of her one last time, cherishing it, guarding it. For one brief moment, they locked eyes, Marie’s brimming with possibility, her mother’s with love. Her mother leaned in and placed her lips gently on her daughter’s forehead. “Wake now, my princess.”
*****
She blinked several times. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the window. Fleeting images of her trance still danced in her mind: something about a woman she loved, perhaps? And a maze? And… the smell of something sweet?
She shook her head. It was gone, the way it always was. No matter how much she wished to hold on to it, within seconds it had dissipated.
Her arms were exhausted. Her feet ached. Her joints were stiff, and she rolled them to release the pressure that had built up from standing in one place for too long.
She opened her eyes and looked at her canvas, caught in the perfect light of golden hour. She stared at it. Before her was the painting of a cat, white and grey with brilliant blue eyes, against a pale green background. The lines were close and precise, the colors realistic. It was intensely beautiful.
It was not what she had seen in her trance, she was almost certain of it. And yet, there it was.
Something about it called her to look closer, and she gasped despite herself. What she had taken to be narrow brush strokes were, if anything, even finer. The pale green background, which she had first taken for decorative work and nothing more, was on closer inspection the exact color of the ocean as light dappled off it. The waves undulated, each carefully painted, but with no sense of scale. It might have been so close she could dip her hand into the pure water, or so far that even ships would be mere specks against the backdrop.
Looking closely, she saw that the white of the cat’s fur was made up of tiny stars, close-packed together. Only in the greys was the black of the sky visible at all, eclipsed by the brightness of a shining night. It faded backwards like the Milky Way, each point of light beckoning like a distant sun.
It was the eyes, though, that she kept coming back to: blue flecked with silver and gold.
She leaned in even closer, and saw that each eye reflected a cityscape, circling around the pupil. Each tiny fleck was in fact a dome or turret, plated with precious metals or jewels. She had never seen anything like it. She had no idea her brushes could even be used for work so fine. She felt herself captivated, drawn in by the magnificent vista, wondering where it might be.
Someone cleared their throat to her left.
Marie straightened and looked over to see two men sitting on chairs just within her doorway, carefully angled so they could not see the canvas. She recognized them from the first floor of the Aegis building, though she was not certain of either of their names. They did not wear uniforms, but their postures bespoke military training. They looked like they had been sitting for some time.
She supposed she should have been startled to see them, but she wasn’t. She felt like nothing could startle her, not now. “What time is it?” she asked them.
“Nearly five o’clock, ma’am,” said the brown-haired one. “We’re under orders to bring you back to headquarters once you’ve finished painting.”
Marie smiled at them. “I’m glad you didn’t stop me while I was in the middle of it.”
“No, ma’am,” said the blond. “Standing orders are never to wake you when you’re painting unless you or Aegis are in imminent danger. But you do need to come back with us now, ma’am. You missed your check-in and your appointment with your doctor this afternoon.”
Now that she thought about it, she had chosen to paint on a day she was scheduled to meet with Doctor Evans, for precisely this reason. If something had gone wrong, if the self-portrait had driven her mad, then at least it wouldn’t have been too long until someone came for her. She almost laughed at the idea now.
“Do I have enough time to prepare my canvas for transport?” she asked them. “I want to take it with me.”
The two agents exchanged a glance, and then the blond one nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She cleaned her brushes carefully and placed her paints into tiny jars. She found her push-pins and went about securing a blank canvas a half-inch in front of her painting, to ensure the elements would not damage it. She caught the sight of brilliant blue eyes for just a moment before she wrapped the whole thing in a carrying cloth.
It was only when the painting was securely covered that the two agents made their way into the room to take up station beside her. “Do you want us to take that, ma’am?” asked the brown-haired agent.
Marie shook her head. “No, I’ll carry it myself.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Her stomach rumbled. She realized she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “Do I have time for a light meal before we go?” she asked them, already suspecting the answer. “I’m very hungry.”
The agents exchanged looks again, a silent communication going on between them. “No, ma’am,” said the blond. “Our orders are to bring you back immediately.”
“But we could get something for you on our way to headquarters,” put in the other one. “How do you feel about pizza?”
*****
“I hear you were painting this afternoon.” Doctor Evans sat in his usual chair, as formal as ever.
Marie, for once, did not lie on his couch but sat across the table from him, as though they were back on the train. She nodded.
“What did you paint?”
She thought about this a moment. “I had intended to draw a self-portrait,” she said carefully.
“Have you ever painted a self-portrait before?”
Marie shook her head.
“So why now?” the doctor pressed.
Marie took a long breath. “I believe it was because I’d met Mr. Cartwright,” she said. “Captain Faraday said that monsters – dragons and ghouls and sea-beasts and the like – are drawn to him. They can smell him, he said. So can Mademoiselle Elizabeth and Monsieur Batu. When we went out on Tuesday for ice cream, I also smelled what they smelled.” Honey, Elizabeth had said. But it wasn’t. It was something smooth and sweet and otherworldly. Intoxicating.
“How did that make you feel?” asked Doctor Evans.
Marie thought about it. “Afraid,” she said at last. She looked up, her eyes locking with the psychiatrist’s. “I was worried I was a monster. I don’t feel like a monster. I feel like a person. But how could you know? I imagine there are a great many monsters who don’t realize what they are. And there are people who don’t realize they have the mythos about them, like Mr. Thompson. I thought, ‘Perhaps I am what they all fear and just don’t know it.’”
The doctor nodded slowly. “And this prompted you to paint yourself?”
“I wasn’t even certain it would work. I’ve never tried to see patterns through a mirror before. And even if there were any, I didn’t know if I’d be able to see them. Like hearing your own heartbeat or smelling your own odour – we tune it out of ourselves. We do not realize. Perhaps it would be like that with me.”
“And yet you decided to try anyway.”
Marie nodded.
“What did you paint?” Doctor Evans asked again.
“May I show you?” asked Marie.
“Of course. You may show me any of your paintings, if you wish to.” Marie had never seen the doctor go mad from looking at any of her canvasses. She wondered briefly why that was. Had he inured himself through long years of service with Aegis? Or did he save it for when he was out of her presence, keeping himself together just long enough to conduct his sessions before collapsing into a screaming fit? Did he himself have a psychiatrist that he spoke to about his troubles? She realized she had never thought to ask such questions before. She wondered if he would answer them.
She carefully removed the covering cloth and the facing canvas to reveal her work. She set it up on the easel Doctor Evans kept in his office just for her. “What do you think?” she asked, as though he were some famed appraiser.
Doctor Evans looked at the canvas. Then he moved closer. He wiped his glasses and replaced them on his nose, staring intently. He stayed there for nearly thirty seconds, and Marie let him. She would have spent far more time looking at all the little details of what she had painted if it hadn’t been for the Aegis agents.
Finally, Doctor Evans seemed to regain control of himself and stood up. “This is exquisite work,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Doctor Evans sat down at his seat again, angled so that the painting was still in his periphery. “It’s not your usual style.”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea why that might be?”
Marie shook her head, momentarily frustrated. “No. In truth, I have no idea why I drew it at all. Why should a self-portrait of myself turn into a cat? I don’t think I saw a cat while I was in my trance, docteur. I don’t remember what I saw – I never do – but I don’t think it was this.”
Doctor Evans thought about it, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Marie. Some things even psychiatry doesn’t have the answers to.”
Marie sighed. She had hoped Aegis would have the answer for her. But it was no true loss. She would figure it out one day.
The doctor recovered himself and slipped on his mask of professionalism. “How do you feel, having painted it?” he asked.
Marie thought about it. In the rush to reach Aegis, she had not taken stock of herself. She felt the ache in her limbs and her back, the fatigue in her arms. But she also felt clear-headed, as though she had spent the day in relaxation and conversation instead of standing still in her studio.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Relieved, maybe? It could have been so much worse. But I still don’t understand what it means.” She shook her head. “I’m very tired, docteur. Do you think perhaps we could meet tomorrow instead? My painting sessions do not usually last so long as today’s.”
Doctor Evans nodded. “Of course. I’ll schedule you for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He paused a moment, regarding her. “If I may make an observation, however, you are displaying almost none of the nervous tics you exhibited the last time we met. Clearly something about this painting was therapeutic for you, remarkably so.”
Marie smiled. “If you say so. May I take it home with me, do you think? Or will Aegis keep it for their vaults?” The last thing she needed was for any visitor to her apartment to go mad. And even less, for it to be stolen when she was on the road. But it comforted her to look at this one. Perhaps Aegis would make an exception.
Doctor Evans wiped his glasses and took another look at the painting. “You would have to talk to Captain Faraday about that. That’s a decision that can only be made by the Director of Operations. But it is my professional opinion that this canvas would not be damaging to viewers and should pose no deleterious side effects. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Marie chose not to respond to the doctor’s last cryptic point and busied herself with preparing the canvas for transport again. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said when she had everything ready.
Doctor Evans nodded. “Quite. Good evening, Marie. If I may say so, I feel that this is an excellent sign.”
Marie smiled. “Thank you, docteur.” She picked up her canvas and left the small office. She did not have anywhere to be until afternoon tomorrow, and she very much looked forward to investigating the details of her latest work.
