He heads back into the mansion and I sink deeper onto the bench.
The view really is spectacular. It’s got my creative juices flowing.
Tristan put up with my art for a few months before he started to get impatient and annoyed every time he saw me with a pencil and pad.
“Why the fuck is your nose always buried in a fucking piece of paper?” he demanded one night. “You’re not a damn teenager anymore.”
I’d ignored him of course. What was the harm of letting me pretend—if only for a moment—that there was still some beauty left in my world?
But of course, Tristan hated allowing me the slightest modicum of freedom. Any sliver of joy I managed to find, he would stomp out.
Which is why I’d come home one day to find all my sketchbooks burned to a crisp in the kitchen sink.
“Miss Saoirse?”
I clutch my heart as the austere butler appears at my left shoulder. “Jesus, Quinn,” I scold. “You never make a sound.”
“It is the mark of a good butler.”
“Then you must be the best of the best.”
He doesn’t really smile, but his features seem to soften for a moment. I consider that progress.
“The items you requested,” he says, handing me a large sketchpad and a set of pristine colored pencils.
“Wow, thanks,” I say, my eyes popping out at the sight of the expensive supplies.
I resist the urge to smell both things. I don’t need to give people in this mansion another reason to look at me as though I’m a kooky outsider.
He gives me a nod and leaves as silently as he came.
I watch him go, wondering at the kind of loyalty that would bind a stranger to one family for so much of his life. There’s a lot about Cillian’s world that I don’t understand.
But being here has helped me see the other side of things. The life he came from. The reasons he chose to come back.
I start to draw idly. It’s been a long time since I was able to enjoy my hobby so much. And as always, I lose myself in the beauty of creating something from nothing.
My eyes dart up to the scene before me and back down again.
And time whisks past like summer breeze in the process.
* * *
“That’s beautiful.”
For the second time that day, I jump with a gasp of shock. But this time, it’s not Quinn or Kian.
“Cillian,” I breathe. “Goddammit, no one makes a sound in this place.”
He gives me a soft smile as he sits down beside me. “I didn’t want to disturb you.” He looks over at my completed image and shakes his head. “You’re an artist.”
The word feels completely alien. I’ve never thought of myself as an artist. It’s not a title that suits me.
“I’m not.”
“No?” he asks, gesturing to the sketchpad. “Then what do you call this?”
I’ve managed to capture the lake to perfection, right down to the reflection of trees on its outer banks. Even I have to admit, it’s one of my most well-realized landscapes.