Page 16 of Madam Alana

It was me. Or a portion of me. This oneinparticular wasa drawing of me, on my side, sleeping. The mound of myhip accentuated, the curve of one breast tucked behind the satin covering of mynightgown. Even the strands of my hair were surreally depicted, wrapping aroundmy form like a shroud or a cocoon. The likeness of my face was uncanny, eventhough I could tell the image had been hastily sketched.

I reached out for another one, and saw it was of my hand.The bones appeared gentle and elegant. Neat lines curved around my nailbeds.What shocked me was that it had been done so meticulously it could have been adrawing that took someone else months to complete. And yet, he’d done it thismorning. Along withall ofthe others.

“How long have you been awake?” I asked, worried I’d sleptthe day away, but finding I hadn’t when I glanced at the clock on the bedsidetable and it read nine o’clock in the morning.

“I rise with the sun,cheri,”was his harried non-answer.

Christophe didn’t speak again, seeming enchanted by hisdrawing. I pushed myself up to a fully seated position, my back against theheadboard, the sun now out of my eyes. My husband was hunched at the foot ofthe bed, cross-legged, head down, a large notebook in his lap, and a blackpiece of chalk clutched in his wildly moving hand.

His head lifted and our gazes met. He smiled so brilliantlymy heart clenched. The air in the room filled with a buzzing energy I couldfeel surfing the fine hairs along my arms.

“May I see?” I asked, wanting to be a part of whatever hadhim smiling and exuding such kinetic energy.

He pressed his lips together and cocked an eyebrow. “It isnot done,” he teased playfully.

“Is it of me?” I asked, knowing based on all the other pagesstrewn about that it was.

“I am taken with you, Alana. I have never known a person orplace that moved me more. I need to create your image. But it must be justright. All of these”—he gestured to the papers covering the bed and floor likeconfetti—“are practice for what is to come.”

“And what is to come?” I swallowed down the nerves thatinstantly coiled like a snake in the pit of my belly.

“My life’s best work. The piece I was born to create andshare with the world.” He responded as though it were a vow, a conviction, aprophecy he must heed or else.

“And what happens if the ultimate piece of art isn’treceived well by the public?” I asked, curious how the mind of an artistworked.

“It matters not.” He held my gaze with such intensity it wasas though his hand held my chin aloft. I couldn’t look away.

“But I thought that if it was to be your best work, it wouldbe something…special. Something the world has never seen,” I surmised.

He grinned boyishly. “And it will be.But,moncoeur,the only person who can determine what is to be my greatest creation is me. Ifothers appreciate it, I would be pleased. Though I will not value theimportance of my art based on what or how others perceive it. I am the onlyjudge.” He dipped his head, ripped out the page, and handed it to methoughtfully.

My hand shook as I grasped the edge of the paper.

My breath caught as I looked directly into a depiction of myface. Except the eyes were open with nothing filling them. They were emptyovals, though the rest of my features were there. My hair fell around myshoulders perfectly, my mouth slightly open in an expression of inhaling orgasping. In my hand, directly in front of my chest, the image held ananatomical bleeding heart. It was as though I’d removed my own heart and washanding it to the viewer.

“I don’t understand. Why are my eyes blank?” I frowned whileI took in the nuance of my hollowed cheeks and the pinch of my brow as thoughmy imaginary self was pained.

“They are not blank. They are empty.” His response was soft,alluding to a much deeper meaning.

“And why am I holding my heart?” My voice trembled alongwith my bottom lip. My nose itched and I felt the tip tingling with thetelltale signal that tears would surely follow.

“You aren’t holding it,cheri.Your subconscious is offering it unceremoniously.”

My gaze snapped to the image and then back to his soulfulone. “Why would I do that?” I whispered, fearful of his answer.

“Because you don’t know its value. That’s why your eyes areempty. You know not what you give of yourself. Soon you will understand yourworth, and that image will change. I will help you see the importance ofgifting such a piece of you. A piece I intend to own and hold most dear.”

My nose started to run, and I wiped it with the back of myhand. “I don’t understand. You speak in velvet-coated riddles. It confuses me.”

He stared mutely at me for a full minute, the air between uspalpable as though it lived and breathed, gliding along every surface ofexposed skin to tease and taunt.

“And one day, when you have let your guard down and offeredyour heart and soul for my safe keeping, you will understand.”

“And if I don’t?” I challenged, not intending to ever giveanyone my heart. Not the real me.

“You will.” He stared back, looking stoic and calm.

“But if I don’t? What happens then?” My voice rose, a hintof frustrationclearin my response.

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