Page 99 of King Of Order

My chest tightened.

I’d pegged her as passionate and resilient, but this was something else.

This was Chiara, as I’d never imagined her.

The kids adored her. That much was obvious.

As they swarmed around her, I realized why.

She provided them with caring inclusion they might not have had otherwise—stability, warmth, and hope. I had never witnessed this side of her—this warm, unassuming love that radiated out of her.

I viewed her transform and smile with motherly tenderness, and my soul lurched momentarily, envisioning her with a dark-haired baby with pale blue eyes like mine.

Fotto!

She caught my eye across the room, her lips softening. It seemed she could see right through me for a moment, like she’d caught on to what I was thinking.

‘You didn’t expect this, did you?’ she asked, her voice teasing.

I shook my head, still trying to wrap my mind around it. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘This is why I do it,’ she said, returning to the kids. ‘They love this. They need art. It gives them a way to express what they can’t say. Their expression means so much to me, too. They are my second chance, a way I can give back what I have been given.’

Seeing how she poured herself into them warmed me.

I, too, got pulled into the class. I sat on the floor with the children and drew silly wriggles on paper.

One gorgeous little child named Matty stood by me, his tousled head bent next to mine as we expressed ourselves. My art was way more clumsy than his.

‘You’ve had some practice, eh?’ I rasped.

He grinned at me, throwing me a coy look as he assessed my crude sketch and found it lacking.

Chiara knelt beside us, and our eyes locked.

We shared an intense gaze, and she glanced away, her skin pinking under her honeyed tone. Then, she turned to the kids,encouraging, supporting, and giving them space to express their creativity.

It was like watching a dancer perform her routine—with grace in each action and a deep understanding of her craft.

I helped guide the children at Chiara’s behest for the next few hours. I handed them our fresh paper canvases, encouraged their brushstrokes, showed them how to mix colors and use the brushes, and soothed their missteps.

They listened to her and hung on to her every word as if she were the most important person in the world to them. And maybe she was.

When the class ended, she handed out pastries, and the kids filtered out, tunics covered in paint, hands, cheeks dusted in powdered sugar, eyes shining, voices high with happiness.

Chiara turned to me with a hint of exhaustion and pride in her eyes.

‘I see you,belleza,’ I rasped.

‘How do you see me?’ she pushed, her voice husky.

I stuck my tongue in my cheek, searching for the right words. ‘You’re not only a fighter or a survivor. You’re a healer. A nurturer. I witnessed so much love in how you worked with these kids.’

Her eyes dropped, and a bashful twist played on her lips. ‘Grazie.’

‘Shycara?’ I teased, lifting her chin to gaze up at me.

‘A little.’

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