Page 109 of Spearcrest Prince

She’s dressed as only Anaïs could be, in a baggy navy-blue smock that makes her look like an old-timey factory worker. Underneath it, she’s wearing her school skirt and tall white socks and, of course, no shoes. Her socks are flecked with paint and mud.

She looks like a character straight out of her own cartoon world.

I adore her.

With two canvases in hand, she heads for a corner of the gallery between two pillars. A divider stands between us, momentarily blocking her from view.

She moves around behind it, then reappears without the two canvases, backing away slowly from her display and stroking her chin like an old man deep in thought. She tilts her head, narrows her eyes.

Then she whips around and strides out of the gallery.

I slump back against the wall with a sigh, my heart hammering. This girl has really made me into someone I don’t recognise because I don’t remember ever feeling this disconcerted and anxious at the sight of a girl before.

Let alone a girl with no shoes and paint all over her face.

I wait a minute, then creep out of my hiding spot, tiptoeing towards Anaïs’s display as if she might hear me. When it comes into view, it’s not what I expect at all. I can’t say what I expected.

Paintings crowd the wall, each more colourful and vibrant than the last. A messy field of lilacs blowing in a wind that’s so vividly depicted, I can almost feel it against my skin. Blue waves sparkling with sunlight, blue fish underneath the surface. A small statue of Jesus laced with ivy, candles at its feet. A smiling face, I first guess it’s her face.

I look closer and realise it’s not her, but the beautiful boy from her sketchbook. The one I asked her about that time in the forest.

“Oh. Have you come to finish the job?”

Anaïs’s voice startles me. I whip around to see her coming back through the doors in her weird get-up, a big tin box under one arm, another canvas in her hand. She gives me a look that’s unsurprised and unconcerned, like she expected me to come back and finish wrecking her work but doesn’t care if I do.

I give her a half-smile. “Can’t leave loose ends, can I?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I thought loose ends was your area of expertise.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Montcroixes never leave business unfinished.”

“So that’s why you’re here? For business?”

She walks up to her display and sets her things down on the floor. As she does, the strands of her hair fall forward, and one of them doesn’t fall back into place.

I clench my fists, forcing myself not to reach over and push the strand away, tuck it behind her ear with the others. She’s close now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can smell that summer fragrance of hers, lilacs and salt.

“I’ve been wondering if you managed to replace the painting I damaged.” To my surprise, the truth falls easily from my mouth. “Looks like you’ve done alright.”

“It might look that way”—she sighs—“but I’m still missing my pièce de résistance.” She points at her display, the paintings all surrounding a large rectangle of empty space. “See? That was supposed to be your portrait. I’ve still not worked out what to put there instead.”

“Everything you paint is beautiful. You could put anything there. Why not your cute little boyfriend over there?” I gesture vaguely towards her painting of the boy with the pretty smile.

“Cute?” Anaïs looks at the painting, nodding appraisingly. “You really think so? I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll be flattered.”

Jealousy flares through me. It makes me want to yell and rage and threaten all sorts of violence on the young man. I push it all deep down inside.

“Does he know you’re engaged?” I ask in my most casual tone.

She nods. “Yes, he knows.”

I say nothing. I long to ask her who this boy is. This boy who’s so important she thought of him when she thought ofAletheia. The boy she painted to replace the painting of me she made that night on the balcony, the one I so stupidly destroyed.

“Is he coming to the exhibition?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual when all I want to do is to grab her and kiss her and beg her to love me.

Love me, I want to tell her. Choose me. Have me.

“He would if I asked him to,” she answers with a peaceful smile. “Would you like me to ask him?”

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