Page 44 of Spearcrest Prince

After that, I’ll be back to my old self. I’ll finally be able to think more clearly.

I’m creeping down the corridor when a cold draft slithers past me. I shiver and peer through the gloom. The window at the end of the corridor is cracked open. Is someone on the balcony? Maybe some students have snuck out for a cheeky joint or cig?

Tiptoeing down the corridor, I peer through the glass. There’s someone sitting on the balcony. Even though she’s wearing a big baggy hoodie and has her back to me, I recognise her immediately. How could I not?

I stand at the window and watch for a bit.

Anaïs is sitting cross-legged, as usual. Her canvas is propped against the wooden pillars of the balustrade. She’s painting, her paintbrush gliding smoothly across the surface of her canvas. Now and again, she pauses. Her head tilts up, facing away from me and towards the mountains and the stars.

She seems so… serene. Almost absent. Like she’s only half-here.

Pushing the sliding door as quietly as I can, I step onto the balcony. She mustn’t have heard me because she carries on painting. The process is strangely fascinating. The way she dips the paintbrush in her little plastic cup of murky water, swirls it, then squishes the wet end on her thigh to let the excess water run free. Underneath her big hoodie, she’s wearing a pair of plain grey shorts. The water from her paintbrush slides down her bare leg, leaving a trail that glimmers in the starlight.

She pushes the wet brush into the squirts of paint, mixing her colours on the surface of her palette. It’s a wonder she can see any colours in this darkness. I doubt starlight is enough for her to differentiate the shades and hues she’s using. But maybe that’s the appeal.

Once she’s happy with the colour on her brush, she paints. In long, gliding strokes, then in short, feathery flicks. Sometimes she pauses and wipes something with a little finger or scratches at something with the pointy end of her paintbrush.

The longer I watch her, the more I envy her.

It’s never something I expected to feel towards her. But she seems so at peace, so lost in her work, so… content. She’s completely alone, sitting in the dark on a cold balcony, but she doesn’t seem lonely or sad. Somehow, Anaïs has this ability to transport herself to a place that’s just her own. Even though she’s so far away from home, even though she has neither friends nor allies here.

I'm beginning to suspect she's happy despite being alone, but alsobecauseof it.

And that’s something I can’t help but envy.

Chapter 17

La Vengeance

Séverin

Asifsensingmypresence, Anaïs turns, peering at me from the shadowy alcove of her hood. If she’s still angry about what happened between us near the ruins, she hides it. When she sees me, a slight frown draws her eyebrows, more surprise than anything.

“Oh,” she says. “It’s you. How long have you been here?”

“I just came out,” I lie.

She watches me for a second. Her body language remains unchanged, but there’s an edge to her now. An invisible tension, a taut rope of unspoken things binding us. I sense her caution, too. Is she wondering if I’m going to attack her again? Does she suspect me of wanting to steal another kiss from her?

I do want that. I want a lot of things.

But this time, I’m coming in peace.

I hold my bottle of wine up. “Drink?”

Her eyes narrow. Now my gaze has adjusted to the darkness of the night, I can make out her face more clearly. Her cheeks and nose are flushed from the cold. There are little flecks and smears of paint on her chin, her cheeks. A white speck adorns the left corner of her lips like a beauty spot.

Anaïs seems to debate my offer for a second; I don’t blame her for not trusting me. Finally, she nods. Maybe she’s trying to pick her battles.

Lowering myself down onto the balcony, I take a seat next to her canvas, my back to the mountains and loch. I pop the bottle cork in my fist, stifling the sound. I’m not in the mood to disturb the stillness of this moment. Right now, I feel like an explorer who’s stumbled into a dream-like fairyland. Any sudden motion or noise might send the world and its creature fading into golden vapour.

I take a sip straight from the bottle and hand it to Anaïs. I half-expect her to wipe the sleeve of her ridiculous hoodie on the neck rim, but she doesn’t. She places her mouth right where mine just was—an indirect kiss—and drinks unceremoniously.

She licks her lips and passes me the bottle back with a nod. “It’s good wine.”

“Would you expect anything less?”

She looks away, a hint of a sneer on her lips. “Knowing you, I’d expect your family to own the vineyard that produced this wine.”

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