The Death of Dulgath Read Online Free PDF Page A

I can trust you about art or anything else. How can I when you refuse to let me look at your work? You’ve denied everyone even a glimpse at your two-month masterpiece.”
    “Truth isn’t created on schedules.”
    “Truth? Is it truth you are painting? I thought it was me.”
    “I am painting you—or at least trying to—but you are causing the delay by your refusal to cooperate.”
    “Whatever do you mean?”
    “You hide from me.”
    “I—” Her eyes almost shifted. He saw the pupils quiver with the struggle. Biting her lower lip, she gathered herself, and the lock of her gaze redoubled. She lifted her chin, just a smidge, in defiance. “I’m right here.”
    “No…you’re not. The Countess of Dulgath in all her refined nobility and grand regalia stands before me, but that’s not you—not who you really are. I want to see the person inside. The person you keep hidden from everyone for fear they’ll see—”
    She looked at him. Not a glance, not a stare, but a fierce glare of fire. Only a flash, but he saw more in that instant than he’d seen in two months. Powerful. Violent. A tempest corked in a woman’s body and glazed over with the sadness of loss and regret. He’d seen her. The vision rocked him, so much so that Sherwood took a step back.
    “We’re done here,” Lady Dulgath declared, breaking the pose and throwing off the fox. “And I see no reason to continue with this foolishness. I only agreed to this portrait because my father wanted the painting. He’s dead, so there’s no need.”
    She pivoted on her left heel and strode toward the exit.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Sherwood called after her.
    “No—you will not.”
    “I’ll be here.”
    “I won’t.” She slammed the oak door on her way out, leaving Sherwood alone in the study, listening to the echo of her fading footfalls.
    He stared at the door, which had bounced with her thrust, rebounding and hanging agape so that he caught a glimpse of her gold dress as she retreated down the corridor.
    Fascinating.
    A heartbeat later Sherwood picked up his brush and rag, both of which he’d dropped without realizing, and started to paint. The brush flew with unconscious ease, moving from palette to canvas in a blinding fury. So intense was his concentration that he didn’t notice the young man enter the study until he heard him speak.
    “Is there some kind of trouble?”
    Sherwood recognized the blue satin doublet even before seeing the goatee and immediately pulled the drape over the front of the painting. He kept the cloth tacked to the top of the canvas’s frame for quick deployment. Covering works in progress to keep gnats, dust, and hair out of the paint wasn’t unusual, but now it served a more important purpose.
    “Lord Fawkes. Sorry, I didn’t see you. What did you say?”
    “I was asking if there was a problem,” Fawkes said, looking around the study with his trademark mix of bewildered innocence and sinister suspicion. “I heard a loud bang and saw the countess storm out. Is there some way I can be of assistance?”
    “Not at all. This was a particularly good session, but it’s over. I’ll just gather my things. We made excellent progress today.”
    Fawkes circled around the easel and frowned at the covered portrait. “I hope that isn’t one of the bed linens.”
    “My nightshirt, actually, or what’s left of it.”
    “What do you wear to bed?”
    “Now? Nothing at all. Can’t afford it.”
    “Thank Novron it’s nearly summer.” Lord Fawkes picked up Sherwood’s bottle of Ultramarine and tossed it from hand to hand. For him to choose to play with that particular bottle of pigment was too coincidental. Unlike the rest of his ilk, Lord Christopher Fawkes must have been familiar with the art trade. “Why are you still here, Sherwood?”
    The artist pointed at the covered painting and smiled. Pointing was easy; the smile was more of a challenge as he watched Fawkes continue to toss the blue bottle.
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