1794_Charlotte by Karen Hawkins

Author:Karen Hawkins [Hawkins, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-64197-013-6
Publisher: NYLA
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

The muse came to him in the dark hours of the night, whispering him awake with a clarity of vision that had him stumbling from his bed, yanking on his breeches, and reaching for his tools before he was properly awake. He did as he always did when the muse came and let the image flow from his mind to his fingers without question, without pausing to consider anything but the feel of the marble giving away under the sharp edge of his chisel.

In his dream, for the first time, he’d clearly seen the two figures that would hold up the mantelpiece. No longer were the goddesses shadowy and distant. The caryatids would be rounded of face and limb, their outer arms and knees bent to add dimension. Neoclassical in design, bold in simplicity, they would wear elegantly draped togas, with jewels set into the leather of their sandals, and a smooth, shimmering whiteness on their arms, calves, and breasts. The togas, thin and revealing, would show more than they covered, baring one breast before hanging over their bodies, clinging to every curve.

It would be a masterpiece. He knew it even as he chiseled the rock, freeing the figures he could now visualize so clearly. He could see everything but their faces, although he knew those would be revealed in time. For now, he would work the bodies, the limbs, the folds of the togas, the details of their sandals. So much to do.

And so he worked, and then worked some more. The marble gave way under his fingers, confirming that his design was exactly what it should be. Marble chips piled on the floor at the feet of the pillars as sweat beaded his brow, but he continued on. He ignored the dust clinging to his skin, pausing only to wipe the sheen from his forehead when his eyes began to sting.

When he finally stopped, the dark of night had slipped into the brightness of sunrise. He set his chisel and hammer aside, his arms and shoulders aching from his efforts. Too awake to return to bed, he found a stool and pulled it in front of the figures and sat there, evaluating what he’d accomplished.

Shortly after the sun had cleared the horizon, Pietro appeared in the doorway, his white hair rumpled, one side of his face creased to match his now-abandoned pillow. He scratched his ass as he approached. “The muse returned, did she?” Pietro eyed the marble chips piled at the foot of the pillars. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.” Marco crossed his arms and looked at the stone with satisfaction. “I know everything but the faces. Those I could not see.”

“You saw the rest of clearly enough.” Pietro ran a practiced eye over the shadowed outlines. “The drape of those togas will be something to behold when you finish.”

Marco nodded, pleased Pietro could already tell so much. “When they are done, they will capture the eye and never let go.” He stood, moving from side to side to examine the roughed in figures from various angles.

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