SkyBlue by M.P. Halliday

Author:M.P. Halliday [Halliday, M.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Monster Ivy Publishing
Published: 2024-04-09T00:00:00+00:00

It’s been half an hour, and my arm has fallen asleep, though I’m afraid to even twitch. Mr. Swain’s temples sheen with light perspiration as he bends over his sketchbook. Every so often his mouth pulls into the smallest of smiles until finally, I have to ask him what he thinks is so amusing. Are my feet muddy? Is my hair too much like a bird’s nest? I can’t stand it any longer.

“What’s so funny?”

His smile widens. “Keep still. And look straight ahead, into the distance.”

In a broody manner, I do as he says. He curbs a laugh.

“What is it?” I say, laughing too, though I’ve no idea at what. The book slips from my lap and with that the pose falls apart. Doubling over, I snort into my knees, and it’s wonderful, laughing until my sides stitch. I haven’t laughed like this since Papa.

“Now that you’ve ruined my scene,” he says, wiping the jollity from his eyes, “I suppose now would be a good time for a break.”

“I brought food.”

I toddle to my feet as Mr. Swain moves first, a root snaring his foot. He pitches forward, his body plunking into mine. We stay there—hooked—lured in by each other’s bewildered stares. His eyes are so bright I can see my own reflection in them: tussled hair and lips parted in breathless abandon, as if waiting for his own. I glance at his mouth, and he looks at mine. Carefully, he pries my hands away from his suspenders.

An impossible thought thrusts into my side, nearly cleaving me in half. Doesn’t he want me?

Of course not, Beatrice. You’re married.

I break past him, covering my humiliation. Is this how Gaston feels each time I reject him? Umbrage, embarrassment, bitterness—not towards Mr. Swain, but towards myself. This was a mistake. Being alone with him here looks like I’m in the midst of tryst, no matter how innocent my intentions.

“I don’t know why it is,” the artist says, speaking with a caution I resent. “But I always find myself apologizing to you about something.” Resolved to un-feel everything, I snatch up the basket from Hastings’s saddle. “There—you see? I’ve upset you again.”

“You haven’t!”

“Then what is it, Mrs. Dumas?” He steps forward, and I step back, a dismal look coming into his eyes. “What plagues you?”

What plagues me? I laugh at the archaic word. A bitter laugh. A forced, humorless breath. This certainly is a plague, isn’t it? Worse than what Papa had, for this is a passive disease, taking its time, defiling its host bit by bit.

Shivering, I whisper, “That name.” That name is what plagues, unrelenting in its pursuit of me. My name has changed.

What else will?

Thunder breaks. A raindrop splashes down the artist’s face, and he curses, our squabble forgotten as he moves to save his work from the rain. “Let me see you home.”

“No,” I say quickly. No one can know Mr. Swain and I were alone together.

I bury my face in Hastings’s mane, trying not to cry.

The artist doesn’t argue but picks up my boots, saying, “Don’t forget your shoes.

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