by Kira Decker
Out of sight, but never unprotected.
“Thank you, my friend.”
Clenching the stone tighter, Ciprian’s calming energy imbued into the crystal washed through him, loosening tense muscles and banishing the anxiety back to its dark, cursed hole. Taking a deep breath, the rosy, citrus scent of the peony garland in the flower-adorned archway soothed frayed nerves. Rockshoalman stepped through. He searched the crowd gathered below his premier painting, but the girl must have moved on to another painting. It should not matter. It did. He shook his head, dismissing the need to find her. He did not need anyone. Immortality had erased that. Nodding to those who greeted him, Rockshoalman moved as though he had a destination, even when he had none.
Long had it been since he mingled amongst the highborn of Denmark. Hiding in plain sight for so long, the skill to blend into any culture was second nature now. Here was no different from the myriad other countries he had lived in over the centuries. Customs may change over generations, but some things, like curiosity of the unusual, stayed the same. Rockshoalman frowned. His body trapped in stasis at just over two decades in age, survival depended on changing his appearance, giving the illusion of aging even when he never did, the manipulating of people’s perception a necessary lie. One he despised.
He preferred the quiet of his studio, but the people needed to see him alive before he could convince them of his mortality. His ‘death’ would increase the value of the entire art collection inherited by his next incarnation—an apprentice of the Master—thus immortalizing the cycle of existence without truly living.
“Corrado,” Mestre Poulsen hailed, moving with swift strides towards him. Rockshoalman smoothed his black frock coat and straightened his white bow tie. Dressed in similar attire, his host’s cashmere trousers were of a finer quality than Rockshoalman’s, but the button-up boots were dull and dingy. He glanced at his own boots, polished to a high shine.
The portly lord of the manse stretched out his sweaty hand before remembering that Rockshoalman, or Master Corrado Lee as they knew him here, did not touch people. An idiosyncrasy people accepted from the famous painter.
“I am pleased you accepted my invitation.” He pointed to the paintings displayed on the high walls, each piece cordoned off by golden ropes. “Protected as you requested, yet visible for all to partake of their…most unusual subject.”
Oddity. Rockshoalman heard the unspoken word. Yet that same oddity drew demand and with it, coin.
“The placement is sufficient,” Rockshoalman conceded. No one must touch his paintings. The emotional backlash a natural person suffered from contact could kill them. Never again would Rockshoalman suffer that agony. The lord of the manor hesitated, his brows drawing together.
Rockshoalman sighed inside. He hated stroking egos, but those same egos paid him coin so he and his protectors might live—and disappear as necessary. “Thank you for allowing me to present my art to so many. I am glad my trifling works have enlivened your party.”
“Trifling, he calls some of the greatest pieces I have had the pleasure to view.” Mestre Poulsen scoffed to all those near. “You honor me by allowing me to showcase your collection during such a special occasion.”
Rockshoalman bowed. “The honor is all mine.”
Now preening like a peacock, his host smiled and waved Rockshoalman further into the ballroom. “Come. Let me introduce you to the other investors.”
Following the Dane, Rockshoalman linked his wrists behind him, lest someone else forget his aversion, and attempt to shake hands, the worry stone in his left hand, a cool, smooth pool of serenity in an ocean of chaos. Making all the correct bows and small talk, he allowed Mestre Poulsen his moment to glow within the presence of his peers.
“I am so pleased you attended tonight,” Mestre Poulson rambled. “We spared no expense with the decorations, wanting to do justice to your paintings.”
“Your patronage is much appreciated, Mestre.”
The Great Hall blazed with the warmth of a thousand dancing lights. Silver sconces hung on marble columns, the drip of beeswax candles captured by silver discs at their base, protecting patrons and strings of reflective beads alike. The crystals of the high chandelier scattered dancing fairies of light across the multitudes beneath them as though the children of light tiptoed among a field of vibrant flowers.
“Maybe we can even entice you to a dance or two with the flowers of the ball tonight?” Mestre Poulson gestured to the multitude of ladies who noted their passing with skittish glances.
“We shall see.”
The ladies in their silks and satins did seem a garden of flowers, each one more beautiful and vibrant than the last. And like flowers, simple cold chased them away.
Cold. One of the many names society called Rockshoalman. Aloof. Eccentric. Foreign. A spot of darkness amongst the light. He brushed a hand across his short hair, ducking his head to hide from the stares before he caught himself and stiffened. Pale eyes, bright with the joys of life, sparkled in the candlelight all around him. His almost black ones reflected eons of darkness. Caught up in their lives, lives that would end one day, they did not understand the eternal isolation he suffered.
Most watched him with a mixture of awe, curiosity, and sometimes even fear. Rockshoalman ignored them, using each evasion to cast another layer of armor around his heart, telling himself their disinterest didn’t matter. Being alone, his solitary life a defense against the pain of loneliness, he only needed to concern himself with his unending existence. He had stopped living centuries ago.
The last group, a collection of Mestre Poulsen’s banking colleagues, engaged Rockshoalman in discussions of potential commissions until a petite ball of energy bounded into their midst. The same pulse of life he had felt before. Energy he hadn’t realized he missed.
“Papa.” The youthful girl hugged her father before turning to stare at Rockshoalman. “Oh…” Crystal blue eyes perched in a round face of porcelain skin stared into his. Her lips parted slightly and spread into a smile so bright it stole Rockshoalman’s breath. “Forgive my poor manners.” She curtseyed and bowed her head. Although coifed and bejeweled, the gold of her hair seemed to glow, as if touched by fire from within. Rockshoalman’s mind started mixing paint colors in his head, knowing he would never come close to capturing the pure hue before him.
“I did not know you were with a stranger, father.”
Mestre Poulsen chuckled. “Ah, dear Elsabeth. Even had you known it would not have stopped your enthusiasm.” Tucking his blushing daughter’s hand within the crook of his elbow, the lord turned to Rockshoalman. “Elsabeth, please greet Herre Corrado Lee, master painter and my guest of honor tonight. Herre Corrado, may I present my youngest and most energetic daughter, Elsabeth. Tis her coming of age and presentation to society, we celebrate tonight.”
“So, it is your works that grace my celebration. A double pleasure to meet you, Herre Corrado.” She extended her hand.
Before her father could say anything, Rockshoalman grasped the dainty fingers. Raising her knuckles to his lips, he brushed the lightest of kisses across silky smooth skin. Energy flowed through him, reminiscent of Ciprian’s gift. Life. Innocence. And something more he could not name.
She shivered within his grasp as though a connection passed between them in that brief moment. Maybe it had. The warmth of her hand within his and the light rosy scent of the pink peonies in her hair teased awake his senses.
“The pleasure is mine, Froken Elsabeth.” Her smile enticed one from him. “Please, call me Corrado. I am no lord. Only a simple painter who enjoys the beauty life sometimes grants me to put on canvas.”
Human touch. He had forgotten the pleasure it brought. The sensation of escaping from a cold wintery night into a fire-warmed room invigorated him. His skin burned from her heat. Her beauty etched an image he longed to paint.
Except he only painted death.
His smile faded. Rockshoalman released her hand, the chill of loss created within hi
m, an ache he thought long gone. They were worlds apart. She would not want to spend her time with him, as he had nothing to offer. Yet, the yearning remained. His gaze sought hers if only to imprint her image in his mind for all eternity. A puzzled look stole across her face but brightened after only a momentary pause.
“If he is our guest, Father, then surely it is the duty of our family to entertain Herre…” She glanced his way, smiling. “…to entertain Corrado.”
“Well, yes.” Mestre Poulsen hesitated, flustered by his daughter’s brashness and by Rockshoalman’s own actions.
“Mestre Poulsen, would you allow me the honor of a dance with your beautiful daughter?” Slipping the worry stone into his waistcoat pocket, he held out his hand, wanting, no needing to feel the fire she evoked in him once more.
“Without a doubt, he would. Is that not so, Father?” Pushing up on her tiptoes, she kissed her father’s cheek before he could respond any other way. “I would not want to seem rude to our guest.”
Rockshoalman smothered his smile. Elsabeth’s subtle manipulation of the situation, to get exactly what she wanted, fascinated him in one so young. Ciprian could take lessons from this young slip of a girl.
“Oh, no. We mustn’t have that. Please, Corrado, would you be so kind as to accord my daughter a dance?” He offered his daughter’s hand. “I’m sure we can rearrange her dance card.”
Rockshoalman bowed before accepting. “If you insist.”
The glimmer of mischief in Elsabeth’s eyes spoke volumes. With this one, he must watch his step lest he find himself the focus of her next set of plans. Ciprian appeared out of the shadows, his smile bright as he took in Rockshoalman’s companion. Ciprian nodded. Rockshoalman stumbled to a stop.
“Is something wrong, Corrado?” Elsabeth tightened her grasp, an act of comfort.
‘You will learn to live again.’
The Second Sight. Ciprian must have foreseen this meeting—the last task his Guardian refused to tell him about lest he disrupt Fate’s plan from occurring.
“No, my dear.” Rockshoalman collected her hands within his. The connection flowed outward, making every sense expand to inspired heights. The burning warmth of her touch beneath his, the light lilac scent of her perfume, the soft sounds of her breath cresting over the pale pink wetness of her lips—each sight, sound, and touch experienced again as if for the first time.
“Everything is fine, as long as I am with you.” But would she want to stay with him?
His words provoked another blush, but Elsabeth never dropped her gaze. The bright blue of her eyes, innocent depths more profound than any ocean, consumed him. “I think I would like that possibility…to stay with you.” She pulled one of the pink flowers from her hair and offered it to him. “If you would have me.”
Such strength. Elsabeth would need all of that moxie if she chose to stand by his side for longer than one night, for she would have to leave this current life and her family behind when he next disappeared.
The sweet scent of the peony bloomed between them—a challenge. Rockshoalman need only accept it. Years of pain and loneliness twisted in a vice-like grip around his chest. Could he condemn her to a life of death? No. He pulled back. She tightened her grip, holding him still.
“Do not be afraid.”
“You do not know what you are asking. My…life is not one without difficulty.”
“I know.” She glanced over at his paintings. “But you have discovered the beauty it offers despite that…difficulty.” Elsabeth’s smile beamed up at him. She might be young in age, but the eyes that stared back at him contained an old soul, one who somehow understood.
Rockshoalman inhaled the scent of the proffered flower—its scent forevermore linked to Elsabeth—before tucking the pink bud into his lapel. Elsabeth’s smile brightened. As did his heart.
He cleared his throat. “I believe you wished to dance.”
“Yes, please.” The fervent sound of her voice set his heart to racing.
He nodded to Ciprian. Leading Elsabeth to the dance floor, he wrapped his hand around her waist just as a soft piano waltz began. Notes swirled around them, quiet at first, then gaining volume as the strings picked up the melody. The music whispered its song to Rockshoalman, the minor chords mixing with the major to produce a beauty he felt the girl in his arms embodied.
Life.
A thirst Rockshoalman forgot he once possessed grew. Energy surged back and forth between them in time to the dance, a dance he never intended to start, but now could not imagine ever stopping. Cracks in the barrier around his heart appeared. Elsabeth grinned up at him, shattering the defenses he set centuries ago. How he did not know, but with nothing more than a smile, her pure innocence crumbled his jaded resistance. How had such a simple act, a dance, opened up so many possibilities?
“What have you done to me,” he whispered.
“Danced to the song.”
“What song?”
“The song of my heart.”
Mirroring the one now dancing in his.
Spinning across the white marble, the silk of her gown swished like a soft whisper in his ear. Live, it said. Captured in her gaze, her warmth chasing the last chill of fear from him, Rockshoalman found something else he long thought lost.
Hope. And a future.
Part III
The Future
Rockshoalman opened his eyes. Once again in the present, he stood in the center of the ballroom ruins. The music still echoed around him. Stars replaced the candles and a full moon cast its glow into the roofless room. No people remained from that time. Even the building held on by a thin thread. Fire destroyed the back half of the manse over a half-century ago, yet left the foundation and most of the marble walls and floor of the ballroom intact. Moving about the room, he swayed to the memory of the music. Footprints marked his passage in the soot-ladened muck glazing the stone floor.
Still, he danced.
His hands warmed as if that same full of life girl graced his arms once more. She had opened up his heart to an unexplored world that night. Less than six months later, she taught him what it meant to be alive once more by agreeing to share the rest of her life with him.
Immortality was not the focus on death; it was the ability to embrace life. To see the beauty surrounding him, to dance to the music of the world, to touch the experiences life offered. It took a girl who lived only a fraction of the time he existed to show him how.
His feet shuffled to a stop. The music faded away, but the night whispered to him still.
Live.
The manse creaked with soft footfalls. Rockshoalman smiled. She had come.
“Robert?” Kyrissa Spears stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tight around her chest, the cast iron lantern flickering its feeble light at her feet. “I know you said you wanted to be alone and to wait in the carriage, but…I…well, something told me to come find you.” She shook her head. “It was so soft, like a whisper in the wind, but I thought you called me.”
Love.
Someone had called her, but not him. No wonder Lucien had insisted she accompany him tonight. Had his Guardian known?
“I’m sorry, I’ll go—”
“Stay.” Raising the same hand he once offered to another dance partner a century ago, he reveled in the magic of fate that had brought Kyrissa to him. Elsabeth had taught him love appeared when you most needed it—just as Kyrissa had shown up in his life when he had lost all hope. First, as a student, learning to cope with a painting gift like his. Then as a lover to save him from his curse.
“Come dance with me.”
A frown creased her forehead. “Here?”
“Yes.”
A smile crept out, one reminiscent of another fair-haired woman. Breath clogged his throat. Just as he had the first time they made love, his mind raced to paint Kyrissa, to capture the look of pure love she offered to him. A chuckle bubbled up from his chest. He had been brooding about Elsabeth the first time he had met Kyrissa. Once again,
Kyrissa’s presence filled the void left by another.
“There isn’t any music,” Kyrissa teased. She had taken her hair out of its customary ponytail, the long golden strands free flowing around her shoulders. He liked it that way.
“We will have to make our own then.” Grasping her hand, he spun her in a pirouette, her laughter echoing against the marble walls. Folding her into his arms, Rockshoalman, or Robert Shoalman as she knew him in this lifetime, waltzed back and forth across the floor.
They danced in silence for a few minutes until Kyrissa stopped him, staring off toward a dark corner. “What is it?” The hair on the nape of his neck prickled.
“The locals say this place is haunted.”
He shook his head. “The locals like to have their fun with tourists. A haunted manse lends to the mysterious air of the area.”
“But the fire here. What caused it?”
“Treasure hunters.” He kissed away her confused look. “This was once a storage place for some of my paintings after I inherited the property. The fire was…unavoidable.” A stab of remembered pain, the days of forced painting because of their destruction, stole his voice. The Romani thought they were protecting him by keeping the paintings from his demon. Their act cost them their lives. Ciprian’s life.
Soft hands caressed his face. Kyrissa’s touch, her power, a balm pulling him back from the brink of darkness. He kissed her palms and danced once more.
“This place must have been beautiful during its peak.”
“It was, although at the time I did not notice. More to my regret.” After the fire, he could not bear to return, allowing the manse to fall into indifferent neglect. Much like his heart. “Now I must decide what to do with the place.” She searched his face. Intelligence blazed behind her jade green eyes, asking questions he was not ready to answer. Twirling her about, Rockshoalman attempted to distract Kyrissa. She caught his wrist, stroking the burn scars. He swallowed.
He was not fooling her at all.