The Heartless City

by Andrea Berthot

  She looked at him, her interest swelling, and Elliot stared at the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to show me. I know it’s painful to―”

  “No, it’s all right.” He took a breath and looked back up. For years, he’d been longing to go back inside, but the prospect of the pain had always been too frightening. So far, however, being with Iris made things he’d once considered daunting somehow bearable. If there was ever a time to take the chance, this was it. “Wait right here,” he said. “I’ll go and get the key.”

  The first thing that hit him the moment they opened the door to the room was the smell. It was musty, as the place hadn’t been cleaned in a number of years, but the sharp, metallic scent of paint still permeated the air, and it shot through Elliot’s veins and stirred his blood like nothing else, quickening his heart but also setting his teeth on edge. He swallowed and flipped a dusty switch, filling the room with electric light, and Iris sucked in a breath as she slipped through the doorway behind him.

  Except for the dust, the room looked as lived-in and cozy as it used to. Blank squares of canvas were stacked in a pile against the wall, and worn, paint-spattered sheets covered the furniture and the floors. An empty easel stood near a table of brushes and tubes of paint, and hanging on the wall beyond them were Elliot’s mother’s paintings. Immediately, Iris walked toward the mounted frames, and Elliot closed the door and followed.

  There were only three, though Elliot knew she’d painted more than fifty; he had no idea why these were still here or what happened to the others. The largest one, which hung on the left, had intrigued him most as a child, as it was a sweeping landscape of a dark and stormy bay. In thick swirls of grey and blue, the waves rose and crashed against a row of jagged rocks, their arcs so vivid and full of motion that Elliot used to think he could see them rolling across the canvas.

  The painting in the center was a still life: a glass of red wine, a dusty pink rose, a piece of paper, and a quill arranged on a white tablecloth. The objects were typical for a still life, but also slightly off. A bit of the wine had spilled and was trickling down the glass, a few of the rose’s petals were torn off and strewn across the table, the piece of paper was balled up and crumpled in a wad, and the quill was dripping with ink and staining a spot black on the tablecloth. Still lifes were supposed to be clean, symmetrical, and perfect, but Elliot’s mother had called this one “true” and “unflinchingly itself.”

  To the right of the other two was the smallest painting of all, a framed canvas about the length and width of the average chest. Iris moved toward it as if drawn by a hidden string, and Elliot followed her gaze and stepped beside her, but then his throat closed. Before them was the portrait of a boy.

  A portrait of him.

  He remembered the picture vividly, though he didn’t remember his mother painting it, as he’d only been two. Like the still life, it wasn’t exactly a standard child’s portrait. Usually, the child would be posed with an object, like a toy or a book, dressed in their best and sitting up straight as they stared out of the frame. In this one, however, Elliot was crawling beneath the sheets of a bed, peeking his head out from under the fabric and laughing up at the ceiling. His mother had told him that some mornings he would slip out of his nursery and crawl up into his parents’ bed. According to her, those moments were some of the very best of her life.

  “Is this you?” Iris murmured, glancing back.

  Elliot nodded.

  She blinked and turned back to the painting. “It’s brilliant,” she said. “All three of them are. I haven’t really seen a lot of paintings in my life, but these… they make me feel when I look at them. You know what I mean?”

  Elliot swallowed and glanced at his feet. His mother had always said the same thing―that art was for feeling, for moving hearts, not decorating walls. Maybe that was part of what added to London’s desolation; without art, its people were stifled, their hearts closed off and tucked away like the room he was standing in.

  “Are any of yours still here?” she asked, turning to face him again.

  “No. I threw them out years ago. Once I realized how much it hurt to paint, I wanted them gone.” Pity flooded her chest, and he cleared his throat and went on. “The morning after I met you, however, I passed this room and thought of painting again for the first time in years.”

  “You did? What were you going to paint?”

  “You―sort of,” he said, flushing. “I had this vision of you in the pecan grove you told me about, watching a flock of Canada geese flying overhead.”

  Iris’s eyes widened. “You should do it! I’d love to see you paint.”

  “What―you mean, right now?”

  “Yes. You have all the things you need here, right?”

  “No, I mean―I do―but Iris…” He backed away, as frightened of her yearning as his own. “I told you―”

  “I know you’re afraid, that you think it will hurt, and you’re right―it probably will. But Elliot―” She stepped closer, staring straight up into his eyes. “I remember the way you talked about painting that night in the aviary. I didn’t have to possess your gift to know how you felt about it. I saw the love in your eyes and heard the longing in your voice, and it breaks my heart to think of you denying yourself such joy.”

  He felt her heart aching, as well his own, and he clenched his fists and closed his eyes. “I’d feel too much. I don’t even know if I could hold a brush steady.”

  “We already know how to fix that,” she said, taking another step closer. “If it gets too painful, you can ease the pain by sharing your feelings with me, and I can concentrate on feeling calm and peaceful for you.”

  He opened his eyes and stared at her. “You… you would do that for me?”

  “Of course. You’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?”

  Elliot parted his lips to speak, but then he closed them again. He couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t do for Iris. It had probably been true since the moment he first met her, but now there was no denying that his heart was tied to hers in a way that could never be undone.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “Grab a canvas. I’ll mix the paint.”

  Hours passed, or what seemed like hours, but also only moments. Space and time fell away like he remembered they used to do, and nothing existed but canvas, paint, and the picture in his mind. Sometimes, it did hurt, and sometimes, he had to stop and close his eyes, but Iris was always there beside him, ready to take his hand, ease the pain, and calm his mind. Finally, when his fingers, sleeves, and even his brow, were smeared with paint, he let out a breath, sat down the brush, stepped back, and looked at the painting.

  It was his vision, exactly as he’d seen it in his mind. Iris’s frame was small, but also the picture’s focal point, a simple but powerful silhouette against the golden grove. The trees curled up around her, stretching their fingers toward the sky, which glowed with the orange and purple of a sleepy summer sunset. Above them, a flock of black and ivory geese soared through the air, creating an arch that drew the eye and balanced out the scene. Pride bloomed in Elliot’s chest, and he let out a shuttered breath.

  He’d captured the hope and wonder of Iris’s spirit on the canvas.

  “My God,” she said, stepping back beside him, her breathing shallow. “It’s beautiful, Elliot. So beautiful. I… I can’t believe it.”

  “Does it look anything like the grove you remember?”

  “Yes and no. It doesn’t look the same but it… feels the same somehow.” She turned to him, her heart pounding. “You really are an artist.”

  He turned to her as well and looked down into her eyes, which were nearly overflowing with her joy and admiration. His cheeks flushed, but not as deeply as when she raised her hand and wiped a smear of paint from his forehead. He couldn’t help but tremble as her fingers brushed his skin, and her own pulse leapt in response, but she didn’t steady it. Instead, she slid her hand down the side of his face and traced his jawlin
e, igniting his veins and causing his heart to thrash against his ribs. He covered her hand with his own and raised the other one to her face, cupping her velvet cheek and staring down at her parted lips.

  “You know,” she whispered, her voice breathless and raw. “You know what I’m feeling.”

  Elliot set his teeth and gripped her hand tighter. “Yes, I know.”

  “And you know what I want,” she said, dropping her gaze down to his lips. He wet them, unable to help himself, and she shuddered and looked back up. “If you know what I want, and you feel the same way, then… why don’t you do it?”

  He swallowed, clutching her face as if it would keep him bound to the earth. “Knowing what you want isn’t the same as having permission.”

  The fire in Iris’s blood tore through her veins and seared her skin, and after a ragged breath, she whispered, “Kiss me,” and he did.

  He’d meant to be gentle, but once his mouth was on hers his brain caught fire, and he seized her by the waist and pulled her body flush against his. Rather than dissolving in shock, her yearning only grew, and he nearly collapsed beneath the collective weight of their desire. He clasped her tighter, and she reached up and raked her hands through his hair, clutching the tangled locks and crying out against his mouth. A savage groan escaped him, and he kissed her even more deeply, sliding his hands to her skirt and gripping the fabric around her hips. She cried out again and dragged her gasping mouth from his lips to his cheek, emitting bursts of hot, flickering breath against his ear. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his muscles went rigid with pleasure, and he lowered his head and pressed his burning lips to the base of her throat.

  “Elliot,” she breathed, and his own breath evaporated. It felt like a miracle to hear her say his name like that. “Elliot, please,” she moaned again. “I want to feel what you’re feeling.”

  He kissed her throat more urgently, and her pulse roared under his lips. “It’s the same,” he murmured against her skin, which tasted like salt and smelled like lavender soap. “Exactly the same.”

  “Please,” she begged, pressing her lips to his forehead. “I want to feel it.”

  He raised his head and kissed her lips again, sliding his hands up her back, and then he sucked in a breath and focused on gathering his feelings. With more effort than he’d ever needed before, he pushed them to her, but then he cried out, because she sank her fingernails into his neck.

  “I’m sorry!” she gasped, dropping her hands. “I suppose I didn’t really believe it could actually be the same.”

  He laughed and drew her close again, pressing their foreheads together, but then her body stiffened and she whispered, “Wait―did you hear that?”

  Elliot raised his head and listened, and after a moment, he heard a voice calling, “Mr. Morrissey?” He looked back down at Iris, and she nodded in confirmation; she’d heard the same thing―Mr. Morrissey―which meant the voice was looking for Elliot and not his father. With a heavy breath and enormous effort, he removed his hands from Iris’s waist and the two of them walked to the door. He pulled it open and peeked out into the hall, seeing no one, but then the figure of Albert materialized, rushing toward him.

  “Mr. Morrissey, sir,” he said breathlessly. “Miss Blackwell sent me to find you. It’s Lord Branch, sir. He needs you.”

  “Cam?” Elliot asked as he and Iris stepped into the hall, just to clarify that Albert didn’t mean the Lord Mayor.

  “Yes, sir. He’s been injured. Miss Blackwell and Mr. Heron believe he needs medical attention.”

  “What do you mean, he’s been ‘injured’?” Elliot asked, his blood running cold.

  “With the season starting, Lord Branch decided the butler’s pantry was no longer safe for hiding that music machine, what with all the new servants creeping about the place, so he moved it into a wardrobe in his own private chambers. An hour or so ago, however, the Lord Mayor came in and found it.”

  Fear erupted in Iris’s veins, and Elliot’s stomach dropped, but he set his jaw and closed the door behind him. “Take me to him.”

  am was apparently still in his room, so Elliot and Iris followed Albert up the stairs and into the north wing of the palace. Elliot’s stomach churned as he hurried through the familiar halls; he’d seen Cam bloody, bruised, and even with sprains and broken bones, but not since his affliction, and never when he was the one expected to fix him and make it better.

  Albert opened the door to Cam’s apartments when they arrived, and the moment Elliot stepped through the doorway his blood stilled in his veins. The Victor―or what was left of its splintered remains―was in the corner, and pieces of the broken records were strewn about the floor. A chair was knocked over, as well as the sofa he’d hidden behind a few nights ago. He edged toward the door to Cam’s bedroom with Iris close behind, and Albert slid back out into the hallway, keeping watch.

  “Elliot? Thank God you’re here.”

  Andrew’s voice rang out before Elliot made it through the doorway. He rushed toward him, his fear as heavy and fierce as a wrecking ball, and Elliot gripped the wall to keep from stumbling back into Iris.

  “Cambrian says he’s fine,” Andrew said. “But Philomena and I, well, we think something’s really wrong.”

  “I’m still here, and, astoundingly, I still have the power of speech.”

  Andrew turned around, and Elliot looked inside the room. Philomena was seated on a chair beside the bed, feeling anxiety he’d never sensed from her before. Cam was propped up beside her, resting back against the headboard, dressed in only his shirtsleeves and rolling his eyes as if annoyed. At first glance, he didn’t even seem to be injured at all―his face was clean and clear of bruises, and there was no blood on his clothes. But then he took a breath, perhaps to emit a dramatic sigh, and the effort caused him to wince in pain and clutch the side of the bed.

  “Come on,” Andrew said. “Let me show you.”

  He turned around and strode to the bed, but Elliot didn’t follow. Andrew’s fear and Philomena’s anxiety were bad enough, but Cam was feeling grief that fastened his feet to the cluttered floor. It was raw and pervasive, as if a loved one, and not the Victor, were lying broken and lifeless in the next room, and Elliot understood―he’d felt Cam’s joy that night in the pantry. The music hadn’t only been something new and exciting for him; it had been an escape, a lifeline to hope and the outside world. Iris saw his hesitation and placed her hand on his back.

  “Share it with me,” she whispered. “It will help. You can do this.”

  Elliot closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and slowly released it, along with the excess grief, fear, and anxiety around him. Iris stiffened but didn’t remove her hand, and soon he felt strong enough to open his eyes, move away from her, and step into the room.

  Andrew walked to the side of the bed across from Philomena, approached Cam, and then reached down to unbutton the front of his shirt.

  “I can do it myself,” Cam muttered, brushing him away, his chest flooding with shame he quickly hid with a crooked smile. “Although I don’t know if these ladies can handle the sight of me undressed.”

  “You forget I saw it earlier,” Philomena quipped from her chair, feigning boredom and disappointment. “Somehow, I’m still standing.”

  “It looks to me like you’re sitting,” Cam replied, and she shot him a phony glare. He grinned and raised his hands to his collar, but then he winced again.

  “Just let me do it,” Andrew said. “Elliot, come here.”

  Elliot approached as Andrew undid the row of buttons, but once the shirt was open, he sucked in an audible gasp. The sound of it deepened Cam’s shame and sharpened everyone else’s fear, but Elliot couldn’t help it; the sight was truly horrible. Cam’s entire torso was a mess of purple bruises, and a strip of fabric covered a bloody gash along his shoulder. Elliot knew it probably stretched the rest of the way down his back; he’d seen that mark on Cam before.

  “Gun holster buckle?” he asked.

&
nbsp; Cam nodded and looked away.

  “There are more in the back,” Andrew said. “We’ve already cleaned them and covered them up.”

  Elliot swallowed and gestured toward the bruises. “What about these?”

  “Boot,” Cam murmured, clenching his jaw.

  Elliot gripped the headboard to steady himself against the shame.

  “It’s the bruises we’re concerned about,” Andrew interjected. “That one there, it’s smaller but also darker than the others, and if he moves or breathes too deeply, it causes him terrible pain. I’m worried he’s broken a rib, or that something’s been punctured inside.”

  “And if that’s the case,” Cam said, somehow managing a theatrical tone, “the ladies at the ball tomorrow will surely be disappointed.”

  “Tomorrow?” Elliot asked. “The season’s first ball is set for tomorrow?”

  “By the Lord Mayor’s decree.”

  It seemed a minor point, but Elliot had asked because Cam’s injuries now made sense. The Lord Mayor hadn’t touched his face or neck because of the ball.

  “Can you tell?” Andrew asked. “If something’s broken or injured internally?”

  His fear was so thick that Elliot blinked, nearly blinded by it. “Let me look,” he said, and he knelt down over Cam. He’d been watching and helping his father for years, but he’d only just begun officially studying himself, and since his affliction, he hadn’t gone near the hospital, an injured person, or even a medical book. Still, he’d seen broken ribs and knew how to tell if a lung had been punctured.

  “I need to listen to your chest,” he said to Cam. “Is that all right?”

  “You know I never refuse a chance to cuddle with you, El.”

  Elliot steeled himself and crawled up beside him on the bed, terrified to touch him but more scared of not checking the wound. After a breath, he lowered his head to Cam’s chest, but then he flinched. The shame wasn’t quite the same as when his father berated him, but it was just as painful, like the ache of a frightened child.