Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  From her seat, Emily watched the corners of the papers curl in the fire, watched the ash break away and fly into the air, swirling and dancing like fireflies. She couldn’t make out what was written on them other than a few meaningless figures and numbers.

  “That is the reason that I collect art, and it is also the reason I wish to collect no more,” Volkov said. “I have seen enough of creation.”

  Something changed, then. His face, made so horrifying and bestial by the flickering shadows, softened and seamlessly altered in the blink of an eye. He stared into the flames in silence, brow lowered and eyes distant. The muffled sounds of thunder could be heard overhead, the storm still raging on outside. Emily wondered if it would be possible for her to get home in this weather alone, knowing she didn’t have an umbrella or even a decent coat, but she couldn’t stay here, not now. Her mind was already torturing her with visions of the inevitable conversation with her mother.

  “But I think, perhaps,” Volkov said, pausing between each word as if he were considering each individual meaning as thoroughly as he could. “I would commission you.”

  Time seemed to slow down for a moment, leaving Emily time to decide if she’d heard his words correctly. He had turned to look over his shoulder at her, and she looked back at him, taking care to reveal nothing on her face.

  “I… thought you weren’t interested,” she said. It was a struggle to keep her voice from wavering and she was left unconvinced with herself.

  “I said I was not interested in buying your existing work,” Volkov said. “But that does not mean I would not have you create something for me.”

  Emily felt hot excitement pooling in her belly as the realisation set in. “What would you like me to do?”

  “I must show you something, first,” Volkov replied, “If you would come with me?”

  Then he was beside her as if he had always been there. He moved so fast, so fluidly, that Emily began to worry that she was more than a bit tipsy and that her mind was playing drunken tricks. He held out his hand to her. She could see where the hairs of his wrists began along the back of his palm, black and thick and coarse like an animal’s. She was reluctant to touch him, something about those hairs made her stomach churn in repulsion, but she forced herself to place her hand in his regardless. He pulled her sharply, with much more strength than she imagined possible; the paintings fell from her arms and softly thudded against the carpet where they remained, forgotten for now.

  The cool air of the hall was a welcome blessing for her, clearing away the cobwebs in her head. The sound of the rain outside could be heard as she followed Volkov, watching his broad back as he ascended the stairway; his back muscles were taut, the shirt stretching tightly across them. They stopped on the landing, where the stairs split into the East and West wing, disappearing into more imposing darkness.

  “There is only one painting that I have hung, and it is here,” Volkov said.

  A frame obscured by velvet red curtains hung against the wall, surrounded by burning candles like a shrine. It was so large that Emily had to crane her head to see where it ended, close to the ceiling. Volkov took a golden rope in his hands and gave a short, sharp tug. The curtains jerked open, sending a cloud of dust into the air as if they had been drawn for many years rather than the seven days that Volkov had lived here. Everything seemed older, like the house was decaying, standing in the darkness with only the candles to light the way.

  When the curtains settled on either side of the painting, Emily found herself looking at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her life.

  She was so beautiful that she was almost terrifying. In fact, there was no almost about it; the sheer scope and magnitude of her beauty was entirely overwhelming. She could have been something out of a fairy tale, the sort of beauty that men went to war over and happily died for; Helen of Troy made flesh. She was dressed in a flowing gown of emerald with the skirts swelling up around her, threatening to consume her tiny frame. She sat in a classic pose: back straight, chin held high, hands laid demurely in the lap. Her neck was as long and white as a swan’s, adorned with a silken, bejewelled choker. Her small breasts were high and pert in their tight bodice, and glossy golden ringlets were piled up on her head like the bow on top of a present. Her face was the kind that Shakespeare wrote sonnets about, with plump red lips that smiled angelically, dark blue eyes shining like pebbles in a flowing stream, skin as white as paper. Emily took in the strokes of paint, the way the lines curved around her body, the obsessive attention to every detail, and saw that the poor soul who had painted this had been possessed with a passion for the subject, a passion too great for the body to withstand. Volkov was not looking at the painting, but at her, watching her reactions carefully. Emily felt a chill rise through her body, making the fine hairs on her arms and neck rise. Standing beneath the portrait, she felt like there were two pairs of eyes upon her rather than one.

  “The man who painted this was one of the finest of his generation,” Volkov said. He went to the canvas and placed his hand upon it gently and with reverence. “And this painting is the finest of my collection.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Emily’s voice was hushed. “She’s beautiful. Who is she?”

  “A woman from my homeland,” Volkov said. “Countess Marika Fenenko.”

  From his name, and hers, Emily’s assumption that he was from Eastern Europe seemed more likely. Emily wanted to ask Volkov about this homeland of his, wondered herself what it might have been like and why he no longer lived there, but it was clear he was not the sort that offered up every detail of his life. If he wished for her to know, then she imagined that he would tell her himself.

  “Is she...” Emily began uncertainly, debating with herself whether what she was about to say was appropriate. “Is she your wife?”

  “Not my wife,” he said with a slow shake of the head. “She was like a mother to me, of sorts. I lived in her home as a boy, though I was not the only one.”

  He was standing closer to Emily now, so close that their arms were almost touching. Emily wanted to move away, but didn’t want to risk offending him. For the first time, she was close enough to smell his musky, heavy scent that was so strong it made her dizzy, like her senses were being invaded, assaulted even. He smelled of something that Emily could only describe as age; she longed to step away from it, to inhale clean air again, but remained frozen in step. Her head swimming with it, and she found herself pondering his age again. How old was he, really? There was something about his face that left him weirdly ageless, like he could be anywhere between the age of twenty and sixty. She couldn’t imagine the man standing beside her as ever being young. Thinking of it now, trying to visualise him as a boy, small and serious, it was almost comical. Whatever laughter she might have had died in her throat, however, muted by Volkov’s solemn presence and magnified by the oppressive darkness that surrounded them. It was like a heavy blanket covering her, wrapping itself closer around her until she could no longer move or breathe. Her heart gave a weak, nervous flutter in her ribcage.

  “And the man who painted it…”

  “He went mad.” Volkov said. His tone was suddenly cold and abrupt, but again it was like he had read her mind. It was becoming unnerving. “And eventually he died, as we all do. Some say it was through love of her. She had a very certain effect on people, men and women alike, but especially men. She had a…fondness for them. She believed that their presence kept her youthful.”

  Emily could see it as clearly as she would if it were happening in front of her. She was normally dismissive of art that made too much of the beauty of women, and there was a lot of that to be found in her line of work, but this was different. It wasn’t so much a glorification of beauty, but more of a reflection. The painting was truthful, painfully sincere in fact, more like a photograph than anything else. This woman, this countess, had been as beautiful as the artist who painted her perceived, perhaps even more beautiful than that, but Emily could see an underlyi
ng coldness to her, deception, and the merest hint of artifice. There was some indefinable thing, now that her initial awe was fading, that belied that seemingly perfect face. Her inner critic was noting slight imperfections, the sign of a shaky hand here and there, subtle little mistakes that she had trained herself to see throughout her education. It was one of the finest paintings she had ever seen, but in some ways it was too fine, too desperate to be perfect. The artist had loved her, but his fear of her was equal to that love.

  “I can see that she has affected you,” Volkov said, breaking her concentration and bringing her rather abruptly back to earth.

  Emily blinked for the first time in minutes, only now noticing how dry her eyes had become. She wondered absently how much time had passed in the time she had been staring.

  “Yes,” she said, sounding half-dazed. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  Without warning, Volkov took hold of her wrist, gripping tighter than was necessary. His other hand caught her chin, bringing her face up to look at him. There was a hair’s breadth between them now, bodies almost pressing together, close enough to feel each other’s heartbeats, but Emily could only feel the vibrations of her own. Volkov’s eyes bore into hers and she was frozen under the light of his gaze. Her ears were filled with the sound of her own, ragged breathing.

  “Look at my face,” he commanded.

  His face was all she could see. She would remember every line, every crease, the hollow of his cheeks, the shadow beneath his heavy brow, everything. The smell of him was so strong she wanted to gag, but not now, not with his long, cold fingers digging into the soft skin beneath her chin. Not now, with his eyes penetrating her in a way no other person ever had. She was afraid, but she could not speak it. She couldn’t do anything.

  Volkov’s fingers relaxed and slowly he took them away, letting the tips of his fingers trail along her skin. Had this been any other situation, Emily would have thought she was teasing her, maybe even flirting with her. Here, it was more like a threat, like Volkov was saying, secretly, I have power over you, and I can use it.

  “Can you paint me, Miss Emily?”

  She said it without thinking: “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  She hadn’t meant to say it. She hadn’t wanted to say it. But when he asked her to paint him, when the words reached her and she began to understand them, she had been overwhelmed by a sudden and inexplicable need to please him. More than need, desire. She was completely without will, she realised. She had wanted without wanting. Just thinking about it was enough to chill her blood.

  Volkov smiled. His smiles were without joy. When he smiled it was with a wry, detached amusement that did not reach his eyes the way it did for others. He ran his thumb along her cheek, but the gesture lacked tenderness.

  “Then, Emily Van Buren,” he said softly. “I hereby formally commission you to immortalise me.”

  It was done. He took a step back, taking with it the glamour he had cast over her. His mouth had twitched into a smirk, a self-satisfied smile. Emily’s body felt too light, like she was empty, floating. She stumbled, everything around her tilting at a nauseating angle as the bottom of her stomach lurched up uncontrollably. Her legs crumpled beneath her and she fell, forever, into a consuming blackness.

  ***

  When Emily woke, she was back in the library, body draped loosely across a chaise longue of crushed red velvet. The fire had died down, sickly looking flames quivering uncertainly as the wood pile grew smaller and smaller. She groaned, lifting her arm to cover her eyes. Her head was pounding viciously, throbbing in time with the beat of her heart.

  She tried to piece together what had happened before she found herself here. Her memory was fuzzy and disjointed, offering only fragments of a complete picture. She remembered being offered wine, remembered drinking it, and groaned again. She hoped with everything she had that she hadn’t made a fool of herself, though she could have sworn that she had no more than a single glass. She hoped that nothing worse had happened.

  She lay there a while longer, enjoying the quiet, peppered occasionally with crackles and sparks from the dying fire. As her body relaxed, the memories seemed to come more freely, flowing into her head unbidden: the storm, the library, the portrait, Volkov’s face looming above her. Volkov.

  Can you paint me, Miss Emily?

  He had commissioned her. She remembered.

  She pushed herself up into the sitting position and looked around to find that she was alone. She found her coat draped over the back of a chair, where a single sheet of paper lay upon the cushion.

  Miss Emily,

  If you are reading this then you have thankfully recovered from whatever malady befell you. I have been called away unexpectedly and will not return until the morning. The storm outside has subsided at last, so you may leave whenever you please. Hopefully you will remember our arrangement and still be willing. Return here tomorrow evening, before dark, and we shall begin.

  Ever yours,

  Richard Volkov

  His handwriting was sophisticated, elegant and old-fashioned. She imagined him flourishing a quill, sending spatters of black ink across the thick, white parchment, and found it fitting. The way he wrote, too, so like how he spoke. Everything about him was from another time. Born in the wrong century, she thought, and carefully folded the note in half.

  She stood up to get her coat, balancing herself after a wave of nausea crashed over her head. On the table, she found a new decanter, this time filled with water. Volkov had clearly thought this through. She poured out a glass, careful to keep her hands from shaking, and drank the cool, sparkling water down in three large gulps. The pain in her head eased instantly, leaving only a dull ache at the back of her skull. She felt refreshed enough to at least make the walk back home. She put on her coat, gathered up her paintings, which had been left for her stacked in a neat pile, and made her way out. The candles had melted down to fat stumps, their light weak and on the verge of being extinguished, and the flickering shadows now dominated the walls. Emily glanced back to the stairs to see that the painting had been covered once more by its thick, crimson curtains, and was surprised to feel gladness at this. She couldn’t imagine walking around that house with that face staring down at you all the time. It would be too much; perhaps that was why Volkov kept it hidden for the most part.

  Outside, the air had settled into a still, cool evening. The winds had finally died away, leaving only the sound of the waves to break the silence. Caldmar Bay stretched out below her, the black sea calm and still, lights from the houses twinkling like the stars that hung in the sky, picturesque as a postcard. Emily breathed in deeply, taking the cleansing air into her lungs, and felt the last of her nausea fall away. She walked a little unsteadily along the drive, listening to the crunch of it beneath her feet as she made her way back down the hill. The Bentley, she noticed, was still stationary and parked. Tentatively, she ran her hand along it, feeling the smooth and cold metal beneath her fingertips. Volkov did not seem the kind of man that would drive himself anywhere, but then it seemed he was not any kind of man at all. Not any kind of men that Emily had ever met, at least.

  With that last thought, she went down the hill and began the walk back home.

  4

  That night, sleep did not come for Emily. She tossed and turned for what felt like hours, legs tangled up in the sheets, but to no avail. Her mind had come alive and was unwilling to give her pause even for a second. Volkov’s face was fixed in her memory, indelible and immovable. Thinking of him made her stomach twist in knots of desire and other feelings she didn’t completely comprehend yet; she couldn’t stop thinking of what it would be like to paint him, to recreate the strong lines of his jaw, what colours she could use to try and replicate the unique shade of his eyes. In the deep of the night, it all seemed too intimate, as if he had commissioned her to paint him naked. Emily pressed her hands to her face and groaned a long, pained groan, wishing that she could cast those visions from her hea
d the way one sweeps away cobwebs. His face, his whole being, seemed suddenly impossible to her, far beyond her reach. She lay and thought her mixed-up thoughts as time ticked on without her, the night passing with agonising slowness.

  Emily looked at the bedside clock through her fingers: the hands told her that it was almost 3am. With an exasperated sigh, she turned on her side to face the window. She liked to leave the curtains open, preferring to sleep by natural light when she could. Outside, the night was clear and calm, the earlier storm now but a distant memory. The moon hung in the sky like a fine pearl, its silver rays pouring into the room, somehow giving her comfort. She could hear the crashing of the waves and the far-off calling of a gull, usually abrasive sounds that now were almost soothing. She closed her eyes again and focused on slowing her breathing, on calming herself from her fevered dreams. The sounds that surrounded her dulled to little more than a gentle buzz in her ears. Her too-warm skin started to cool, the fine layer of sweat evaporating against it. She did not move, allowing the sheets to remain coiled about her knees, enjoying the air on her skin. With each breath, a languor settled over her, until she was not yet asleep but caught in that unknowable place between dream and wakefulness. She was only half-aware of the world around her, now.

  She was only half-aware, then, when the room became so cold that her breath hung in the air like fresh smoke, only half-aware of the sensation that pricked along her stomach, of the feeling that she was being touched, that someone was touching her. There were hands, she realised, sliding her nightgown slowly up her thigh, over the soft swell of her hips. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to force herself into waking, but she felt drugged and stupid, incapable of pulling the glamour from her. She might have been enchanted, trapped in a dream that was not a dream. She shifted, only barely able to do even that, and allowed herself to fall back onto the mattress.