Maxence the Living Painting Prequel: Part One (special preview)

She looks down at her paper then looks back up at me. Her eyes dart over me and a single brow cocks up. “You’re an Emmanuelli,” she murmurs. Her voice is husky yet smooth, like a wonderful dark coffee. 

“Yes,” I bow before her. “Maxence.”

She nods her head, still with a brow raised. “What is such a man as yourself doing out here? I figured the rich slept until they pleased.”

I frown a bit. “Not until they please,” I huff. “But even still, I am troubled, plagued really, and I could not sleep.”

She smirks almost tauntingly. “And what, by chance, could be plaguing a man such as yourself?” She lifts her berry stained hand to me. “Surely any problem you have can have a solution that is purchased.”

“Callous,” I chuckle. “You have no taste for wealth, do you?”

She laughs. “Oh, my dear, like many I have a great appetite for wealth, but it is the people who hold it I have none for.”

“Well,” I huff. “I could certainly buy away this issue of mine, but I am afraid it could only make it worse,” I scoff. “You see, I have a Master, currently, who is...How should I put this?”

She tilts her head. “Is he mean to you?”

I shake my head. “I wish that he were, perhaps then I could get some peace. He is overly friendly.”

“Oh,” she gasps in alarm. “He has been inappropriate with you?”

“Not exactly,” I grimace towards her. “His daughter, though, absolutely.”

She then nods. “I see, I think.” She stretches out her legs. “They are trying to dig into your pockets.”

I nod and stare back out over the horizon. “I had a Master before, who passed away, I greatly loved. He was wise beyond measure and kind to a fault. I would give anything to have him returned to me.” The moment hangs there in the air like heavy incense. I watch as the orange in the sky dilutes into the blue of morning.

“My father was a painter,” the girl says as she stands up. “He too died.”

I furrow my brow at her. “If he was a painter, then why do you only work on a scarp of canvas and use your breakfast as paints?”

“I didn’t say he was a rich painter now, did I?” She scoffs. “We had to sell all his supplies, everything he had, in order to make it. As good a man as he was, he still had his vices.” She mimics drinking from a bottle. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I bow my head down.

“He was never around really,” she sighs. “He preferred to keep things separate. Life, work, passion, they were all boxes he could visit whenever he wanted.”

Something about that sounded familiar, but I could not place the origin right away.

The woman tilts her head side to side. “I only have one thing left that was his, and we couldn’t get rid of it because he did not finish it.” She starts gathering her art supplies. “I suppose I kept it out of sentimentality too.” She balances the bowls of mashed berries on top of one another. “We moved here with it and I cannot count how many curses my mother put on the damn thing.” Her laugh is sad and it fades away quickly. 

I position myself so I am completely facing her. “Do you mind if I see it?”