Portrait of Seduction by Carrie Lofty

the trick.”
    Oliver shook his head, his shoulders suddenly heavy. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. “Don’t ask it of me.”
    “Only this. And then you won’t ever need to see me again. I’ll vanish—disappear from your life.” He rocked on his heels, catching his balance with a hand on the nearest wall. “Some rich widow will fall in love with me and that will be that.”
    “And you really expect to be able to accomplish such a ruse?”
    “It’s nothing so nefarious, Oliver. Just trying to change my stars. You can understand that, I’m sure.” He laughed a little. “Remember how we used to dream of the future?”
    “I remember us doing all we could to wind up under a jailer’s watchful eye.”
    Karl seemed to ignore him. “But after the war—God, I couldn’t remember how to dream. This…help me have this.”
    His expression softened, no pretense now. Oliver saw the young man he had once believed to be his best friend in the world. He hardly knew what to think of Karl Schulz now, but their shared past was still robust.
    Although he knew that reference to their wartime experiences was well-timed, like a trump card revealed at just the right moment, Oliver could not deny its power. He owed Karl his life. That responsibility sat like a troll on his back, a nagging burden that would not be denied. Oliver exhaled and shifted his shoulders, readying to bear that burden a little longer.
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “That’s enough.” Karl’s earnestness melted into a smile of drunken triumph.
    Oliver had not suffered nausea for a very long time. But he did throughout the ride back to Salzburg.
     
    Greta cut a piece off a large hunk of umber and placed it in her mortar. Seated at her window bench, she settled into the task of pulverizing the pigment. The umber cracked into a half dozen smaller rocks beneath her pestle. Soon she developed a steady rhythm, able to stare out the window as her hand pushed and crushed. The muscles in her arms and upper back ached, but the steady task was a mindless one. She was able to float out of her studio, taking in the lush beauty of that brilliant summer day. The gentlest breeze brought the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses and warm loam, doing battle with the linseed oil stink of her studio.
    The inevitable loomed, however. Soon. Soon she would need to speak with her uncle.
    She switched sides, enduring the clumsiness of her left hand in order to give her right a rest. Pigment powder fluffed out of the little stone cup, smudging her apron.
    And still the problem of her uncle remained. The longer she put it off, the tighter her chest became. She could hardly approach the thought of it without suffering that electric jolt of fear. He would dine at midday. He would take his afternoon walk. He would read his correspondence and play checkers with Anna and take his supper in the dining room. If she let the day pass without speaking to him, she would suffer the same torture again on the morrow.
    How had such a coward lived twenty years?
    By keeping in Uncle Thaddeus’s good graces.
    She pushed the pestle with even swifter strokes, the muscles of her arm turning to hot lead. At last it was entirely pulverized. She added the pigment and the linseed oil to a bowl and began again, mixing, mixing. She had no say over her life or her fate, but she could make those two disparate ingredients yield.
    When the umber paint was an ideal consistency, she set it aside and rolled her shoulders. Her hands cramped, so she bent her fingers backward against her thighs, pacing the studio.
    Go now…or go in an hour?
    In an hour.
    She glanced at the mantel clock, giving herself an ultimatum. At two in the afternoon he would be sated by his midday repast, taking in the air in the garden. Could he really be angry with her amidst such a setting?
    Rather than answer that question, she covered the umber and found her sketchbook. To paint now, in such an agitated state, would only mean