soot away from my find. With every touch, more was revealed. When I had the edge of a wing half-exposed, it started to flutter.
I jerked back. But the fluttering became a heavy beat.
Working with the blue insect, I pried and willed more of it to break free, and it worked hard, determined to do so.
A final, giant flap fully disengaged the butterfly from the paper, popping it out. It landed awkwardly in my hand. I slowly rotated my hand watching the feathery edges move, feeling the gentle beat of its wings. I set the butterfly carefully on my table and stared in wonder. It had worked.
The butterfly straightened, as if strengthening its frame, then beat its wings fully, lifting into the air. It flew around unsteadily at first, then with greater strength. It landed on my windowsill, which was still open to the night. Its wings flattened, then folded gently as it seemed to consider the night. Then it launched itself, fluttering and disappearing over the edge and into the dark.
Life. Created. Alive.
I lurched forward. With my clean hand, I pushed the papers on top of my desk aside. Some fell to the floor and others shifted to bury everything in their path. I paused only when I came to a canvas near the bottom. I tugged the half-finished image of my brother free.
I had started it in pencil. The perfectionist part of me said that I needed to finish it in pencil. But the need in me said, Paint . Now .
Blue was an odd choice for a portrait of my brother. Yet, my fingers squeezed more from the tube and the first brush of paint was intoxicating.
I paused to look at the tube, lying there so innocently. Mr. Verisetti had used me to create this. How? And why?
Don’t you want to see what is in the box?
I blinked at the thought and gripped the brush. My breath hitched. My knuckles turned white. The paint glistened.
I looked at the picture, at the features that with each glowing brushstroke seemed to come more alive. Really alive. And the electric knot inside me grew.
I made a tentative swipe. Then another. I felt the pleasure in the paint. Easily framing and forming the other side of my twin's face in broad strokes. Every swipe increased my feeling of purpose. Determination and desire filled my motions. Every time a line connected with another, the intersection...glowed for a moment, then transformed into whatever color I imagined it should be. I could almost see the skin of his hand.
I reached out to touch it, and my fingers dipped into the canvas, into a pocket of space that shouldn’t exist, and touched the edges of something soft. Cool skin. I couldn’t breathe—I could feel him. I could feel skin I hadn’t touched in six weeks. My fingers automatically tried to wrap around, but the paint was drying and the softness was turning brittle, repelling my fingers. My hand came free of the canvas and the spell broke, shattering what was in my hand, spilling what now felt like the ashes of paint chips to the floor.
I stared at my hand covered in beautiful, unnatural blue. The digits curled in. I had felt Christian.
I touched the canvas again, but it was solid. No hole or magic vortex in sight. But I had felt him. I had .
I had.
The edges of my vision tinged gold, and I plunged my brush into the paint cup and forced blue onto the canvas again, the edges of the brush splattering before I outlined him once more. The canvas glowed, and I thrust my hand in, the untainted white of the sheet rippling around my wrist like a vat of splotched milk. Skin. I gripped and frantically pulled, trying to wrench my brother from the canvas, but only paint drops and chips spilled free.
Again.
Everything else grayed out around the brightened space of the easel. Dip, brush, thrust, nothing . Dip, brush, thrust, clasp a strong wrist, nothing . Dip, brush, thrust, skin, nothing . Over and over, drops fell from my hand, the remnants drying and crumbling on the floor, resting amongst the other drips and chips and sobs.
Dip…dip, dip, dip. I
I jerked back. But the fluttering became a heavy beat.
Working with the blue insect, I pried and willed more of it to break free, and it worked hard, determined to do so.
A final, giant flap fully disengaged the butterfly from the paper, popping it out. It landed awkwardly in my hand. I slowly rotated my hand watching the feathery edges move, feeling the gentle beat of its wings. I set the butterfly carefully on my table and stared in wonder. It had worked.
The butterfly straightened, as if strengthening its frame, then beat its wings fully, lifting into the air. It flew around unsteadily at first, then with greater strength. It landed on my windowsill, which was still open to the night. Its wings flattened, then folded gently as it seemed to consider the night. Then it launched itself, fluttering and disappearing over the edge and into the dark.
Life. Created. Alive.
I lurched forward. With my clean hand, I pushed the papers on top of my desk aside. Some fell to the floor and others shifted to bury everything in their path. I paused only when I came to a canvas near the bottom. I tugged the half-finished image of my brother free.
I had started it in pencil. The perfectionist part of me said that I needed to finish it in pencil. But the need in me said, Paint . Now .
Blue was an odd choice for a portrait of my brother. Yet, my fingers squeezed more from the tube and the first brush of paint was intoxicating.
I paused to look at the tube, lying there so innocently. Mr. Verisetti had used me to create this. How? And why?
Don’t you want to see what is in the box?
I blinked at the thought and gripped the brush. My breath hitched. My knuckles turned white. The paint glistened.
I looked at the picture, at the features that with each glowing brushstroke seemed to come more alive. Really alive. And the electric knot inside me grew.
I made a tentative swipe. Then another. I felt the pleasure in the paint. Easily framing and forming the other side of my twin's face in broad strokes. Every swipe increased my feeling of purpose. Determination and desire filled my motions. Every time a line connected with another, the intersection...glowed for a moment, then transformed into whatever color I imagined it should be. I could almost see the skin of his hand.
I reached out to touch it, and my fingers dipped into the canvas, into a pocket of space that shouldn’t exist, and touched the edges of something soft. Cool skin. I couldn’t breathe—I could feel him. I could feel skin I hadn’t touched in six weeks. My fingers automatically tried to wrap around, but the paint was drying and the softness was turning brittle, repelling my fingers. My hand came free of the canvas and the spell broke, shattering what was in my hand, spilling what now felt like the ashes of paint chips to the floor.
I stared at my hand covered in beautiful, unnatural blue. The digits curled in. I had felt Christian.
I touched the canvas again, but it was solid. No hole or magic vortex in sight. But I had felt him. I had .
I had.
The edges of my vision tinged gold, and I plunged my brush into the paint cup and forced blue onto the canvas again, the edges of the brush splattering before I outlined him once more. The canvas glowed, and I thrust my hand in, the untainted white of the sheet rippling around my wrist like a vat of splotched milk. Skin. I gripped and frantically pulled, trying to wrench my brother from the canvas, but only paint drops and chips spilled free.
Again.
Everything else grayed out around the brightened space of the easel. Dip, brush, thrust, nothing . Dip, brush, thrust, clasp a strong wrist, nothing . Dip, brush, thrust, skin, nothing . Over and over, drops fell from my hand, the remnants drying and crumbling on the floor, resting amongst the other drips and chips and sobs.
Dip…dip, dip, dip. I
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