by M. J. Rose
When I was little, my mother would take me with her when she went to visit him in his studio. A prankster, he always played tricks on me to make me laugh. And then, while he and Maman talked, he’d set me up with watercolors and paper and encouraged me to paint portraits of his cats.
Before the end of every visit, he’d give me a few lessons and an assignment to work on and bring with me the next time I came.
Every cat we ever had at our house over the years had come from a Matisse litter.
“Come see me next week. I would love to sketch you a little and listen to your tales of travails in New York City. I want to visit there one day. I think I would enjoy its energy and certainly its music. Is the jazz as exciting as they say?”
“It is, yes.” I smiled, remembering.
“I can’t get enough of its rhythm.”
“You should go; you’d love it. With all the skyscrapers, it’s nothing like Paris. You’ll walk around looking up, never at your feet.”
“Not seeing where you’re going.” He shook his head. “That could be dangerous, Delphine. Not to mention messy if a dog preceded you on your path.”
We both laughed.
“Well, even if you aren’t ready to show, tell me what you are painting.”
“I seem to be at an impasse.”
“Creativity takes courage, ma chère. Don’t punish yourself if you run out of bravery for a while. But at the same time, don’t forget that work cures everything.”
“But it was work that made me leave New York,” I said.
“And love as well?”
“More precisely, not love.”
“You know what I think? In love, the one who runs away is the winner. So you’ve done the right thing,” he said.
We were interrupted by a friend of Matisse who’d just arrived. I kissed the master good-bye and promised to visit soon.
Alone on the terrace, I watched the party going on through the glass doors. It was the perfect time to leave. Sebastian was busy entertaining and wouldn’t even notice. I walked back inside and headed toward the door. Just before I reached it, a hand gripped my wrist. I felt the force of the grasp before I could register to whom it belonged.
I turned. Madame Calvé’s eyes glittered intently. “Please,” she said in a low, pleading tone. “Consider my request. I’m afraid if I don’t find the book, someone else will. And in the wrong hands, it could be terribly dangerous. If it—” She broke off and shook her head, as if she was afraid to explain any further.
“I just can’t,” I said, and, without any other explanation, slipped out the door of the gallery into the cool, breezy night, which was suddenly much warmer than my skin.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see that beseeching look in her eyes. As I walked along the esplanade, watching the moon’s reflection dance on the gentle waves, I focused on its rhythm and considered how similar it was to the jazz that Matisse thought he needed to travel across the Atlantic to hear.
But it was Madam Calvé’s words that kept returning. Not those about her château and the alchemist. But what she’d said about Mathieu. My heart seized up thinking about him.
There were certainly others alone that night on the Croisette, but I only noticed couples strolling arm in arm or sitting on benches, stealing kisses. Mathieu had been my one chance at love. No matter where I fled, that truth would forever follow me.
I realized I was even more lonely at home in Cannes than I had been in New York. I missed my routine, my lovely studio, and the Tenth Street crowd. I missed painting. And family dinners with Clifford. Most of all, I missed the distance that separated Mathieu and me. It was the only thing I had to keep him safe.
Chapter 16
Book of Hours
June 16, 1920
As I lie here under the maroon satin covers in Grand-mère’s mansion, I’m swooning, both amazed and confused by what transpired during my afternoon with Mathieu. How is it possible to feel such a deep connection with a man I hardly know?
Today we met at the bar of La Rotonde on rue Montparnasse at five o’clock after my last class. Mathieu was waiting for me. I’d never been before, and the restaurant’s decor delighted me.
“Just look at all of these paintings and drawings!” I exclaimed, as I examined the walls covered with works by so many of the artists I knew of through my mother—Picasso, Modigliani, Braque.
Although I had never visited before, I had heard of this legendary café. It is said that when an artist doesn’t have money to pay for his meal, the owner, Victor Libion, accepts artwork in exchange. He’s always letting artists sit for hours nursing a ten-centime cup of coffee and pretends not to see when they take the ends of the baguette from the basket. He claims that one day, he will have one of the best museums in Paris. And I don’t doubt it.
Mathieu ordered pastis for both of us and showed me how to add water to it and turn the liqueur cloudy. It tasted of licorice but not as sweet.
He gave me another gift today, the third from this man who seems to know so much about me and how to move me and touch me, even though we’ve only just recently met. I never before allowed myself to think of anything like this happening to me. It was enough that I had my magick thanks to Maman and my life thanks to Sebastian saving me. But love? I never imagined anything like it—this overpowering exultation, this exaggerated sense of experiencing every moment, every taste, every scent.
I examined his present. Mathieu had salvaged some of my drawings from the ruined sketchbook and carefully pressed them out and bound them together in a simple black leather folio with a silver design on the front.
“You saw all my poor, pathetic attempts and silly notes.” I was embarrassed. I wanted him to think of me not as young and inexperienced but as an able partner.
“I saw your talent and sensitivity.” He smiled and touched the tip of my nose with his forefinger. “You’re far too hard on yourself. Why is that?”
I wasn’t sure I liked how he was talking to me. “Even though I’m five years younger than you, you don’t have to treat me like a little girl.”
“Oh, I know you aren’t a little girl.”
He leaned forward and kissed me, full on the lips. A long kiss that tasted of the pastis and passion.
“And that should prove it.”
I felt the heat flush my cheeks.
“Do you believe you are a good artist?”
“Good, yes. But not great. And I want to be great. I want to try new things, but I don’t have the tools. When I look at one of my mother’s paintings, I see—”
“But your mother has been painting for so much longer than you have. How can you compare?”
“I’ve seen her work from when she was just starting out. She was exceptional from the very beginning. Almost unnaturally so.”
Mathieu tilted his head. “Isn’t that the answer?”
“You know the story?”
“My uncle told me he aided your mother in her search for the truth about her ancestor La Lune. And then he helped her accept the spirit of the long-dead witch. Your mother’s paintings are the result of three hundred years of talent, aren’t they?”
I nodded.
“Then why are you so impatient?” he asked.
“That’s what my teachers ask me.”
“And what’s the answer?”
“I want to show in the Salon d’Automne.”
“But you’re only in your first year at L’École.”
I shrugged. “Do you think that’s a good enough reason to stop me?”
He laughed. “No. Does this mean there is a problem?”
“No, not really. It’s just that I’m so busy.” I told him about Sebastian being my business partner and how he’d encouraged me to use my second sight to create the shadow portraits and the commissions that he was bringing me that were eating away at my time.
“Are you sure you want to be doing them?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Every artist should
be free to forge her own path. It sounds as if he’s pushing you onto a road that works best for him.”
“No. It’s what’s best for both of us,” I insisted. “Sebastian has no gifts himself, but, like our father, he supports our mother and sisters in ways even more admirable, because he doesn’t have our magick to rely on. He makes things happen through his own natural strength, intelligence, and determination.”
“Are you sure he’s not taking advantage of you?” Mathieu asked.
I was surprised and hurt that he would think that of my twin.
“Of course not. I want to do this. I help people with my portraits, help them come to terms with loss or find deeper truths that have remained elusive to them. And not all of my portraits are dark or depressing. Not everyone has such secrets—some are mere embarrassments, others memories that are lovely and amazing. My ability gives people the chance to see them in living color and mount them on their walls to enjoy. Some portraits provide hope, some give warnings of danger to come.”
“And what happens when they don’t? When they are secrets that shouldn’t be exposed?”
“That’s not happened. Besides, Sebastian has vowed to destroy any that my sitters find too disturbing. That’s a strict part of our deal.”
The expression on his face still suggested disapproval. We were having our first disagreement, but I wasn’t ready to concede. Impatience wasn’t my only character flaw. Maman accused me of stubbornness, too.
“You know, if you consider my shadow portraits evidence of Sebastian’s exploitation, what do you have to say about virtually everything you and your uncle sell in your shop? Aren’t you exploiting your knowledge of the occult for monetary gain? How is what I’m doing any different?”
“We are very selective with our clientele and the items we put on display. As you know, the Librairie is meant to serve as a safe haven and discussion place for those truly interested in the esoteric.”
He gently took my hand and held it. His touch was so potent that for a moment I forgot what we were even discussing.
“My point, dear Delphine, is just that you should be the one to decide how and with whom you share your gift, that perhaps your brother might be exerting too much control.”
I withdrew my hand and moved my fingers to the folio he’d given me. I fondled a page and focused on the thickness and smoothness that only an artist could admire.
“Thank you,” I said, focusing on the book now. “This is so lovely. So is the journal you gave me.”
Mathieu gave me a long look, acknowledging that I’d changed the subject.
“I hope you fill that with dreams.”
“The quote you inscribed in the journal, what you just said, so many things you say, and the fact that you create books. Are you a writer as well as an artist?” I asked.
Mathieu looked away from me, quickly picked up his glass, and downed what was left in it. Catching the bartender’s eye, he ordered another.
“Once I thought I could be a poet,” he said.
When he didn’t elaborate, I asked him why he’d said once. Perhaps the drink had made me bold.
“The same thing that changed everyone and everything. The war happened. My brother died. Even if I saved other men, my brother died. I lived. How do you make sense of that? Encapsulate it into verse? Everything I saw for all those years was an utter waste. All the pretty words I knew drowned in blood.”
Suddenly, I felt a cold, wet darkness surrounding him and me, like a mist falling over us. I watched his face change. A frown marred his smooth forehead. His eyes had gone almost black.
And then, even in the gloom, I saw the beginning of a faint glow emanating from his chest. Yes, the war had ripped him open and filled him with terrors and trouble. But some of his former spirit endured.
I leaned forward and did something I had never done before in my life. I initiated a kiss. And the longer he kissed me back, the more the light spilled out from inside him, warming us both.
“You make me feel better than I have in a long time,” he said, when our lips finally parted. “As if you’re pushing the bad memories away and making room for new ones.” And then he took my hand and put it up to his cheek and held it there for a long time.
Chapter 17
Two days after the gallery exhibit, Sebastian arrived at our parents’ house and informed me that we were going to take a drive.
“I’m still angry with you over that incident with Madame Calvé at the gallery,” I said. “You should have just come out and told me you wanted me to meet a prospective client.”
“And would you have come?”
“No.”
“So you see?”
“I don’t see anything. That’s exactly the point. I don’t want to see what the blindfold shows me anymore, Sebastian. I don’t want to peer into the darkness and pull out secrets that are supposed to remain hidden. It’s dangerous.”
“Because of one incident?”
“No, because of many incidents that I turned my back on, and so did you, and then one so large I had to accept that what I do is unnatural. It’s as complicated as Opaline communicating with the dead or—”
“You are a descendant of a witch, Delphine. So are Maman and Opaline and Jadine. You can’t take your ability, stuff it in a bag full of rocks, tie a rope around it, and throw it into the sea to drown it.”
I never wanted to talk about my almost drowning, and Sebastian knew that, but he brought it up slyly sometimes when I didn’t expect it. As if he needed to remind me that he’d saved me. As if I could ever forget.
“Let’s not argue now. It will ruin the surprise I have planned. Get your hat.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, as I grabbed the floppy straw hat with the black ribbon that I’d taken to wearing with every daytime outfit. Gone were the cloches in colors that matched the pastel dresses I had worn in Paris and then New York. Gone were the dresses altogether. My style had changed since I’d come home, partly because of Maman’s influence and the current fashions and partly because wearing different clothes made me feel less like the woman I was before.
Instead of my old style of narrow, hip-skimming, sleeveless dresses in pinks and greens that set off my hair, skin, and figure, I’d begun wearing only the new wide-bottomed pajama pants and long-sleeved tops in white or black. My outward appearance revealed the absence of color in my life.
“You’ll see. Just come with me.” Sebastian took me by the arm and walked me outside. In the driveway was a little cerulean-blue roadster, a Bugatti. My brother opened the door for me, and I climbed into the softest leather seats I’d ever felt.
As he pulled out of the driveway, I asked again where we were going. Ignoring my question, he instead asked me why I’d left the gallery without saying good-bye. “I went looking for you so I could ask you to join me and some of my friends for dinner. The Murphys wanted to get to know you. So did Marsden.”
“The crowd was making me feel like I was just one wave from being swept out to sea.”
Sebastian didn’t respond. He took a right at the next street.
“Are we going to Grasse?” I asked, recognizing the road.
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“You’ll see.”
“And when did you get this car? This isn’t what you’ve been driving.”
“A few days ago.”
“The opening must have gone very well indeed.”
“It did. I sold almost all of Marsden’s paintings and one of Maman’s. That large one of the bay. Americans love her seascapes.”
“Because she puts magick in the water.”
“You still believe that?” he asked, laughing.
It was what Maman had always said. That when she was finished with a painting, she blew magick on it to make it especially attractive.
“Of course. I’ve done it myself,” I said. “But not as successfully.”
“You amaze me.”
“Why is that?”
&nb
sp; “Because with all your sophistication, you are so gullible.”
“Well, you amaze me,” I countered.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because with all your knowledge, you are so suspicious. Of course she blows magick on them. The very spell is in the grimoire from Grand-mère’s house. La Lune’s own spell.”
My brother took a deep breath, puffed his cheeks out, and exhaled very, very slowly. I used to count. Sometimes it could take him as long as twelve or fifteen seconds to let all the air out. It was his involuntary reaction to discussions that centered around our family secret.
“How can you not believe?” I asked.
“Delphine, of course I believe.”
“Then what?”
We’d had this conversation before, but Sebastian would never explain why the topic bothered him so much. I didn’t know if he was even aware of the reason. But I thought I was.
Sebastian pursed his lips, his signal that he was shutting down the conversation.
“I think that you should appreciate what we do and not be exasperated by it. Of everyone, you benefit from it the most. Without the gift, I’d be just another artist. Maman, too.”
Sebastian inhaled again.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I’d insulted him. Said out loud exactly why this subject maddened him. Sebastian didn’t appreciate it when I, or anyone else, reminded him that he hadn’t inherited the La Lune gift. That he hadn’t been enough of an artist on his own to succeed. That the talents he’d been heir to were only adequate. His vision wasn’t unique; his ability wasn’t special. His canvases didn’t sing or move people to feel emotions the way our mother’s did. The way many said mine did.
Sebastian was like thousands of others whose desire to create art outweighed their ability. He knew how to use colors and brushes and stretch canvases, but his results were mediocre. And when confronted with what made us, at our core, the most different from each other, he bristled and turned grumpy. And I didn’t want to set him off. Sebastian in a bad mood was disagreeable. Especially to me. Because of our odd bond, I felt it doubly.
