Marcus could only stare in disbelief as Sebastian, with less decorum than previously, allowed his sycophants to grope and kiss him. It was disgusting, how they used him, and it tore his heart how Sebastian allowed it, encouraged it.
Intellectually Marcus understood this was Sebastian's way of cutting himself off from whatever it was he feared, but Marcus couldn't quite process that because he'd thought, he'd wanted, Sebastian to be his and his alone, not pawed and man-handled by everyone in the damned room. He couldn't bear it and turned to go, while he could still walk upright.
And then Bastian spoke. And his words cut into whatever was left of Marcus's heart. He'd meant nothing to him, less than nothing. He'd never come close to knowing the real Sebastian Moreaux. His face burned in humiliation and tears he could not hold back rolled down the heated flesh. A sob clawed its way past his control as he left the room at a run.
Seven
It was two weeks before Marcus considered leaving his rooms for anything more pressing than eating and elimination. He sat at the window and sketched mindlessly, long black streaks that smudged his fingers and subsequently his face. For some reason, it had never occurred to him that he might fall in love and it wouldn't be reciprocated.
He considered ripping up the countless sketches, mostly unfinished, he'd made of Bastian, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Especially the last one, where he'd thought he'd actually seen the real Sebastian Moreaux. It was too beautiful. He would paint it, changing the hair and eyes to be less obviously Sebastian.
That decision made, he called for a bath and then studied his reflection in the mirror. Charcoal darkened the fuzz on his face, for he'd not bothered to shave. No reason to. He looked very disreputable, rather than deeply foolish as he felt. He should leave the City of Dreams, but how could he leave the ecole? The best in the world, a privilege to be accepted!
So. He would not give Sebastian Moreaux the satisfaction of his pain. He would hide it, and pretend it had meant as little to him as it had to Bastian. He would work diligently until the end of the year and ask for a gallery. Hopefully he deserved to be mentored by a Master of Sebastian's calibre, and he would be successful enough that people the length and breadth of the land would want to commission him.
He did not bother to scrape the dark blond fuzz from his face—he was going no further than the studio and he would not be the first to work unshaven. At least it made him look less like a girl. He carried his sketchbook and found an appropriately sized canvas for what he wanted, pre-stretched for a mid-size portrait. Or landscape, if he turned it on its side. His lips curved in a smile; faint, but strange, for he'd not felt like smiling for some days.
He got lost in his work, oblivious to the comings and goings of anyone else using the space, only vaguely aware of voices as he transferred the lines of his sketch to the canvas, using coloured chalks to remind him later of the look he wanted. Then he flipped through his sketches to find a landscape that suited the yearning of the figure, some distant verdant beauty. A few quick lines, and he was ready to paint.
He came to halt as he finished the base colours. To his eyes, changing the hair to a dark blond and the eyes green didn't do much to disguise the distinctive lines of Sebastian's face, but he couldn't bring himself to alter it further. He left the paint to dry and wandered with his sketchbook out into the afternoon sun, down the Savil River, in the opposite direction of the cafes where the artists flocked like bright birds. He should sketch them like that, exotic vultures all ripping into whomever was most vulnerable.
The Cafe Pekoe where he'd met Kitty had a different clientele. He was used to drawing looks for having a sketchbook, now he drew more for being unshaven. He didn't care, he had no one to impress and his clothes spoke for his circumstances, elegant and neatly pressed. He accepted a coffee delivered to him unasked and nodded recognition at the waiter, who smirked, but made no other comment, not even as Marcus murmured his thanks.
He followed the waiter's path away, wondering if he would be a good subject to paint. Marcus needed more than just Sebastian's handsome face for a year end gallery. Stop thinking of him, you idiot. He toyed with the coffee cup, remembering that sketch he'd done of Sebastian weeks ago. He wished he hadn't given it away. Could he recreate it in paint without the sketch as reference?
"Hey, stranger." Kitty adjusted her skirts into the chair opposite and signalled to the waiter. Marcus couldn't meet her eyes, afraid to see her pity or hear her say I told you so. "I heard it didn't..." she cleared her throat. "I was going to ask if you needed a new razor, but it kind of suits you."
He looked up then, astonished, and rubbed his face. "I suit looking down and out?"
"You could start a new fashion trend," she said with a smile. "It enhances your jaw, gives you a sexy, dangerous look."
Marcus laughed in spite of himself. He'd never been described that way before.
Kitty's coffee came and as the waiter walked away again, she asked in a quiet voice, "You wanna talk about it?"
"It was just a game to him, didn't mean anything," he said, his voice dark and bitter.
She tilted her head to maintain eye contact as he tried to look away. "So. He got your virginity?"
He snapped his head back up, cheeks burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment. "I'm not a virgin. Why does everyone think that?"
Kitty grinned. "Because you blush at every mention of sex?"
"I do not." He glared at her and then sighed before confessing, "He humiliated me in front of his salon before I could, before we—"
Kitty's jaw dropped and closed slowly as she frowned. "That seems a little odd, don't you think? I thought you said he wanted to fuh, uh, get you to bed? If that was his goal, why would he quit before reaching it?"
The thought had occurred to Marcus, but he had no answer for it. "Maybe he just got bored." He gave her a sour look. "You can say fuck, you know."
"I didn't want you to blush," she said, and grinned when he did. "You are so ridiculously adorable, Marcus. You'll find someone who can appreciate that." She ducked her head again to catch his eye before he looked away and he sighed. "Want me to turn him into a toad? I mean, I'll have to charge you for it, a lot, but I could-?"
He smiled, though it hurt. "No. But thank you for the offer."
Eight
Marcus didn't know why he did this to himself, continuing to circle in orbit of Sebastian, especially after his encounter with Marie and the others only a day ago. How could he have been so foolish to mistake everything. He didn't know why Bastian continued to invite him, for that matter. So his sycophants would have a common point of amusement?
It was quiet, this luncheon, and Marcus sat off to the outside of the cafe, still part of the group, but on the fringe. He saw a well-dressed middle aged man walk with purposeful steps toward Bastian's table. He bent over to say something Marcus was much too far away to hear. But Bastian stood up and gestured toward the street, saying, "Shall we discuss this privately?"
A commission, probably. Sebastian Moreaux had the Eye, or so they said. Marcus wasn't even sure he believed in such a thing, though he had to admit, what he'd seen of Bastian's work felt... he struggled to find the right word. Commissions were finished with a gloss that seemed like the paints that women and some men used on their faces, to make them look prettier than they actually were. Marcus preferred a more muted palette, layering colours over transparent pastes. He loved when he could manage to get the just right line and light and shadow combined with the perfect luminosity of paint. If only he could learn to be consistent with it.
"Master Allegro?"
Marcus started from his thoughts, staring at the man, the one he'd just seen walk off with Sebastian, looking at him with beseeching eyes. "Uh, yes? I mean, no. I mean, I'm Marcus Allegro." When had he become a master? He shot a glance toward Sebastian who was ignoring him, as usual.
"Master Moreaux said you might help me. I'd like a portrait of my wife, as she really is. Not, not idealized. Master Morea
ux said you could do this. Just something small, for my study." He smiled and named his payment.
If Marcus had been drinking his sweet coffee, he'd have choked. That was a price that someone like Bastian might command, but Marcus Allegro? He opened his mouth to protest, but figured it was a miscommunication with Bastian. He would do the commission and sort out what he owed Bastian for the recommendation afterwards. "You want me to start now?"
"If you wouldn't mind, Master." He belatedly stuck out a hand and introduced himself. "Albert Vanetta."
Marcus blinked and shook the proffered hand. "As in Vanetta Importers?"
Vanetta inclined his head modestly.
"You wish a painting, or just a sketch?"
Vanetta's brows drew together. "Do you work in coloured chalks? I thought my offered payment surely sufficed for a painting?"
"It does indeed, sir," Marcus assured him. "But it may take a couple days and you seem in something of a hurry."
Vanetta smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Not that much of a hurry. But if you could start now? I'd be grateful."
"Of course," Marcus said, rising to his feet. "Do you wish to wait on me gathering my supplies, or shall I meet you at your residence?"
Vanetta's smile widened. "Come to the house. My wife will appreciate the extra minutes to prepare."
*~*~*
Marcus took his portable easel, primary colours, and his sketch book. He would make a preliminary sketch, then either finish the portrait in the student studio, or return to the Vanetta home with a proper canvas. It would depend on the subject, sometimes the work had to be completed with the model in front of him, because the details were difficult to remember, though he didn't know why. His talent had always been uncertain like that. Was that why Bastian had referred Vanetta to him? So that he could fail to please the client and provide more amusement for his friends? If they could be called friends. Vultures, more like.
"They just want to use you," he'd tried to tell Bastian, when he'd thought-- when he'd been foolish.
Bastian had shrugged. "And I've used them."
It didn't matter now. If that was the sort of people he chose to associate with, fine.
The Vanetta'a butler met him at the door and showed him into a rather grand parlour where the couple of the house waited. Madame Vanetta was dressed in a pale silk gown, embroidered with pale flowers about the skirt and front. Her quilted petticoat was a muted green, enhancing the idea of a garden. If capturing her garment was his only task it would be simple enough but her face—he could not put his finger on what was troubling him about her face. He had the impression she was a beauty, some years younger than her husband, perhaps not yet thirty, her hair was capped with delicate lace that set off perfect curls. Or so it seemed.
Marcus blinked to clear his vision. He'd never had that much trouble seeing a person before. "Do you wish a full length portrait or a bust, sir?"
"Just the head and shoulders. My darling, you do look stunning in that gown, but recall this is for my study; it is your own sweet face I desire to see, not your gown."
Madame's pout gave way to a smile. "You are too gracious, dear husband."
"Right. I'll leave you to it, then. Come to the library when you're done, Master Allegro." With that, Alfred Vanetta left the room, closing the door behind him.
"Is this your first portrait, madame?" Marcus felt foolish after he asked, for it seemed unlikely.
"First by one of Master Moreaux's group," she said, her voice soft. "I had rather hoped Sebastian Moreaux himself might have come."
"You know him, do you?" Marcus used the sound of her voice to help him concentrate, as he sketched out the general shape of her head and shoulders.
"Only by reputation, we don't move in the same circles. But I'd like to, for at least one night."
Her words made him grit his teeth. Although as far as he knew, Bastian avoided the married. Not, Marcus imagined, that he cared about the preservation of the union, but rather he wanted to avoid any scenes with angry spouses. He didn't mention that to Madame. She was, he supposed, entitled to her fantasies. "Turn your head, a little to the right?"
By Dea, it was worse in three-quarter profile, it was as if the lines of her face shifted, the harder he looked at her. His eyes were beginning to ache. He decided to not look so hard, stealing glances over the portable easel as if flirting. It was the only way he could figure the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. He looked at his sketch, saw the wavering lines as if she were reflected in a rather cheap mirror. He flipped the page to try again. "Please try to sit still, madame."
"Then again," she said, adjusting her position, "You're quite the pretty young thing, aren't you?"
A headache was coming on fast, but Marcus gave her a tight-lipped smile. "I don't do women." He hadn't meant to be quite so blunt. For an instant, he thought he saw her clearly and he hurried to catch the shape of her mouth and eyes on the paper, blinking when his vision doubled and blurred.
"Pity. Ever? Not even curious?"
"Not even a tiny bit curious," Marcus said, closing his eyes for a moment. He rubbed at the throbbing in his temple and tried to focus on his subject. "Could you please hold still, Madame?"
"I am holding still, silly boy. Is there a problem?"
The room tilted to the left and slid into darkness.
*~*~*
Sebastian was furious with himself. All he'd needed was to see Marcus's sketches to know what had happened. "Your wife," he'd told Alfred Vanetta through gritted teeth, "is using a glamour. If that's what you've paid to find out. And now one of my artists is ill." He hoped it was that simple.
Marcus had since been moved to Sebastian's bed, his fair skin pale and clammy. It should never have gotten this far. Sebastian had been so eager to push Marcus away, he hadn't even tried to train his gift. It was his fault. Magic and art did not mix, it was a truism everyone knew but few understood. An artist with the Eye, the ability to see past pretension and all the stories people made up about themselves, was hobbled by magic. Their ability crippled by the strength of a spell insistently telling them what they see is wrong. There were so few artists with an actual Eye, it didn't matter much, but if an artist with the gift didn't know what he—or she—was seeing, they wouldn't look away. The magic would worm into their minds and insist, insist, insist. Sebastian had never seen it do this, though. He raked his fingers through his hair, unwilling to leave Marcus's side, but fearing this wasn't something that would pass naturally.
With a curse, he left, uncharacteristically locking his rooms. Hadn't he seen a shop not too far away? Down the Savil, near Montague. He forced himself not to run, and was relieved to see the sign, Prestcote Charms and Spells, and even more relieved to see it was open. He pushed open the door and the jangling of the bells made him jump.
The noise seemed to summon a freckle faced moppet, who then stood up and revealed herself to be a young woman with a hairstyle much too young for her. He swallowed and said, "I need a sorcerer."
She tilted her chin slightly. "Will a sorceress do?"
"Yes, yes! Please, hurry and fetch her!"
"I'm the sorceress," she said, her tone hard.
Sebastian studied the girl in front him. She wore an apron over a grass green dress of fine wool. It wasn't the latest fashion, but it was quality. A sorceress without decent skills wouldn't have been able to afford it. "Can you please come with me? My name is Sebastian—"
"I know who you are."
"One of my artists is unconscious. He's glamour-sick, I've never heard of it being so bad."
Her attitude immediately changed. "He has the Eye, then?"
"So it seems, yes. Will you come?" He wanted to grab her arm and drag her behind him, but that would be foolish.
"Let me gather a few things that might help," she said, already putting vials and such in a small tapestry bag. "You'll pay the price?"
"Yes, anything. Whatever you want that's in my power to give. Please, hurry."
She gestured him through the shop door and locked it, then followed at a trot behind him. He knew she was running every few steps to keep up, but he didn't care.
"Oh," she said upon seeing Marcus.
"Tell me you can help him."
The unlikely looking sorceress put a hand on Marcus's forehead and muttered something Sebastian didn't hear. Her eyes closed. "Hmm. Mirror."
Sebastian started to pace, worried. This was his fault: he was so afraid of being close to Marcus that he hadn't really talked to him about his gift.
"His subject was using a mirror spell and now it's causing him to reflect in on himself. He's still processing visual images, but he's, um, trapped. We need to break him out."
"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Sebastian pushed both hands through his hair as he whirled in his march back and forth across the room. "Trapped?"
"You really care for him," she said, sounding surprised.
He stopped pacing and gestured toward Marcus. "If I'd cared a little less this wouldn't have happened. Now, what did you mean, trapped?"
She regarded him with solemn eyes then turned back to Marcus. "I need a hand mirror. And I need you to hold him," she added when he snatched one off the dressing table.
"Hold him?"
"Prop him into a sitting position, leaning against your chest," she said with the exasperated patience his aunt used to use. "Then hold him. In case he flails. Clear enough?"
He pressed his lips together and nodded, doing as she instructed. Please, he thought, bringing his cheek to Marcus's hair. Marcus. I'll make it up to you, if you just come back.
"Arms around him," the sorceress said. "Like a lover's embrace." She ignored the dark look he sent her and continued, "I'm going to raise his eyelids and break the inner reflection, are you with me?"
"Just do it already," Sebastian growled, his arms around Marcus, holding his arms down. He buried his face into Marcus's shoulder, wishing... wishing he hadn't pushed Marcus away to begin with. He thought of the painting in his studio and sighed. The artist still loved the subject.
City of Dreams Page 4
