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By Root 603 0

my fingers and before long I could stitch a sole in half his time. Then, when I was eleven, my parents were both killed in a fire. I was sent to an orphanage, where I remained some months, until I was taken on as an apprentice by a goldsmith. It was he who taught me the art of limning, and how to use a brush and pen. After a year, he sent me to a distant relative, the portrait painter I spoke of. I remained with him for five years, until he died when I was seventeen. By then I was skilled enough to make my own way.”

“I am sorry about your family,” I say. He turns back to the frozen glass in front of him.

“It was a long time ago,” he says quietly. I think of Long Boy, also an orphan at the age of eleven. Where will he be in twenty years’ time?

“You were fortunate to learn a trade,” I say.

“It was not luck but fate,” he says without hesitating. “As a child, I was sensitive to light. Sunlight nearly blinded me with its brightness, and colors were so strong as to be almost overwhelming. As I grew older, it became easier. I became more tolerant, and I learned to make use of my eyes and their sensitivity, until eventually it seemed less of a burden than a gift.”

He turns and fixes his gaze on me, and I cannot help but wonder what he sees. He envies my master his devotion, but I envy him his conviction. Like Dora, he is certain of his place within the world. I have never known such certainty, and I cannot help but wonder for what purpose I was constructed. The painter notices my distraction.

“What is it?” he asks.

Before I can reply my master knocks and enters, his face brimming with expectancy. “How goes your task?” he asks.

“We’ve made much progress today,” says the painter, and looks toward me for confirmation. I smile and nod, though in truth I do not share his confidence.

“Excellent,” says my master, and he shifts back and forth a little nervously. “Might it be possible . . . for me to see?”

“We are not ready,” says the painter quickly. “That is, the painting is not ready.” I cannot help but look at him, but he avoids my eyes.

“Yes, of course,” says my master almost deferentially. “Forgive my interruption. I am pleased at the news.” And with that he bows to us both, and departs. Once he is gone I smile at the ease with which the painter handles him.

“Do you always treat your patrons in such a way?” He shrugs, the corners of his mouth turning up in that same half-smile.

“I treat everyone the same,” he says. “Is this not right?” And then he looks at me intently. And I wonder whether I would have him treat me any differently from the rest.

“Of course it is,” I say. “How long will you remain here?”

“As long as my presence is required,” he replies.

“And then?”

“Another commission, God willing.”

“You do not fear such . . . uncertainty?” I grope for this last word, but what really strikes me is the rootlessness of his life. He is tied to nothing but his talent, and I do not know whether I envy or pity him for this.

“I have always found my way,” he says.

“But you have no home to return to,” I ask. He looks around at the walls of the Great House, then back at me.

“None such as this,” he says, with a thin smile. His meaning is evident: only half-cloaked in politeness. I look around the room at the book-lined walls, heavy velvet drapes, and thick, studded floors. What home is this for me? I think. Where am I lodged within these walls? I turn back to him and his expression has suddenly softened.

“You are fortunate,” he says quietly.

But I do not believe him.

* * *

A few minutes later I take the tray down to the kitchen, and as I enter I see Mary at the door. Cook turns to me, her face ashen, and Mary steps forward with urgency.

“She’s been found,” says Mary breathlessly, her hands cradling her massive belly. “In a cave by the river. Some children found her there this morning.”

In my mind I see the children playing by the river—see their stricken faces.

“Has anyone gone to fetch her?” I ask.

“Samuell and John and a few of the others,” she says. “They’ve yet to return.”

“What of the boy?” I ask. “Does he know?