Chapter 8 Manipulator
By the time I looked at the clock, it was 8:27 p.m. The studio was just me and my canvas… and other covered canvas at my back, and the lights dim. Rain lashed against the tall windows, wind making the candlelight tremble. I stretched my aching arms, then crossed the room to close a rattling window. As I reached for it, I heard the faint sound of something falling, a soft click against the marble floor.
My breath caught. “Who’s there?” My voice was barely a whisper. I turned slowly, scanning the rows of canvases shrouded in white cloths. My steps were cautious, each creak echoing in the silence. I glimpsed what looked like a leg, someone sitting near the far end of the room. My pulse quickened.
I edged closer… only to find the chair empty.
I exhaled shakily. “I must be seeing things.” I pressed my fingers to my temple. “What’s wrong with me?”
Then my gaze fell on a nearby canvas, a painting so detailed it made my breath hitch. It was of an abandoned green wooden house in the woods… and a girl in Gravenmoor’s uniform standing before it, clutching a book.
My blood ran cold. It was the exact house from my dream.
“What…” I whispered, trembling. “What’s going on?”
I put my eyes away. No, Lexie. You’re imagining things.
“Trying to improve your art?”
The voice came from behind me.
I spun around.
“Adrian?”
He tilted his head slightly, that calm, unreadable expression on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, startled.
“The same thing you are,” he said smoothly.
“But… you don’t need to redo your work.”
He shrugged. “No. I came to paint… and watch.”
“Wat… watch what?” My voice faltered.
He looked at me, his eyes unreadable. “Over you.”
I froze. “Me? Why? You think I’ll break something?”
His lips quirked faintly. “No. I hold the keys to the studio. I’m waiting for you to be done.”
I stared, then glanced at the painting again. “No doubt this is yours.”
“Yes. It’s mine.”
“Whose house is this?” I asked before thinking. “Or… is it just from your imagination?”
He hesitated. “Imagination,” he said at last. “Just that.”
His gaze flicked to my canvas, then back to me. “You haven’t finished.”
“Ms. Gladys wants it done before dawn,” I muttered.
He stepped closer, taking my hand gently. “You’re still getting it wrong, Lex.”
The way he said my name gave me goosebumps. He has never called my name since we started talking.
He pulled a stool close. “Sit.”
I obeyed before I could think. I’d almost trashed the canvas entirely, but his tone had stilled me.
“Wait,” he murmured. “It only needs a little correction.”
He handed me the brush, his hand covering mine, guiding each stroke, my stomach sank, all I could hear was my heart beating against my ribs. I could feel his breath brushing my neck, warm, rhythmic. I turned slightly, catching his face in the dim candlelight, his expression concentrated and serene, his eyes like pieces of the sea.
“There,” he whispered at last. “It’s done.”
He released my hand, and I blinked at the canvas, now transformed. The sketch had become a finished piece, flawless and full of life.
“How… how could it be so fast?” I stammered.
He smiled faintly. “It’s not my first time painting.”
I was still staring when he straightened. “We should leave now,” he said quietly.
I rose to my feet, and for a heartbeat, we stood too close, his chest nearly brushing mine. I took a slow step back, my heart stuttering. “Thank you, Adrian. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
He surprised me by pulling me into an embrace. My breath caught. For a moment, I didn’t move. I couldn't breathe. Then, uncertainly, I raised my hand to his back.
“My pleasure, Lex,” he murmured near my ear.
When he drew away, my heart was still racing. “See you tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded, dazed, watching him turn to the door. That was when I saw it, the glint of gold from his back pocket. A brush. Not an ordinary one. The handle was dark wood design with gold, the bristles glimmering faintly red under the light.
My breath stopped.
I’d seen that brush before.
In my dream.
When I was five, Aunt Harvey used to whisper during bedtime stories,
“Be like the trees in the tales, my dear. They do not rush to grow, yet they never cease reaching for the light. Their roots cling to the dark earth, but their leaves still whisper poems to the wind. Remember that you can stand tall, even when the world forgets to look up.”
I grew up with that advice etched in me, and I’ve lived long enough to understand what she meant. Growth takes time; patience is the key.
And if I truly want to uncover the mystery surrounding me… the dreams, the voices, and Julian, I must be patient to find out.
“Are you alright, Lexie?”