Wicked After Midnight(68)

“Monsieur, I told you, I don’t care for absinthe.”

He chuckled, a dark and humorless sound that made my eyes stray to his lips. “Your empty glass from yesterday says differently. Whether or not you care for it, you enjoyed it. Now, sit. Drink. I have work to do, and I need your limbs to be pliant.”

I took a step toward his easel, curious about what his furious brushstrokes had accomplished yesterday. A paint-stained cloth hung over the canvas, blocking my view entirely.

He shook his head and tsked at me. “No one sees my paintings until they are complete.”

“Not even a peek?”

“Don’t even try.”

With a melodramatic sigh, I flopped into the chair and tried to find my pose. As I adjusted the pillow under my leg, I watched him through my bangs. He whipped off the cloth, his eyes shining with love and fervor as he looked at his work. Damn, but the man was sexy, and without really trying. Every heterosexual gentleman I’d met in Sang had fawned over me like an overanxious puppy, but Lenoir treated me as if I was the poorly trained dog. The suave elegance of his every movement, the sharp cut of his mustache and beard, the perfectly tousled and European way his hair was swept back, just the tiniest bit overlong—this must be how my mom had felt about Sean Connery. When I was around him, I felt his pull like gravity.

“Drink, Demi.”

The glass was to my lips before I realized I’d picked it up. The liquid washed over my tongue like a symphony, welcome and nourishing and dizzying all at once. I drank half the goblet before setting it down and settling into my pose. As the liquor spread, I could feel my heartbeat slowing, my limbs lengthening, and my spine going soft and loose as I all but melted into the chair. Squinting my eyes, I looked again for the sunbeam fairies. They danced in time with Lenoir’s brush, and time fell away into ribbons of gold.

* * *

I didn’t show up for rehearsal—and why should I have? I’d never made a mistake, never taken a single misstep or botched my cue. What I was doing here, with the country’s most influential painter and tastemaker, was far more important. I sat for Lenoir until evening, somehow ended up in the conveyance back to Paradis, albeit upside down, and went straight to Mel and Bea’s room for makeup. Auguste avoided my eyes and didn’t say a word. I had barely arrived in time for the show.

“What is he like?” Mel asked, as she attached extra-long eyelashes to my half-mast lids with tiny dabs of glue.

Bea signed something, and after several days in her company, I didn’t need a translation.

“He scares you, Bea? Why?”

In response, she just shivered and shook her head, her skin quivering into a milky ice-blue, like the heart of a glacier. She didn’t know. Or she wouldn’t say.

“Hmm.” I blinked my eyes, focusing on the flutter of false lashes made of bits of feather. “What’s Lenoir like? Austere. A little scary. Stern. But a genius, so you put up with it.”

Mel held my chin firmly as she lined my lips. “How’s the painting coming along?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. He keeps it covered. Won’t let me see it until it’s done. He says he always does a grand unveiling at the Louvre, a big party. I’ll see it then, when everyone else does.”

Mel sighed with longing. “Painted by Lenoir. Every cabaret girl’s dream. He started one of Limone, you know, but she made him so mad he never finished it. That’s why she never really became a star, they say. Always on ze edge but never quite arrived.”

I tucked that bit away for later: so it was possible to anger Lenoir to the point of no return. Every day, I felt as if I’d come close to trespassing on his last nerve. But I also left his studio feeling as if I’d been manipulated, treated like a thing instead of a person. And yet I wanted to go back and didn’t want to lose his approval. I needed to know exactly where the boundary between spirited and destroyed might lie.

Mel ducked her head close to mine to whisper in my ear. “Does he give you absinthe?”

I felt cagey answering, and I felt even worse for lying. “I told him I don’t care for it.”

“They say he’s an addict, that his genius is fueled by the Green Fairy.”

“Such is the price of greatness, I suppose.”

Bea shook her head and signed. “ ‘Not worth it,’ ” Mel translated for me.

“Just be careful, yes?” Mel squeezed my arm briefly. “Paris is dangerous, outside of Paradis.”

I squeezed her back. “Is it dangerous . . . inside Paradis?” My eyes flitted to the bed.

She looked at me, and I looked at her, and she dropped her head, blushing dark green. “Oh, la. Not like you think. It’s different for daimons. You do what you must to feed, and so do we. There’s no shame in it. There’s no real danger. It’s an exchange of spirit, of emotion, of hunger for satiety.”