The Witch of Painted Sorrows

Chapter 16

“Why were you dressed like a man last night?”

My grandmother sat at the table in the dining room. She didn’t look well rested, and I was unsure if it was solely because of me or if something else had occurred.

“I wanted to study painting, and women weren’t allowed at the École. So I thought I’d disguise myself as a man and bought these clothes. As it turned out, I applied and was accepted as a woman, but I found I liked dressing like this; it’s easier to do everything-from walking through the streets to painting.”

Her eyes searched my face as if there were some secret written there she would be able to detect with intense scrutiny.

The maid entered with coffee and a plate of toast, which she placed in front of Grand-mère, and then asked me what I’d like. I said I’d take the same thing. Once she left, my grandmother resumed her inquisition.

“Why do you need to study painting at all? I don’t understand. You never cared about painting.”

“Why is it such a disturbing idea to you? I’ve always loved art. Museums have been a refuge and delight for me my whole life.”

“Yes, but it’s one thing to admire and appreciate art and another to put on a smock and stand in front of a canvas.” She took a bite of her dry toast.

“What about my studying painting could possibly bother you?”

She took another bite and chewed slowly, as if that was going to help her explain.

“Well, for one thing, you are dressing up to do it. Walking about in costume.”

“Yes?”

“It’s perverse.”

“I’m not sure that dressing up like a man in order to study painting is any more perverse than dressing up like a seductress in order to ensnare a man.”

She flinched as if she had been slapped, and a few drops of the coffee in the cup in her hand sloshed out and spotted the white linen tablecloth.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked.

“Almost a month.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“Sandrine, you have changed since your first week here.”

“Yes, Paris agrees with me.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure that it’s all been for the best. You are more secretive, strident, argumentative. You’re darker.”

“My father died.”

“What I’m seeing is not mourning. I know what that is.” Reaching over, she put her hand on mine. “Am I wrong to be afraid for you?”

“Yes. I’m enjoying it here. I feel as if I’m becoming the person I was meant to be. Finally.”

“What do you mean?” She leaned in closer, her voice stressed. “What exactly do you mean?”

Alice entered with my breakfast. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until she put it down in front of me. Before answering my grandmother, I took a bite. There was the perfect amount of butter melted into the bread, and it was delicious. I took a second bite.

“Sandrine? What do you mean when you say you feel as if you are becoming the person you were meant to be?”

“I’m not sure how to describe it. But living here, painting… I simply feel as if I am where I am supposed to be. Doing what I am supposed to be doing.”

I took a sip of the steaming coffee laced with cream. Grand-mère’s cook was a marvel.

“I have a question for you, too. Why is your house closed up? What are you really doing with Maison de la Lune?” I asked.

“I told you. A renovation. Why?”

“How long will it take?”

“Why?”

“Because I would like to live there instead of here, and I’d like to know when I might be able to move in.”

“You will not live there. Ever.” Her voice was strong and loud and raised goose bumps on my arms. “Don’t you understand that you shouldn’t even be in Paris? It’s far too dangerous for you just to be in this city, but certainly you cannot live in that house. You cannot step foot in that house.”

Her cheeks were red; her eyes were blazing. She grabbed both my hands in hers. “It’s my job to keep you safe. You have to promise to stay away from La Lune.”

I wrested my hands away. “What are you talking about? What could be in the house that could put me in danger? You lived there your whole life. My father grew up there. I spent time there when I was fifteen. The only danger I face is if Benjamin finds me.”

“The house is closed and will be for some time. There’s no question about you living there.” She stood.

“I’ll find out. I want to know, and I’ll find out.”

She whirled around, bent down, and slapped me hard on the cheek. I felt the sting of her fingers. The pain where her rings had hit my flesh.

“You will do what I say. I don’t care how old you are. You are under my care and protection now, and I will not stand for your insubordination and tone. I am telling you that you will stay away from La Lune.”

I laughed. From shock? From anger? The sound was scarlet and strong and nasty. The way a snake might laugh when confronted by a strident mouse.

“Try to control me, old woman. Just try.”

“What did you just say to me?” She was staring. Both horror and disgust on her face. She picked up my glass of water and splashed it in my face. “How dare you? Who are you to talk to me like that?”

The water did nothing to deter me. She was a fly on the wall trying to contain me. To control me. And I would not be controlled.

My robe was soaked and uncomfortable. I pulled it open, separating the wet, clinging silk from my skin, mopping the water with a napkin.

“What is that on your neck? What are you wearing?” my grandmother shrieked.

She was pointing to my neck. My hand went to my throat.

“Where did you get that?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. To tell her the truth would mean I would have to admit that I had been inside the house. Perhaps the necklace had been hidden in that secret space long enough that even she didn’t know that’s where it had been.

“It’s something Papa gave me.” I lied. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s the same as the necklace that the women in the portraits are wearing.”

I knew full well what she was talking about but feigned innocence. “The portraits?”

“On the staircase in La Lune.” She was still frowning as she stared at the necklace. “I haven’t seen that since I was a little girl. My mother kept it with her other jewels, and it was the only piece I wasn’t allowed to play with.”

“Why was that?”

Grand-mère shook her head. “How did your father get it? ”

“Perhaps it’s not the same one? Maybe he had it made because he remembered it from the portraits and liked it.”

“Take it off. Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why. Take it off, Sandrine. Give it to me.”

“Tell me why.”

“I said take it off!”

Before I could react, she had her hands on the necklace and was working the clasp.

I tried to pull her hands off.

She swatted my hands away, gave up on the clasp, curled her fingers under one of the rosettes, and pulled hard. The necklace dug into my skin. She pulled harder. The chain didn’t break, didn’t come apart. How was that possible? She was pulling so hard the pain was extreme. I didn’t want to be fighting with her. This was my grandmother. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me for a moment.

I grabbed my grandmother by the wrists and pushed her away. She stumbled but righted herself by taking hold of a chair.

I walked past her and out of the room.

Behind me I heard her shout. “Take it off, Sandrine, take it off.” It was a combination of a plea, a prayer, and a threat.