Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 102566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
"What's going on?" I knit my brows together. I shouldn't try to speak to her, but she doesn't even attempt to answer, and she probably can't, anyway. But it's the one tie I have left with the normal word, and I don't try to fight the habit. I need to speak before I become mute myself.
She urges me to get up, and I groan, putting my bare feet on the hardwood floor. I follow Eleanora into the salon area in nothing but a white nightie.
At least Adrian took care of my appearance before he left me here to rot. My wardrobes are filled with beautiful clothes, much more revealing and tight than anything I've worn before. I hated it at first, hated being so exposed—but I soon realized no one would be able to see me, anyway, except for Eleanora, and she didn't appear to care about the clothes at all. Now, I'm grateful for the small mercy of getting ready every morning. It keeps me alive and moving, gives me a reason to wake up every day.
Eleanora is waiting for me in the salon, and on the coffee table in front of the sofa is a large package with a bow on top. I furrow my brows as I approach her, warily eyeing the package. "Who is this from?"
She doesn't answer of course, but she does give me a little smile which is more than I've managed to get out of her in the last few days.
I wonder whether I should open the package. It could be an unpleasant surprise... But in the end, my curiosity gets the best of me and I tug on the bow adorning the large box. It gives way and the ribbon falls open. I lift the edge of the box and my eyes widen when I see what's inside.
"Painting supplies..." I whisper. My fingers glide over things I've wanted my entire life. Two blank canvases, a sketchbook, a set of pencils, soft brushes, acrylic paints and paint thinner. This is beautiful. And I don't deserve it.
I shake my head to get the thought out. Just because papa was determined to keep me from doing things I loved too much, doesn't mean I don't deserve them. In any case, the painting supplies are a wonderful gift, and for the first time in months, I feel my heart soar.
"Are these from Adrian?" I ask Eleanora.
She nods, pointing to a note that's attached to the bow.
With shaky fingers, I pick up the card and come face to face with Adrian's scrawly handwriting for the very first time. Something moves inside me and I melt when I see that he took time to scribble a note for me himself. Despite his many shortcomings, he can be kind... and when he is, it's so very beautiful.
Marzia,
While I'm away, work on your painting and drawing. I know you have a talent, and it's time you stopped hiding it from the world. I will expect one sketch and one painting completed by the time I come back.
Your Adrian.
It feels as if someone's clenched my heart into an iron fist. I'm trying desperately to fight my emotions for Adrian and yet, I can't do anything to deny the feelings I've already developed for the man. I'm eager to please him, despite my hatred for him. My fingers pick up a pencil shakily. It's been years since I drew. I don't even know if I'd be any good at it anymore.
I look up at Eleanora and her beaming expression. "Sit there. In front of the window."
Obediently, she pulls up the armchair to the window.
I perch on the sill and begin sketching wildly, my fingers dancing over paper as I shade, draw and sketch. Eleanora is a beautiful girl, and on paper, no one can tell she cannot speak. I keep sketching until my hand cramps, barely looking at the paper as I draw because I'm too preoccupied with committing Eleanora's features to memory. She's the only model I have here, and sketching her has filled me with a calm understanding of her silent beauty.
Once I'm done, I set the sketchbook down, unwilling to look at what I've created. With a heavy sigh, I lean back against the windowsill.
Eleanora's eyes sparkle as she points to the sketchbook, putting her hands together in a praying motion. She wants to see what I've done.
I'm amazed that someone is interested in my creations. My parents never cared at all.
Reluctantly, I pick up the book and show it to her without taking a proper look at my drawing myself. Instead, I focus my attention on Eleanora and the way her face changes as she inspects my creation.
First, there's curiosity. Soon, it changes into delight and surprise as she glances at me, as if she's unsure the drawing is really my work.