it.
Isabelle stared dumbly at him, unable to believe that she’d hallucinated the entire encounter with him and his numena, but unable to prove that he was lying as well. She only half listened to his condolences for the loss of her home and her paintings. All she could do was remember waking up with the soot on her hands and clothes and feel sick. Eventually, she let Kathy lead her away, back to Kathy’s apartment on Gracie Street, where the two of them were staying.
Isabelle never returned to Rushkin’s studio.
Isabelle came to a decision after the night of the fire. It was too late for her own numena. They were gone now, except for the very few whose paintings had not been at the farmhouse and so had survived the fire. Rosalind and Cosette, both hanging in the Newford Children’s Foundation. Annie Nin in Alan’s apartment. A handful of others, given away or sold to people other than Rushkin’s lawyer. But that was it. So few survivors out of the almost hundred numena she’d brought across.
There would be no more. She couldn’t stop painting, but she vowed to open no more gateways for others to cross over. She didn’t care if they made the decision, she was still responsible. If she didn’t open the door for them, they wouldn’t come through and die. She’d miss painting them, she knew, but that was the price to pay—a small enough price considering what her art had cost the numena. She would only lose a part of her art; they had lost their lives. To stop herself from even being tempted to render another numena, she turned her back completely on her previous work and embraced abstract expressionism.
But that didn’t solve the problem. There were others who could open those gates.
Just before dinner one night, she left the studio she was sharing with Sophie until the renovations on the island were completed and made her way across the Kelly Street Bridge to the art department at Butler University. There was a students’ show on in the arts building, and she paused for a long time in front of the two paintings by Barbara Nichols that hung in it.
They were both Ferryside street scenes. The detailing, the use of light, everything about them was stunning. Looking at these examples of Nichols’s work, Isabelle could easily see what had attracted Rushkin to the young artist. In fact, she could already see elements of Rushkin in the two paintings—not in the style so much but, as Tom had once pointed out to her, in the way Nichols viewed her subjects.
She approached the street scenes in the way that Rushkin would have. In the way that Isabelle herself would have, had she been painting these particular cityscapes.
After a while, she turned away and went looking for someone who might be able to help her find the artist. She talked to a number of people who knew Nichols, but no one seemed to know where Isabelle could look for her at the moment until she chanced upon a young artist working in one of the second-floor studios. He was a tall and somewhat gangly boy in his late teens, straw-colored hair cut short in a buzz cut, shoulders already stooped. She stood in the doorway for a few moments to watch him work, admiring the vigor of his brushstrokes, until he suddenly became aware of her presence and turned to look at her. His eyes were a pale blue and bulged slightly, giving him a birdlike look of constant surprise.
“She mentioned something about putting in a little study time at the library,” he said in response to Isabelle’s question. “If she’s not there, try Kathryn’s Cafe over on Battersfield. It’s where everybody hangs out.”
“I know the place.”
Some things never changed, Isabelle thought. Kathryn’s had been the university art crowd’s hangout when she’d gone to Butler U. as well. “Okay. Well ...”
His body language was so obvious. All he wanted was for her to leave so that he could get back to work. Isabelle knew just how he felt, but she had one more question.
“What does she look like?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Short dark hair, narrow features, very intense eyes. Kind of scrawny.” Isabelle had to smile; he wasn’t exactly Mr. Universe himself. “She was wearing cutoff jeans and a T-shirt with a print of Monet’s lilies on it when I saw her this afternoon.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a lot of help.”
“Whatever.”
He was back at his painting before she had a chance to turn around and leave the studio. She found herself envious of him as she retraced her way out of the building. What muse drove him? she wondered, although what she was really asking was, what would it have been like for her if she’d never met Rushkin? Or what if she’d just said no to him that day on the steps of St. Paul’s, or hadn’t gone to his studio? Where would her art be now? Who would
Silly questions, she thought, because in some ways she didn’t feel as if she’d ever had any sort of a choice in the matter. She’d already been enamored with his art, long before she met him. It was part of what had set her to taking a paintbrush in hand in the first place. When the opportunity arose for her to study under him, it often had seemed to be simple fate. A magical gift. But then, just like in all those fairy tales that Kathy loved so much, there was always a price to be paid for accepting magical gifts, wasn’t there? Too dear a price.
With her informant’s description in mind, she found it easy to spot Nichols. She matched the boy’s description perfectly, except Isabelle wouldn’t have called her scrawny.
She was leaving the library at the same time as Isabelle was coming up the stone steps. The chill that had yet to leave Isabelle deepened for a moment as she realized the significance of where they were meeting. She touched the cloth bracelet she’d taken to wearing again, trying not to think of John as she continued up the steps and called Nichols by name.
“Oh please,” Nichols said. “Call me Barb. ‘Ms. Nichols’ makes me think of my mother.”
Isabelle smiled. When she introduced herself, Barb’s eyes softened with compassion.
“I heard about the fire,” she said. “You must have been devastated.”
Isabelle glanced at the space beside the stone lion where John had once stood and talked to her from the shadows. She could almost feel his ghost there, could almost hear his voice again. Her fingers were turning the bracelet around and around her wrist without her being aware of doing it.
“I still am,” she admitted.
“This is so weird,” Barb said. “I mean, standing here, talking to you. You’re one of my heroes.”
Isabelle could feel the heat rise in her face.
“I just love your work,” Barb went on, “and when I think of what happened to it, it just makes me feel so sick that—” She broke off. “I’m sorry. You’re probably trying to forget, and here all I’m doing is reminding you about it.”
“It’s not something you can forget,” Isabelle told her. When she thought of how she’d failed her numena, she added, “I don’t think it’s something one should forget.”
Barb gave her an odd look, but Isabelle didn’t explain what she meant. She didn’t know how to explain.
“I wanted to talk to you about Rushkin,” she said. “I don’t know where to begin, but ever since I heard that you’ve been studying with him I felt I should warn you ....”
Her voice trailed off at the dismissive look that settled on Barb’s features.
“Rushkin,” she said bitterly. “I was
Isabelle nodded. “So what happened?”
“Probably the same thing that happened to you. I mean, I could tell right off that he was a control freak, but I thought, Okay. It’ll be worth it to put up with some weird shit if I get to paint like him—or like you.”
Isabelle tried to ignore the compliment. She wanted to ask about numena.
What had Rushkin told her about them? How many had Barb brought across? But before she could start to frame the question, if only in her mind, Barb went on.
