Artemisia Moretti's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

Beatrice's words about the invented mother stayed with Artemisia all week. She had told herself the woman was a rumor, a name in a false memory. Then, on a gray morning, someone knocked. Artemisia opened the door and knew at once she had been wrong. A woman in a navy dress stood there. She was fifty-five, straight-backed, elegant. Her eyes were the same warm brown as Beatrice's. This was the mother Artemisia had stitched from nothing. And she was here, breathing, real. "I am Elena Fiore," the woman said. "I am looking for my daughter. Beatrice." She did not smile. "She has been gone three days. This shop was the last place anyone saw her." Artemisia's hands went cold. She had made this woman to fill a gap in Beatrice's past. She had not planned for the mother to come searching. "Please," Artemisia said. "Come in." Elena stepped inside. She scanned the room once, quick and hard. Her gaze stopped on Artemisia's hands, which had begun to tremble. "You are shaking," Elena said. "Why?" "The cold," Artemisia said. It was a poor lie and she knew it. Elena crossed to the workbench. She lifted a spool, set it down. "People tell me they are searching too. I trust none of them." She turned. "I raised her alone. I gave up my name for her. I know when someone is hiding something from me." Artemisia understood then. She could not make this woman leave with force or with lies. Elena would return. She would bring others. But there was one thing the magic could not create: the love. That was real. Elena's grief was real. Artemisia decided to give her the only thing that would satisfy her. "Your daughter is safe," Artemisia said. "She is well. She is doing work that matters to her. I will bring her to you." Elena's face did not soften, but her shoulders dropped an inch. "When." "Tomorrow," Artemisia said. "Here. You have my word." Elena studied her a long moment. Then she nodded once. "Tomorrow. If you lie to me, I will bring the constable and every witness I can find." She walked to the door. "I have counted every hour she has been gone. Do not make me count more." She left. Artemisia sat down hard on the stool. That evening Beatrice came in from the manor, lace hat in hand. Artemisia told her. Beatrice was quiet a long time. Her hand went to the silver locket at her throat. "She's real," Beatrice said. "You built her and she's real, and she loves me." Her voice went low. "I have a mother who cried for three days. And every memory I have of her, you sewed." "You will meet her tomorrow," Artemisia said. "You must be her daughter. Truly. The stitch will hold only if you let it." Beatrice put the hat down. "Then I have a mother to keep," she said. "And she can never know what I am."