Isolde Vale's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The hatch lifted and lantern light spilled into the attic. Cordelia climbed through with the black cat tucked under one arm. She set the lantern on a crate and let the cat down. Isolde stood between the easel and the chair where she had posed as a child. She did not move. The lantern swung, and Cordelia's eyes found her at once. Cordelia froze. The cat did not. It walked toward Isolde with its tail up. Isolde lifted one thin hand. "Don't be afraid," she said, though she was not sure her voice carried. She thinned herself out before Cordelia could run, scattered into nothing, and pulled back against the rafters where she could only watch. Cordelia stayed where she was for a long moment. Then she picked up the lantern. The light moved across her father's things. It found the grey easel first, still standing, cobwebs strung between its arms. It found the carved chair beside it, the seat worn where Isolde used to sit for hours while he worked. It found the floppy black horse slumped against the crate, and beside the horse, the portrait of Isolde at seven, and the folded list of paintings. Cordelia knelt. She lifted the list, read it in the lantern light, and put it in her coat pocket. Then she looked at the portrait for a long time. She did not take it. She stood and climbed back down with the cat at her heels. Isolde sank to the floorboards. She had been seen. A living person had finally seen her, and she had sent her away on purpose so she would not lose her. Cordelia had taken the list. That was something. That was more than years of trying. At two in the morning the hatch opened again. Cordelia came up alone this time, without the cat. She walked straight to the portrait, wrapped it in a cloth she had brought, and carried it down the ladder. Isolde followed her as far as the office and watched her lean the portrait against the desk beside the carousel painting. Two of her father's works, side by side in lamplight, in a room where a living person would see them every day. The list named every painting. It did not name the painter. Isolde stood over the canvas and pressed her palm flat against the back of the frame. The wood went cold under her hand. She remembered him at the easel, brush in his teeth, telling her to keep her chin where it was. She remembered the chair under her, the dust in the window, the sound of his name when her mother called him in for supper. She knew the name. Cordelia did not. Isolde would have to find a way to give it to her.