Lapis Lazuli

Monday Morning

Ester stared down at her husband in disgust.

Daniel lay sprawled upon the threadbare divan, that same one she posed for him on. Ester couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder at the damnable painting smiling so ethereally back at her.

There she was, the perfect Fanny O’Donnell, once only a simple laundry girl–now the artist’s muse. She stared at her long red locks that looked like fiery gold in the sunlight, and her smooth alabaster skin. It was her eyes, those intense blue eyes no one ever shut up about. What was it her husband said? “It was like staring into the heart of the ocean,” or some other such nonsense. Only he hadn’t painted those eyes yet. They were only blocked in with a few broad strokes of a pale color, vacant in her otherwise angelic face.

No, she thought to herself, he can’t paint the eyes until the lapis lazuli arrives. The only precious stone that could make the blue pigment he swore would capture those damn eyes of hers. She’d borrowed money from her father to afford the extravagance, lying to him about what the money was for. There was little enough love lost between her father and husband to begin with. Daniel convinced her, or at least convinced her that he believed that this was the one. This would be the painting that would get him into the Royal Academies summer exhibition. He’d talked endlessly about it throughout the spring and hoped this would be the masterpiece to catapult his nascent artistic career to undreamt heights.

She found herself drawn to the canvas, only stopping before her hand reached out to touch the still wet sheen of the oils. By God, he was talented though. The painting, where it had been finished, was flawless—just like her. Her husband snorted as he rolled over, spilling whatever spirit he’d been drinking from the cup still clutched in his hand. She watched as the pool spread along the uneven floorboards.

Ester signed, pulling on her hat over her own dark hair that looked more like dingy coal than any fiery locks. She shook her head, trying to break away from the foul mood into which she’d awakened. She reminded herself again and again that she had no real proof that her husband was unfaithful to her. Just this gnawing feeling in her gut; maybe exhaustion playing havoc with her nerves. Lord only knew how tired she was.

She looked down and realized she had been rubbing her hand again. It hurt almost all the time now. The pain she was used to, more worrisome was the periodic numbness that would render it almost useless. This was especially difficult at work, and she knew her father needed her more than ever to help pick up the slack since her mother passed away.

Her father had been one of hundreds of Jewish tailors pouring into London from points all over the continent. He and her mother worked hard in the rag trade until he’d saved enough to open his own shop. Now he worked even harder turning the shoddy, dropped off by the factories, into trousers and jackets. Larger orders kept coming, but there was never any additional time to complete them. Competition was stiff, and even a single missed quota could see his employers looking at other desperate tailors along Savile Row. When mother passed two winters ago, she’d convinced her father to hire on some help. So far, he had only taken on a young Scotsman, but he kept promising her to hire at least one more... eventually.

The pain flaring up in her hand drew her out of her reverie, and she went to the cupboard next to the stove and withdrew a battered tin. Ester groaned as she opened it, realizing the salve she used to help ease the ache was nearly gone. She did her best to scrape what she could of the ointment by running her finger along the edges and even over the lid. This she rubbed on the back of the offending hand and hoped there was enough to offer a small measure of respite.

More salve would have to be purchased, but that didn’t seem likely to be today, or tomorrow. It is Black Monday, and the rent is due. She would have to see the rent collector on her way out, and whatever was left would be used to pay down their tick at the general store; otherwise they wouldn’t be able to borrow back enough to keep them fed the rest of the week.

Her shoulders slumped; it was all just so exhausting to dwell on. She drew out what little money they had in the old teakettle and dropped it into her handbag. On the table beside the door she grabbed her father’s shears, which she took to the sharpener every morning on her way to the shop. She’d just laid one hand on the door when she heard a sluggish voice behind her.

“Be a dear and check with the post about my package?”

He didn’t even opened his eyes to speak, but only waived a clumsy hand in a halfhearted gesture toward the portrait still missing its heart of the ocean eyes.

She didn’t answer as he was already snoring again a moment later. She stared at him as he lay there, trying not to think of the beautiful Fanny O’Donnell lying naked on the same divan. All he is doing is painting her portrait, she told herself. Best not to think about it. Best not to think about anything. There was just too much work to do.

Monday Evening

Sixteen grueling hours later, still earlier than many evenings of late, she was at last home again. As she sat her father’s shears upon the table next to the door, she saw sprigs of lavender arranged in a tin cup. In front of it lay a scrap piece of paper with a note scrawled upon it,

“I saw these and thought of you dearest. I have gone out with Isaac and the boys to the Black Swan for a drink—fingers crossed the pigments came in today… all my love, D.”

It was never just a drink. She looked down at the package in her other hand. Such a tiny thing she mused, shaking it next to her ear but hearing nothing. She sighed and tore open the paper around the small box. She had wanted to watch Daniel open it, but she had no illusions he’d be home before she was long asleep. Besides, she wanted to see what had cost them two month’s salary. Wrapped in even thinner paper within the box were three tiny pea-sized pieces of bluish stone.

She crammed it all back in the box and dropped it on the table, leaning forward as she did to inhale the soothing scent of the lavender. The flowers had been a sweet thought; he could be sweet sometimes. The flat was stifling. She went to the window and pushed it open to let in some night air. Unfortunately, the stink of the Thames came with it, so she placed the lavender on the sill, hoping it might somehow mask the air as it wafted in.

She untied her hat and ran her fingers through her damp hair. It had been terribly hot for a week now and showed no signs of relenting. She poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher on the dining table and drank it all without pausing for breath before refilling it again. Daniel had left the lamp burning low, as he always did, and she reached down to turn the key and raise the wick. The room brightened, and she stared at the portrait across the room.

Ester only felt a vague stirring of the anger from earlier and was just too tired to give it any more thought. She stood unmoving as she regarded Fanny O’Donnell, noting where he had filled in recent parts of the background today. The scenic woodlands surrounding her were in stark contrast to the shabby flat that was the model’s true backdrop. Ester wondered how long she’d sat for him today. Hell, why did he even need her here if he was only painting the background?

She rubbed at her face with both her hands. A sudden yawn rose with such inexorable force it stretched her mouth wide until her jaw cracked and brought tears to her eyes. The devil can take the red-haired minx, she was just too tired to care.

Ester brought both the cup of water and the lamp with her into the bedroom, the only other room in their flat. She laid both on the table before collapsing on the bed. It was a tiny piece of heaven to her tired body. She kicked off her shoes but doubted she had the strength left to undress, heat be damned.

Ester had almost nodded off when a slight flicker of consciousness rebuked her for leaving the lamp burning. She pried her eyes open and was reaching for the lamp’s key when her gaze fell upon something lying on the pillow. Ester sat bolt upright. Her weariness was banished by the pounding of her heart in her chest. Reaching out with her hand, she plucked it from where it lay on the pillow… a single strand of long red hair.

She stared at it in the lamplight as it hung in her fingers. Gone was her exhaustion, in its place a simmering rage threatening to boil. One of her hairs, here in their own bed. Lying here like a serpent coiled on her pillow. Her chest constricted, and it was hard to breathe. Her mind was racing, trying not to draw any conclusions. Better to dance around the obvious. The tears welled up in her eyes, though she couldn’t say what exact emotion had summoned them.

“Damn it all”, she cursed, “It’s my money we use to pay the little harlot.” The idea drew an ugly laugh that sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room. She couldn’t believe she was paying the trollop to visit her home every day so she could…

Wracking sobs overtook her and she had to shut down her thoughts before they tread too far into dangerous waters. Could it not have drifted here on its own accord? Born aloft by some draft and deposited in all innocence upon the pillow? A single strand of hair proves nothing.

More tears continued to trickle down her cheeks as her rational mind fought to re-frame these coincidences and somehow use them as a bulwark against this terrible feeling gnawing at her gut. Glancing up, she could just make out the rectangle of the portrait’s canvas in the other room, but still the vague sight of it was enough to make her tremble with anger.

Ester leapt from the bed, lacing up her shoes and snatching up her hat—she had to get out and away from that face. She charged through the sitting room, and for a moment she believed she might attack the painting using her bare hands. She stood in front of it, her chest heaving with her labored breaths. But at last, she spun on her heels and reached out to take up her keys from the door side table. Her hand hesitated for a moment, hovering over the table, and then snatched up the package before slamming the door behind her.

She paid little heed to the maelstrom of emotions roiling inside her and charged headlong through the gloomy streets of London. She took no precautions, nor gave any consideration to who might lurk in the shadows. A grim juggernaut, she plodded through the city streets, unstoppable, with no destination in mind. Only the banks of the river Thames arrested her inexorable advance, bringing her to a standstill at last.

Time stopped as she stood staring out over those black waters. She listened to the lapping waves and watched as the gaslights flickered from the opposite bank. She welcomed any kind of distraction that quelled the thoughts threatening to catch up to her now that she’d stopped. Even the rancid smell of the river, so much worse in summer, was a welcome diversion. Anything to keep her focus outward, to keep it from falling inward toward the tempest still seething inside.

Her legs ached, and she looked for a place out of the mud to sit. Nearby, there was a curious carved stone jutting up at an odd angle from the bank.  It had what looked like spirals carved into it, and perhaps even a crude face—almost worn away by time. She sat down on it and traced the shallow grooves with her fingers as she stared out over the water, its waves whispering along the banks.

The exhaustion she felt now was almost crushing, and she knew she needed to be home resting. She didn’t want to think about the interminable day looming over the horizon. It would be here soon enough. She was just coming to her feet when she heard a noise somewhere nearby. The sudden realization of the possible peril she had placed herself in struck her; the gooseflesh rose along her arms. She’d been a fool to wander so far out and alone.

Crouching in the darkness, she heard it again. There was a pounding noise—someone striking one of the wooden planks of the fences nearby. She heard a man grunt, and then the low moan of a woman’s voice. Thunk, thunk, thunk, came the rhythmic pounding, the man’s grunting growing louder and more labored. Ester closed her eyes, and the sound reminded her of the sound her headboard made against the wall when she and Daniel made love. They had to put a pillow there to keep the neighbors from hearing them. She pictured Daniel lying with his red-haired muse in their own bed. Thunk, thunk, thunk.

Her own breathing became shallow and rapid as she brought her hands over her ears to escape the intruding sounds of the nearby tryst. She could still hear the woman’s voice, even through her hands, as her moaning grew loader. She wondered if Fanny had been so loud. Had she made those noises as she stared up at him with her perfect blue eyes? The woman’s voice reached a crescendo, and the man cried out with her. She pictured Fanny’s back arching, her fingers raking across Daniel’s back as he…

Ester cried out in a rage with all the pent up pain and fear that had become so much a part of her. She flung it as hard and as far as she could into the dark depths of the river. She had forgotten she had even been carrying it—two month’s wages, her husband’s art career, Fanny’s damnable eyes.

The First Dream

He held her as they looked out on the distant lights of the city. They sat on the rooftop of their flat beneath a blanket of stars. He ran his fingers through her hair, and the effect was as soothing as it was hypnotic. He kissed her brow, and she melted even deeper into his embrace. When she looked up, it surprised her to see it was not Daniel, but someone else who held her—someone she did not recognize. This did not alarm her as it might have, for she knew she was dreaming.

He was slender and pale, with long hair of a color she could not quite determine. She could see the color of his eyes though, and they were—she thought, the very heart of the ocean. They were the shade of blue reserved for untouchable things, the unreachable vastness of the sky, the unplumbed depths of the sea. He smiled at her, and he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She basked in the warm glow of that smile, and she felt safe lying upon his broad chest, held in powerful arms.

He whispered in her ear, the words unfamiliar, spoken in a language she had never heard before. Yet somehow she knew their meaning, for this was her dream. He recited some kind of poem or song. In his whispered voice were words of love and longing, and ultimately of loss. By the time he’d stopped speaking, she’d been moved to tears.

She then recited poems of her own, recalling her mother’s treasured Tennyson. She recalled stanzas from the Lady of Shallot, from Mariana. Back and forth they whispered the beautiful words to each other that had so moved them. Although they were not her words, they became hers as though she’d written them herself, and she felt connected to the blue-eyed man in a way she had never experienced before. They touched one another with words as intimate as any caress of skin. She whispered,

“Then said she, ’I am dreary,

He will not come,’ she said;

She wept, ’I am aweary, aweary,

Oh God, that I were dead!”

And as she finished this, his lips brushed against hers.

Tuesday Morning

Ester opened her eyes and saw the eastern horizon just alighting through the bedroom window. She would have sworn she’d only just laid her head against the pillow a few minutes ago after the long and grueling walk home from the river. She reached up without thinking and touched her fingers to her lips, and for a moment she could still feel something.

There was a snort next to her, followed by more snoring, and she felt reality come crashing down around her. She rolled over to see Daniel sprawled across the bed next to her. He hadn’t even removed his shoes. He smelled less like he’d been drinking ale all night, and more like he’d taken a bath in it.

She was beyond exhaustion now and went through her morning routine like some clockwork automaton. She tried braiding her hair, as even after a good brushing she thought it a mess. But her hands hurt and her fingers refused to do her bidding, so she gave up in disgust and shoved the unruly locks under her hat.

She hadn’t tried to be quiet, but Daniel stank of so much ale she had little fear of waking him. He did rouse a little as she opened the bedroom door.

“The lapis lazuli?” He murmured in a voice thick and still slurred. “Did my package arrive?”

When she turned he was squinting at her from the bed, and she froze under his bleary eyed stare. Until now, she’d blocked out what she had done the night before. What had she been thinking? She knew it would be impossible to raise that kind of money again…

“Dearest?” he said, breaking her out of her paralysis.

“N—No,” she stammered. “But I will stop by the post again today.”

He smiled wanly and rolled away from her, pulling one pillow over his head. She left the room, closing the door behind her. What was she going to do? Sooner or later he will just march up to the post himself and find out she had lied. She shook her head and turned to find herself once again facing the portrait. The question was driving her mad. All of this doubt and uncertainty. She had to know the truth—instead of letting the unknown drive her crazy. Even if it turned out to be as bad as she imagined, she would at least know for sure.

She glanced out the window and realized she was running late. Tying on her hat, she reached a hand out to pick up her father’s shears, but paused. She stared at them for a long moment before withdrawing her hand, leaving them on the table and closing the door behind her.

Tuesday Afternoon

She stood paralyzed in front of her own door in the narrow confines of the tenement hallway. She had been standing there for sometime and had heard no sounds from within. In the agonizing silence, she could feel the drops of perspiration tracing a path down the small of her back. Her father was angry when she had forgotten his shears, but his irritation had come to a head when she’d insisted on going back for them in the middle of the afternoon.

“I have others that will suffice for now,” he’d said shaking his head. “I need you here helping with the sewing.”

She’d insisted, and left with little explanation. Now she felt guilty, not only for running out on her father but also because she let her own fears and insecurities make her deceitful. For a moment she considered just turning and leaving, but then she reached into her handbag for her key.

The key slipped from her sweaty hand and hit the floor with a terrific clatter. Were those soft footsteps from the other side of the door? She stopped, crouched in front of the door, listening—and heard nothing. She snatched up the key from the floor and tried to open the door, but seemed to fumble for an excruciating amount of time with the lock. With in impatient click, she pushed the door open.

Her eyes fell on Fanny first, who sat upright on the divan, a light sheen of sweat making her skin glisten, and cheeks flushed. She had a thin sheet drawn around her hips but left her breasts exposed. Her eyes flicked over to her for only a second and then settled on the painter, her expression never changing.

Daniel stood behind his easel with a brush in one hand and another clenched between his teeth. His cheeks were also flushed and his shirt unbuttoned at the top, hanging loose and untucked. Even with the windows thrown open, it was stifling hot in the room.

“Is everything all right my dear?” Daniel asked as he removed the paintbrush from his mouth, and she realized she was standing in the middle of the room gawking.

“I—” Her tongue felt like someone had glued it to the inside of her mouth as she tripped over whatever it was she had been trying to say. This is my her home, so why do I feel like the intruder?

“Did you bring the package?” He asked, coming around the easel. “Is that why you’ve come home early, to bring me the lapis lazuli?”

“N—no,” she said as she felt her own cheeks growing hot. “No, I left this morning without papa’s shears.” She reached over to the table beside the door and picked up the shears, holding them up rather ridiculously, she thought, as an excuse for her sudden intrusion.

“He sent you all the way home for that?” His brow drew together as he looked at her.

“Yes,” she said, growing a little more confident. “We’ve an enormous bulk of shoddy coming in today and there will be lots of cutting.”

“Just a terribly hot day for you to do so much extra walking,” but he shrugged, running his fingers through his own damp hair. He took up the pitcher from the table and poured a cup, handing it out to her. “At least drink some water before you go.”

Ester took a sip, and then another much deeper drink from the cup, unaware of how much she’d been perspiring in the heat. She realized with a start she must have looked a mess. She drank the rest of the cup while keeping her back to Fanny. The bedroom door was shut, and she suddenly wondered if that was unusual. She had a desperate need to see inside, but could not think of a rational excuse why, and wondered to herself why she would need an excuse to go into her own bedroom.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Daniel repeated as he refilled her glass, and she realized she’d been staring again.

She was exhausted, and a little light headed in the heat. The brisk walk home and taken more out of her than she had expected. She took another couple of sips from the cup and then heard a voice call behind her.

“Mrs. Solomon?” She turned until hers, and Fanny’s eyes met. “Would you be so kind as to bring me a drink of water? I do not want to lose my position.”

Ester’s blood ran cold, her grip tightening on the shears in her other hand. Their eyes remained fixed on each other as she walked over to her with the cup in her hand. When she held it out, Fanny remained as frozen as she had been since she’d come into the room; only opening her mouth.

They continued staring at each other as though daring the other to be the first to blink. Slowly, she raised the tin cup to Fanny’s lips and tilted it slightly. Fanny took two small sips from it and closed her eyes, sighing with obvious pleasure.

“Thank you, Mrs. Solomon.”

Tuesday Evening

Ester was crying as she unlocked the door. Her father had scowled at her all day for missing the better part of the afternoon. They were already behind schedule and the stress of making quota was making him more irritable than usual. And for what—what did she learn for all her efforts?  She found them both flushed and sweating in a room hot enough to bake bread. She spent the entire rest of the day feeling like a disappointing daughter and an even worse wife.

Ester choked back a sob when she saw several more stems of lavender on the table, in front of another scribbled note,

“I’ve gone to show the portrait to the Rossetti’s for a critique, won’t be out late! All my love—D.”

She crumpled the paper in her hand as the tears traced the contours of her face. They should just lock her away at Bedlam with all the other miserable women they label ‘hysterical’. She looked over her shoulder and saw the easel standing there empty. A wave of guilty relief rose over her that at least she would have one night without having to look at her.

Perhaps she would wait up for him, she thought as she took up the lamp and went to the bedroom door. It was open now and she hesitated at the threshold. It looked as it always did and she let out a lengthy sigh as she crossed the room, undressing even as her muscles and joints protested.

Ester wanted only to fall into bed and sleep for a hundred years. She wanted the pain in her hands to stop waking her up in the middle of the night. But more than anything, she wanted to stop feeling like she wasn’t good enough. She drew back the sheet and stared at the pillows, her eyes searching…

No. She shouted inwardly, squeezing her eyes shut. This madness has to stop. No more wondering about what everything secretly means, no more torturing myself with desperate imaginings. She would focus on what she knew and ignore all the things she was want to guess at. She turned both pillows over and then fished out a bottle from deep within her chest of drawers.

The tiny bottle was light in her hand and she saw there was still a paltry amount of the laudanum left. She’d hidden it months ago when Daniel had an epidemic of severe headaches and had been using it with worrisome regularity. She opened it and placed a few drops on her tongue.

All she wanted was sleep. She didn’t want to think, she didn’t want to hurt, and truth be known—she didn’t want to see Daniel when he got home.

The Second Dream

Ester lay once more in the arms of the blue-eyed man. He held her, keeping her warm and safe. All around them were tiny islands of light created by the steady glow of many candles. They were lying in the bed her grandfather had made in the old country, the one that would have been hers if her parents hadn’t been forced to sell it during the recession.

She knew this is where she belonged, lying in this bed that should have been hers, in the arms of a man that should have been hers. She was tired of being displaced, of not belonging, of feeling like she was only an actress playing the role of a dutiful wife. She was tired of looking after her father, of looking after her husband… and having no one to look after her.

When she looked up into those fathomless blue eyes, she found her lips upon his. And when their lips touched she felt something else, much deeper inside her, reaching out for him. She felt her back arch with an ache for him, and she clung even tighter, almost desperate to hold on to him. She wanted to keep this thing that made her feel, at long last, like her true self. Not the woman hiding behind the masks of daughter and wife, but one unfettered by the chains and shackles of everyone’s expectations. Couldn’t she have expectations of her own?

Their lips were pressed so hard together now they almost hurt as her hands clawed at him, all she wanted was to disappear inside this lovely creature forever. She lost herself in his embrace, shedding the part of her that others see and becoming something new, something free, something genuine. He fanned the spark of passion in her into a blazing heat she’d not known in such a long time. How long had it been since her and Daniel’s infrequent lovemaking had been anything more than mechanical?

How she thrilled at the fire growing inside her she thought long lost. Had it ever been like this before, even in the beginning? To love, to be loved…  and truly make love? Her breathing had grown rapid and shallow, almost panting, as she realized only her bare skin touched his—their clothing somehow banished. She’d never felt such a wanting in her entire life, he was all she ever wanted, he…

Daniel. His face rose in her thoughts like a specter. Her once eager hands became clumsy, their frenzied embrace slowed, and she felt the blue-eyed man’s arms reluctantly loosen on her.

“No,” she whispered, and yet it was absurd, for it was only a dream. “I—I can’t.”

He nodded, but then smiled, which made it that much harder to resist him. She laid her head on his breast and listened to the steady drum of his heart.

“Sing to me,” she heard him whisper.

The request startled her; it had been a long time since she sang anywhere but at temple. But she wanted desperately to sing for this man, the way she sang when she was a girl, with not only her voice, but with her heart and maybe a little piece of her rekindled soul. So she sang to him as the motes of candlelight caressed their skin. Her voice was bright and clear in the flickering light. The music poured from a place deep inside her, a place close to where this blue-eyed man now dwelled.

He pulled her close and whispered his name in her ear; it sounded like Aaron.

Wednesday Morning

Her head thick and sluggish, Ester cursed herself the moment she opened her eyes. She rolled over, surprised to see the rest of the bed was empty. Had he not come home last night?

The night had failed to cool off the flat as much as she would have liked, and her pillow was damp with her perspiration. She took up a handful of water from the washbasin and splashed it across her face and neck. She savored the coolness and then wrinkled her nose as she smelled something out of place. Was that coffee?

She poked her head out the bedroom door and saw Daniel standing in the center of the room looking at the portrait. When he heard her come into the room, he turned and smiled as he nodded toward the dining table.

“There’s a basket of rolls and some coffee,” he said with a wink as he took a drink from his own cup.

“Thank you,” she said as she poured herself a cup and picked up one of the rolls. “I’m not used to seeing you roused so early.”

“Well… yes,” he smiled sheepishly. “But last night went so splendidly, I thought we’d celebrate a little this morning. Dante and William both loved the portrait and sang its praises all night long. Oh… I am sorry I wasn’t home as early as I’d said; I was just so caught up in the moment.”

“It’s all right, I went to bed early,” she said remembering how she’d wanted to avoid him. Now she felt guilty as she stared at the breakfast he’d brought. Why had he brought her breakfast? Was it because she had come home in the afternoon yesterday, was he afraid she suspected? She felt her emotions rising, but she clamped down on them as hard as she could, she wouldn’t do this today. It was just breakfast.

She stared at her reflection in the black coffee and felt her shoulders slump. Her eyes carried a perpetual halo of weariness; they were dark, swollen and unattractive. Was it any wonder he might prefer the pale smooth skin of his muse?

“Are you all right dear?” Daniel’s voice cut into her thoughts, he’d been speaking before that but she had heard none of it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head to break loose all the dark thoughts that clung to her so persistently. “I’m just exhausted. Papa is up to his ears with the new order and it is due today, but I don’t think it will be ready.” She said this as she finished her coffee and picked up a second roll. “I should get ready, it will be a very long day.”

Daniel nodded and was even helpful as she got dressed and ready to leave. He even insisted she take the last of the coffee with her. As she was tying on her hat, she felt his arms slide around her waist and he gently pulled her around until they were facing the portrait.

“I truly believe it’s going to change our lives for the better my love,” he said squeezing her. “Dante thinks the color scheme I have set up will offset the lapis lazuli brilliantly.”

She closed her eyes tight, trying not to think of what she’d thrown into the river.

“I am beginning to worry about it taking so long to get here,” he said and her eyes snapped open again. “It should have been here by now, don’t you think? I only have a couple more weeks before submissions, and I want to have time to make sure it’s perfect.”

Carefully, she extricated herself as she took up the shears and her handbag. “I will check the post again.”

Wednesday Night

To her great surprise, and for the second time that day, she found Daniel in the sitting room as she entered. She smiled as much as the intense weariness and the shooting pain in her hands would allow. He did not return her smile as he sat at the dining table, and she smelled the ale thick in the still air and realized he was already deep in his cups.

She’d not even removed her hat before he slammed the bottle on the table and staggered away from his chair.

“Ssso…” He said as he drew out the ‘S’ in a long sibilant hiss. “I stopped by the post this afternoon.”

Her hat fell from her fingers, but her heart hit the floor first. Ester felt dizzy and sat down on the faded divan. She had no fight left in her, no more excuses to give. She’d already failed her father when they’d only just missed making the quota—and now the factory was threatening to pull their future orders. It was probably only a threat to keep them on their toes, maybe… but her father had been visibly shaken. She’d come home feeling defeated, and now she knew it would only get worse.

“—And guess what they told me?” He went on with an exaggerated tone of profound disbelief.

“They told you that I had already picked it up,” she said quietly.

“That you—” His voice raised until comprehension dawned on him. “Yes, they said the package was picked up two days ago.”

Ester glanced up at him and was heartbroken to see the genuine confusion on his face. She’d been so obsessed with the idea he had betrayed their marriage, and yet it was she who had thrown their future into the river.

“Why didn’t you give it to me?” He said quieter now, still shaking his head in disbelief. “Where is it?”

“I…” Her mouth worked back and forth and still she could get it to make no sound.

“Where is the lapis lazuli?” His voice had fallen to a low growl now, and she cringed at the cold malice it harbored.

She broke into wracking sobs as he crossed the room in three swift strides, seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her.

“I have to have those pigments,” he shouted at her now. She only cried harder, her entire body trembling in fear and remorse. “Tell me,” he screamed. “What did you do with it?”

She continued to cry. He released her, turning away and muttering something in frustration and disgust. She fought to bring her sobbing under control and tried taking several deep breaths to calm her fractured nerves. At last, she swallowed hard and spoke the words she’d been dreading for days.

“I threw it into the river.”

The blow struck her so hard that whatever he’d been screaming as he hit her was lost to the ringing in her ears. She flew over the far side of the divan and lay sprawling on the floor. When she looked up through tear-filled eyes, she saw hands reaching out for her. She backpedaled crab-like on her hands and feet until she collided with something that fell crashing next to her. Oh God, the easel. She watched in horror as the painting fell face down onto the floor. She stared at it in mute terror, praying that the paints were not still wet, but knowing the oils took many days to dry.

A frightening howl jerked her head up, and she saw Daniel racing across the room towards her. As he loomed over her, she lashed out. She hadn’t even realized her hand had pulled the shears from her handbag. There was another howl, but this one held more pain and surprise than it did rage. Her vision was still blurry from the blow he’d struck, but she could make out the red stain on her father’s shears.

Like a panicked animal, she bolted. Daniel stood between her and the front door, so she fled into the bedroom. Ester slammed the door behind her and turned the lock. She leaned against the door, panting for breath as she gripped the shears in both hands now. She stood there in the dark for sometime before she allowed herself to believe he would not pursue her. Through the door, she heard the muted sounds of his cursing. Perhaps he was sobbing; she could not be sure. Then it grew quiet, and she thought he’d simply passed out.

Her cheek stung from where he’d struck her and she felt the steady beat of her pulse throbbing there. At last she sagged against the door and could barely find the strength to keep standing. She stumbled into the darkness—reaching once again into her chest of drawers for the glass bottle. Not bothering to measure any amount, she poured all the remaining laudanum into her mouth and swallowed bitterly. The bottle clattered to the floor, and she collapsed onto the bed.

She longed for oblivion, be it sleep or death—she didn’t care.

The Third Dream

Ester stared into those preternaturally blue eyes as their bodies swayed together in the darkness. There were no stars, no bed this time, only the two of them in a dim light surrounded by an ocean of dark. They seemed to dance although there was no music; swaying like reeds caught in a gentle breeze. She wore a red dress, although she knew she owned no such dress. But this was still a dream.

They danced, or swayed, or perhaps they were standing still, and it was only the illusion of movement she felt as she stared unblinking into his eyes. Slowly, her gaze descended along the contours of his face and settled upon his lips, which she felt a sudden fiery need for. She kissed him then with all the force of her desperate need for him. They tumbled backwards, and she offered him no quarter as she fell upon him.

She crouched on top of him with predatory ease while he watched her with those two pinpoints of brilliant-blue. She was breathing heavily as his hands slid up her body and she found that the red dress had vanished. Closing her eyes, she let the desire wash over her, feeling only the need to devour and be devoured by him.

Aaron pulled her down into his embrace and kissed her feverishly again, until at last he rested his brow against her own, cupping the back of her head and pressing it to his. His eyes, so close to hers, stared into her, as they shared the same breath.

“I can take you away from all of this,” he whispered, as she felt him press something into her hand. Looking down, she marveled at the brilliant-blue stone as it rolled around in the hollow of her palm, leaving a smear of azure wherever it touched her skin. She closed her fist around it and looked up into his eyes that matched the stone’s hue perfectly.

She gripped him by the shoulder and rolled away, pulling him on top of her as she whispered into his ear.

“Take me.”

Thursday Morning

She realized that she had been hearing the pounding at the door for sometime. Ester sat up while the room spun around her, and she closed her eyes again. She heard the pounding again, followed by muted cursing, and she realized that it was not at her bedroom door—but the front door. She swung her feet off the bed and heard something clatter to the floor; following it with her eyes, she watched it roll across the floor and come to a rest next to her father’s sheers. She bent down, which made her nauseous and her headache, and picked it up.

Ester held it up to the light and saw it was a small, pea-sized piece of lapis lazuli. She shook her groggy-head as she tried to understand. How could this be? When she glanced down at the sheers, she saw spots of dried blood on them. A sudden apprehension seized her. What had she done? She could hear men’s voices coming from the sitting room. The sounds drew her to the door where she removed the chair and opened it a crack to peer out.

There were two men standing just inside the doorway with her husband. The first was dressed in a policeman’s uniform and the other wore a grey tweed suit. The man in the suit introduced himself as Inspector Jasper Shaw.

“And you are Daniel Solomon?” The inspector asked as he produced a small notebook from his jacket and thumbed it open.

“Y—Yes,” her husband replied, and with a hint of annoyance. “What’s this all about?”

“I understand you are acquainted with a Miss Fanny O’Donnell?”  Shaw replied as he drew a pen and scratched a mark on his little book.

“Yes, I know her,” Daniel replied bewildered. “Has something happened?”

The two men exchanged glances.

“Neighbors found Miss O’Donnell’s body last night… she’d been strangled,” the inspector said, watching her husband through narrowed eyes. She gasped at this, and the sound caused the men to turn in her direction. Gingerly, she eased through the door into the room as her husband introduced her.

“Um… gentleman, this is my wife.”

“Mrs. Solomon,” said Inspector Shaw, and the two strangers nodded curtly to her, but then continued to stare. She realized that she must look a fright, but thought it rude the way they gawked at her. Unthinking, her fingers reached up to feel the swelling around her eye, and she found she could no longer meet their gaze.

“Strangled?” Daniel said, bringing one hand over his mouth as he turned back to the two men. Across the back of his hand was a bright red slash with blood still crusted around it from where she’d cut him. This too drew the men’s attention.

“I- I don’t understand,” Daniel stammered.

Inspector Shaw continued to scrutinize him with narrowed eyes for several moments before he at last continued.

“There was a peculiar blue color on the victims lips, and I don’t mean the corpse blue we’re used to seeing. No, this blue was of a particularly brilliant hue.” The inspector passed his notebook to the policeman and reached into his jacket to withdraw a small envelope, pouring its contents into his open palm. “We found these wedged in the victim’s throat.”

Daniel was still shaking his head back and forth in disbelief as he stared at the two small stones in the inspector’s hand.

“That’s lapis lazuli.”

“Yes,” the inspector nodded as he exchanged a glance with the other policeman. He looked around their flat, his eyes drawn to the easel in the center of the room. He turned back toward her husband.

“I understand you’re a painter?”