Page 43 of Romancing the Artist

Edward studied her, then ran his now-free hands through his hair. “Anger, then. But maybe a measure of sorrow, too.” He stood and stretched, then gestured to her sketchbook with a flourish. “May I? Perhaps writing out the idea would help.”

“Of course.” She turned to an empty page, then handed him paper and a pencil from the table, curious as to what he would come up with.

Edward sat down beside her and jotted down a list along the edge of the paper.

Pain

Anger

Devastation

Longing

Sorrow

Defiance

Rebellion

“And you said your depiction will be at the start of his punishment. Before his spirit is broken.” Edward wrote this at the top of the page, then tapped the paper with the pencil, creating tiny dots in the process. Caroline stared at his list, then looked up at him, at his furrowed brow.

Was she less of an artist, letting him help with this part?

But then, it was important for the work that she get Atlas’s expression perfect.

“When I was on the Continent,” he said, still looking at the paper, “I toured several Catholic churches and holy sites. They are full of the most exquisite artwork. You would love them.” He smiled briefly, then continued his story. “I went to the Piazza della Signoria, where Michelangelo’s sculpture of David stands, three hundred years since its creation.” He looked down at the words on the paper, and he started writing again. Caroline kept her eyes on his face as he spoke.

“His expression is one of intense concentration. Yet there was something sorrowful about his. A furrowed brow. And he glares, fixedly, at a mark no one else can see. Is he preparing to face Goliath and his awful future at war? Or the king who will betray and try to kill him?” Edward smiled, though the expression wasn’t exactly pleasant. “His lips are pressed together, as though he dare not speak. His whole body is tense, and he leans heavily on one leg. He is unwavering. Certain of himself.”

Caroline spoke softly, “As you wish to be?” She saw it as she watched him—a longing that did not match his words. What was it that Edward wanted and refused to say aloud? What was the thing that he, like David, dared not speak?

Edward looked up, momentary surprise showing before he winced. Then he shrugged and attempted a smile. “Perhaps. But we cannot all be chosen vessels for greatness.” He sighed and looked at all he had written. “Atlas would not feel that sense of calm, I think. Though the rest of it might be there.”

He wrote for a moment more, then handed the sketchbook to Caroline. His handwriting wasn’t exactly tidy, yet she had no trouble making out his words. A description that had her puzzled.

Atlas’s face is etched with lines of pain and suffering, his brow furrowed in anger and frustration. His eyes burn with intensity, daring anyone to challenge his rebellious spirit. His punishment is unjust, singled out by Zeus for no reason other than his own power and strength. But he refuses to be broken by his burden, to give in to the weight of the heavens on his shoulders. Instead, he holds his head high, defying his fate and challenging the gods themselves with his unwavering spirit.

“You ought to write professionally,” she murmured, smiling at the paper and then looking up at him.

Edward shook his head slowly, his gaze unfocused. “I know so little of true hardship. But I can imagine what it would be like to have a burden too heavy to bear. I have seen it in others often enough.”

The depth of his emotions and thoughts on the matter surprised her and put her own thoughts deeper into a river of doubt. What did she know of such heavy burdens? Would painting a scene such as that be dishonest?

Uncertainty filled her mind. Until Edward’s hand picked up hers from the table where it rested. Caroline’s gaze came up, meeting his with surprise. Both their hands were bare. His skin was warm against hers, his fingers strong, his grasp firm.

“Don’t look so worried,” he whispered, eyes soft and smile sincere. “You can do this, sprite.”

She exhaled a shaky breath as she nodded, and then he released her hand with one last squeeze. Edward rose, lifted his empty picture frame again, and knelt. He looked down for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. She put her sketchbook in her lap and picked up the thin stick of charcoal she preferred for quick, rough outlines.

Edward lifted his head, brow furrowed, and features set in an expression of restrained anger and agony.

Her heart stopped. It must have. The whole world stopped. And there was only a transformed Edward, an Atlas glaring at her with such ferocity that she forgot for a moment that it was not she who deserved his fury.

Her heart began beating again, her stomach dropped, and heat filled her, flooding her chest and limbs, climbing into her cheeks, and making her fingertips tingle. Caroline started sketching, as quickly as she could, in broad, dark strokes that captured the furrowed brow, the darkness in the eyes, the sharp lines of an angry jaw.

There was nothing on her page except Atlas and his anger.

At last she nodded, satisfaction curling around her heart like a contented kitten. “This will be a start,” she murmured.