Epilogue

P eople crowded the gallery, laughing, chatting, and discussing the works on display. Jean-clad student servers with trays of sparkling wine wandered throughout, offering glasses left and right.

Ember stood to one side, a solemn figure in black pants and a black shirt, her uniform of choice now. Nobody had ever seen her wear any other colour, and it had become her signature look.

Behind her hung a huge painting of a gothic castle wreathed in mist. The cloudy haze held suggestions of fantastical creatures crouching in the gloom, but the more one looked, the more one couldn't be sure. The figures and faces were only visible if one wasn't looking directly at them, and more than one group had taken up position in front of it for a time, staring at it and then looking away, hoping to glimpse its secrets.

The painting was a standout piece amongst the others of her class, and she had already been offered three commissions and the chance to show her paintings at the gallery once she had enough for a solo exhibition. The evening was a triumph for Ember, and she accepted it gladly and with quiet dignity.

The gallery slowly emptied until only a few remained, including her art tutor, who was more than a little drunk and hugged Ember so tightly she thought her ribs might crack. "I'm so happy for you," she kept saying, dabbing at her eyes with a used serviette. "You're really going places, Ember. I've had the paper asking about you. They want to do a review."

Ember shook her head. "Oh no. I don't want that."

"But you need exposure. How else will you sell your paintings?"

Ember gave a tight smile and accepted another hug, assuring her tutor she'd think about it. She was on the other side of the country now. There was little chance Bruno would find her, and besides, it had been three years now.

She went to find her coat in the back room, shrugging it on with relief, for the night was getting chilly. The relentless heat of the last few years had cooled, and people were wondering if this was it, if climate change had finally stabilised. Scientists were cautiously optimistic, and governments were smugly congratulating themselves. There hadn't been an unusual weather event in months.

Ember emerged from the back room and made to leave, pausing at the door as she saw someone new standing in front of her painting, considering it closely. She looked around for the curator or her tutor, wondering if they could take over the spiel about the work. She was exhausted. The strain and the excitement of the last few days needed to be soaked away in a hot bath.

But she couldn't see either of them, and so she approached the viewer with a rehearsed smile on her face, wondering which of her stock phrases to begin with. "Do you like it?" "I'm sorry, it's been sold," or, "Hello, I'm the artist."

But as he turned to face her, she froze, her hand automatically covering the orange pendant that hung around her neck, the pendant that she never took off, not ever.

His dark eyes seared her, the mouth as deliciously grim as she remembered, and his tone was biting as he said, "Hello, Ember. I think we need to talk."

TO BE CONTINUED …