31. Niamh

In my wildest dreams, I used to imagine what this would be like. To stand in a museum and stare at a painting in person. It would be a wonderful experience, I thought. It would inspire enough joy to last a lifetime, and I could return to the other realm, content.

At peace.

Staring at a painting inspires everything but peace. I am angry. I am so happy my heart feels swollen, and it hurts. I am so tired. So desperately sad. So angry.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. A happy moment. A grateful moment that I would accept in a moment of greediness.

But one viewing of a painting isn't enough. I move from the first to the next, Caspian at my side, his questions hot against my ear. The man himself is cold, but his curiosity is molten.

"Tell me more," he demands. Insists. Pleads.

I nearly bite my own tongue in my rush to. "This is a beautiful use of color," I say, eyeing a sky made up of a million different colors. Blues and yellows and reds all smashed together and yet the image they create is simple and recognizable: a sky. "You can see the artist's vision," I say. "You can see things as they see them."

"As they see them?" Caspian echoes. "How?"

I can't say. I don't know how to form the proper words to even begin to describe it. So, I take his hands and manipulate his pale, slim fingers into the air before me. I trace the white nails and silken skin. I feel the strength coiled in every single digit. I try to make him understand.

I use his fingers to paint the air. To view the world as he sees it. Cold, brutal motions. Jabbing motions. Then I curl his fingers inward toward me and press them to my chest, making the contact as gentle as I possibly can. Let him feel my heartbeat hammering.

"Look," I say. "I see endless color and beautiful sky. I see hope and light. Oh… It's so beautiful. So beautiful."

My words are greeted with a grunt from him. He doesn't see. Even so, he steers me to another painting. Looms behind me. Commands, "Tell me what you see."

So, I do. I tell him until my voice grows hoarse, and I can barely see through tears. I'm crying openly, but he doesn't chase these tears away. He's so gentle in his touch, steering me along from painting to painting.

But his voice is grating and violent. "Tell me! Tell me!"

He doesn't understand. He looks at the painted canvas and he doesn't see. It frustrates him. It angers him. It thrills me.

Because I can see for him. I explain, and he grunts in acknowledgement. It's not a full picture—he doesn't truly view it in full. But he can get a glimpse through me. He needs me.

He stays with me. He looks at paintings over my shoulder and stays with me. Has need of me. Demands more of me.

I thought this experience would be fun. Greedy fun. A devious, rebellious memory to hoard later. To store away in my skull long after the misery of my old life swept any other joy away.

In that world, I could leave this realm and go back again. There would be something left of me to go back.

But now…

I curl my fingers around a vamryre's hands and grip him so tight. I want him to stay. I want to stay.

I want to stay.

"The gallery closes in ten minutes." The voice comes from a man dressed in black. He stands near the door, radiating authority.

"Okay," I whisper to no one. Okay. I will leave…

But I could come again. Another day. Another trip.

I have to come here again.