of how she’d stared at her body in the mirror, her mind kept returning to it. She hoped that whatever unknown need had created that moment of curiosity would never surface again.
Later that day, she received a message from Helen asking that she come to the house after school. There she found Helen in her studio, a large canvas mounted on her easel. “I want you to be my subject,” Helen told her, not giving the girl an opportunity to refuse. Then, instead of posing her, Helen sat and talked with Hillary, discussing the girl’s life in the Colony and her plans for the future. Through Hillary’s hesitant answers, Helen glimpsed more of her past. She wanted to dismiss the girl and begin the painting with Hillary’s face as it looked now, all hope and quiet ambition, barely showing the horror of her earlier years, but simple beauty wouldn’t be enough.
Helen wanted her masterpiece.
As they talked, Helen’s mind captured the girl, carefully so as not to startle her. In a moment, Hillary sat, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes closed, her body numb and ordered to stay numb until Helen released her. Helen moved behind the girl, making a small cut on Hillary’s shoulder, drawing out the blood, strengthening the mental bond between them.
One year, the last year should be enough.
But it wasn’t. Helen demanded more, pulling the child through all the years of neglect and abuse until, shaking, sobbing, the girl broke the bond and fainted.
Helen carried Hillary into the great room and put her on the sofa ordering her into a deep healing sleep. Then she sat in a chair across from Hillary and stared at her, re-forming the bond between them as she began to build the portrait in her mind.
The horror Helen had shared vanished. The pain. Even the guilt. What remained was apprehension. Helen didn’t know if she had the skill to paint something so subtle, so terrible, so beautiful.
Helen had never been this obsessed with a single work. Hillary’s painting became as much a test of her new powers as her skill. Sometimes she would sit for an hour staring at the canvas before making a single stroke. Weeks passed while she worked on the large painting, layering Hillary’s life on the canvas until it matched as perfectly as possible the picture in Helen’s mind. When she thought she had finished, she stored the canvas and worked on other projects with the same attention to every small detail.
She stopped only for sleep and food and for those infrequent times when the need for blood and passion forced her down the mountain to surprise a delighted Philippe Dutiel. Now that she had made her decision to leave, Stephen paid little attention to where she spent her nights. As for Helen, she easily rationalized the affair with Philippe. She needed him. When she left here, they would break for good. She told him that, even told him why she would go.
Afterward, they never spoke of it.
SEVEN
I
AustraGlass shut down a week before Christmas. The Colony pensions closed, owners and renters alike going off for a three-week holiday. Hillary left with Jean Savatier’s family to act as a helper for their three little girls but Helen was too busy to notice her absence. The Austra family—the exiles and those who worked elsewhere in the world—came home. Intimate friends of the family—those who shared the Austra secret—came home as well. The Colony became freer; the Austra family more open, allowing Helen a brief, bittersweet glimpse of how their shared world ought to be.
On the night before the winter solstice, the only traditional Austra celebration, Paul and Elizabeth held their holiday reception in the only place large enough to accommodate the crowd—the Austra corporate offices that separated the Colony from the estates. The couple kept Helen close to them as they greeted their guests, reminding her that though it was their party, she was the honored one tonight.
The Austra family provided a brilliant contrast to the often
Later that day, she received a message from Helen asking that she come to the house after school. There she found Helen in her studio, a large canvas mounted on her easel. “I want you to be my subject,” Helen told her, not giving the girl an opportunity to refuse. Then, instead of posing her, Helen sat and talked with Hillary, discussing the girl’s life in the Colony and her plans for the future. Through Hillary’s hesitant answers, Helen glimpsed more of her past. She wanted to dismiss the girl and begin the painting with Hillary’s face as it looked now, all hope and quiet ambition, barely showing the horror of her earlier years, but simple beauty wouldn’t be enough.
Helen wanted her masterpiece.
As they talked, Helen’s mind captured the girl, carefully so as not to startle her. In a moment, Hillary sat, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes closed, her body numb and ordered to stay numb until Helen released her. Helen moved behind the girl, making a small cut on Hillary’s shoulder, drawing out the blood, strengthening the mental bond between them.
One year, the last year should be enough.
But it wasn’t. Helen demanded more, pulling the child through all the years of neglect and abuse until, shaking, sobbing, the girl broke the bond and fainted.
Helen carried Hillary into the great room and put her on the sofa ordering her into a deep healing sleep. Then she sat in a chair across from Hillary and stared at her, re-forming the bond between them as she began to build the portrait in her mind.
The horror Helen had shared vanished. The pain. Even the guilt. What remained was apprehension. Helen didn’t know if she had the skill to paint something so subtle, so terrible, so beautiful.
Helen had never been this obsessed with a single work. Hillary’s painting became as much a test of her new powers as her skill. Sometimes she would sit for an hour staring at the canvas before making a single stroke. Weeks passed while she worked on the large painting, layering Hillary’s life on the canvas until it matched as perfectly as possible the picture in Helen’s mind. When she thought she had finished, she stored the canvas and worked on other projects with the same attention to every small detail.
She stopped only for sleep and food and for those infrequent times when the need for blood and passion forced her down the mountain to surprise a delighted Philippe Dutiel. Now that she had made her decision to leave, Stephen paid little attention to where she spent her nights. As for Helen, she easily rationalized the affair with Philippe. She needed him. When she left here, they would break for good. She told him that, even told him why she would go.
Afterward, they never spoke of it.
SEVEN
I
AustraGlass shut down a week before Christmas. The Colony pensions closed, owners and renters alike going off for a three-week holiday. Hillary left with Jean Savatier’s family to act as a helper for their three little girls but Helen was too busy to notice her absence. The Austra family—the exiles and those who worked elsewhere in the world—came home. Intimate friends of the family—those who shared the Austra secret—came home as well. The Colony became freer; the Austra family more open, allowing Helen a brief, bittersweet glimpse of how their shared world ought to be.
On the night before the winter solstice, the only traditional Austra celebration, Paul and Elizabeth held their holiday reception in the only place large enough to accommodate the crowd—the Austra corporate offices that separated the Colony from the estates. The couple kept Helen close to them as they greeted their guests, reminding her that though it was their party, she was the honored one tonight.
The Austra family provided a brilliant contrast to the often
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