her knuckles and rubbing the skin there as if trying to erase something, watching her face the whole time. Alice bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to wince, but the pain was sharp and she pulled away.
‘Be still. Why are you fidgeting?’
‘It hurts.’
‘I can see that.’ He let go of her hands, got up from the sofa, and walked to the window, resting his sketch again on the easel. ‘Have you told anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Not your parents?’
She shook her head.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not a doctor. I’m barely an artist to some people’s way of thinking. But if something hurts you, you should tell someone.’
‘I’ve told you, haven’t I?’
Thomas laughed. ‘I hardly qualify as a responsible party.’
She knew something was wrong; she’d known for a while now. She limped when she got out of bed in the morning, not every morning, but often enough that she wouldn’t be able to blame it on something random much longer: a twisted ankle, a stone bruise, a blister. Fevers came on like sudden storms at night, leaving her flushed and dizzy, then vanished by the time she got up and went to the medicine cabinet for an aspirin. Rashes dotted her trunk and disappeared along with the fevers. Her joints warred with the rest of her body, using tactics that were simple but effective: flaming the skin around her knees to an unappealing red, conjuring a steady, unpleasant warming that annoyed like an itch. She’d never been blessed with Natalie’s natural grace, but lately she was wooden and clumsy. Balls, pencils, the handles of bags—all fell from her fingers as if trying to escape. She stumbled over her own feet, even when staring at them. At night, time slowed to the point of stopping, each tick of the clock’s minute hand stretching longer as she tried to distract herself from the pain in her joints.
She’d said something to her mother, but only in the vaguest of terms, making every effort to sound unconcerned. Her mother’s reactions tended toward the extreme and Alice had no interest in finding herself confined for the entire summer. But her mother, who’d been getting ready for a dinner party at the time, had answered absently, ‘Growing pains. They’ll pass. You’ll see.’
‘Sometimes my hands shake,’ she told Thomas.
‘Sometimes my hands shake, too. That’s when a little whiskey comes in handy.’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘I don’t think my parents would approve of that.’
‘Hmm. I imagine you’re right. Do you think you could sit still for a bit?’
‘I suppose so. Why?’
‘I just want to do a quick sketch. That is, if you don’t mind.’
‘You already did the drawing of all of us.’
‘I know. But now I just want to sketch you. Is it all right or not?’
‘As long as you don’t draw my hands.’
He rolled up his shirtsleeves and shook his head. ‘Don’t start hating parts of yourself already, Alice; you’re too young. I won’t sketch your hands if you don’t want me to, but they’re lovely. Hold them up. See? Your fingers are perfectly tapered. You could hold a brush or play a musical instrument more easily than most people because of the distance from the middle joint of your finger to the tip. Ideal proportions.’
He picked up a pencil and sharpened it against a small square of sandpaper. ‘Why do we lack the capacity to celebrate small bits of perfection? Unless it’s obvious on a grand scale, it’s not worth acknowledging. I find that extremely tiresome.’
‘Birds are perfect. Yet most people completely overlook them.’
‘Well, if birds are perfect, then you are as well. And I can’t imagine anyone failing to notice you, Alice. Now, hold up your hand. I want you to study it.’
She was suddenly self-conscious, aware of her unruly hair, her dirty feet. She held up one hand and stared at the back of it, wondering what it was she was supposed to see, while Thomas went to the phonograph in the corner of the room and thumbed through a stack of albums before taking one from its sleeve. He set the needle down on the record, then poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette. The voice that filled the room was French and mournful, the singer entirely alone in the world.
‘Are you concentrating on your hand? Do you see that river of blue running just beneath your skin? It’s a path begging to be followed, or a stream running over a crest of bone before dipping into a valley. Now sit still and let me sketch you. I’ll be quick.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Edith Piaf.’
‘She doesn’t sound happy.’
He sighed. ‘You’re going to have to stop talking. Your expression keeps changing. She’s called the Little Sparrow—ah, something bird-related! If she doesn’t sound happy it’s because she hasn’t had reason to be. Married young. Got pregnant. Had to leave her child in the care of prostitutes while she worked.’ He paused and looked up from his easel. ‘Am I shocking you?’
She shook her head, secretly alarmed over the woman’s circumstances, but thrilled with the image that formed: an insignificant brown-gray bird with a stubby beak breaking forth into magnificent, sorrowful tones.
‘The little girl died when she was just two years old from meningitis. Piaf was injured in a car accident and became a morphine addict. Her one true love died in a plane crash. She’s quite a tragic figure. But her history flavors her music, don’t you think? She’s haunted. You hear it in her voice.’ He hummed along, apparently pleased with his macabre story.
‘You’re not happy. Are you haunted?’
He peered at her from the side of his sketch pad before setting the pencil down on the easel tray. He was scowling, but one corner of his mouth curved up, as if she’d amused him. ‘What makes you think I’m unhappy?’
It was a fault of hers, telling people exactly what was on her mind. You should practice the art of subtlety, Natalie had told her once.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Alice.’
She bit the inside of her cheek before answering him. ‘Unhappiness is easy to see. People try so hard to hide it.’
‘Very astute. Continue.’
‘Maybe you hide it by the way you look at people. You only focus on their bits and pieces. Like you don’t want to get to know them as a whole person. Or maybe you just don’t want them to get to know you. Maybe you’re afraid they won’t like you very much.’
He stiffened at the last. ‘I’m finished. I told you I’d be quick. It’s an interesting theory, especially coming from a fourteen-year-old.’
‘You’re angry.’
‘With someone as precocious
