Faith stood stock still, staring at the canvas in front of her.
She hadn’t wanted to come into the studio, but it was the brightest, most welcoming room in the house. Bathed in the warm glow of the morning sunshine, it had seemed the obvious place to bring Kassie, as they waited for Adam’s return. When he did eventually stumble through the door, looking pale and distracted, he had immediately ushered Kassie into his office, engaging her in what was clearly a fairly heated conversation. Standing outside in the hallway, a forgotten figure, Faith had felt self-conscious and awkward. Adam had never had a client in the house before and she didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping or interfering, so she had retreated to her studio once more, pulling the door shut behind her.
Now the large room, which had seemed bright and airy earlier, felt uncomfortably warm, even a little suffocating. The numerous canvases, which Kassie had taken such delight in, now seemed to crowd in on her, goading her by flaunting her past productivity, the ease with which she had previously set down her latest bout of inspiration. Turning away, she found herself confronted by her self-portrait once more.
Faith stared at Faith, flesh and blood facing her painted self, as if in a stand-off. The portrait was nearly complete. It was a morning’s work – a day at the most – to finish it off. A tube of black oil paint was sitting on the easel, where she had left it that morning, and now, carefully, cautiously, she picked it up and squeezed it, depositing its oozy contents on to her palette. Dropping it without replacing the lid, she did the same with a tube of white paint, before picking up the nearest brush to mix the two colours. Soon an appealing, rich grey coated the hairs of her brush and slowly she raised it to paint.
The tip of the brush touched the canvas, which felt odd, yet familiar, and slowly Faith completed a stroke. Then another. This, however, was faltering, less certain, and Faith saw that she’d blurred the line. She was about to wipe it off, start over, when suddenly she paused. She was close to the painting, was looking directly at her own face, her eyes glued to the features in front of her. But suddenly she wasn’t seeing her features any more, she was seeing Annabelle’s. Her tiny upturned nose, her dimpled chin, those achingly beautiful blue eyes. Those glassy, lifeless eyes …
Shaking, Faith dropped the brush. It clattered to the floor, but she didn’t notice. She swayed a little, as if she might be about to faint, then leaned forward, resting her head on the taut canvas. She could feel tears running down her face now, falling on to the paint, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t the strength to move even if she had wanted to.
It was a mistake to have tried. She wasn’t ready yet and something made her wonder if she ever would be. She wanted to paint – she needed to paint – but for now it was impossible. She could not see, could not feel, anything but Annabelle. She was haunted by the ghost of a child she had loved and lost.