Mara's Iris (Tom Hiddleston)

Chapter 5

Mara knocked on the door, finding this unfamiliar dynamic so bizarre; she was used to coming and going as she pleased. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her back as she anticipated a muffled voice to chime through the door for her to enter. But she was startled by the door opening to reveal Mr Haroux himself. His height always caught her off-guard. But, his face relaxed to a soft greeting, and she noticed how warm his smile was, compared to the icey smolder in his eyes.

"Do come in," he beckoned. The irony disgruntled her, so much that Mara almost would've laughed if it weren't for the nerves.

He sat down at her father's desk and he'd sprawled all his fraid pencils, charcoal and paper. Mara was left to stand awkwardly by the door, like a child. Not knowing what to do, she sat down in the chair facing the desk.

"What are you doing?" All of a sudden, Mara's chest began to burn with embarrassment. God forbid that she'd already upset him. Feeling bewildered,

"I assumed you'd want me to pose" She stated bluntly. Undeniably, this made her nervous. He made her nervous. She'd only sat down and yet he already found something to object to. He only smiled to himself, still invested in the papers he was sketching on. This both unnerved and sparked the embers of bitterness inside her. She questioned his methods quickly.

"When I sat for my last portrait, he wanted me to pose. So, I assumed you'd want me to do the same. '' Mara didn't mean to be so sharp with her tone. It was one of her traits that drove many suitors away and grated at her mother's teeth.

"That's not necessary " Haroux stated so factually. His tone didn't insinuate any notes of frustration or pride. It was only soft and almost flippant. Again, he didn't even look up from the pages.

"Well, what would you like me to do?" Mara laughed off her words, trying to mask her frustration so as to not appear rude. At this, he looked up from his work and scanned her for what seemed like too long. His eyes drifted all over her. Studying her. They landed on hers in the end, and she felt that she'd been disarmed by the sheer concentration that they held.

He droned out his response with a deep and resonant hum. Akin to how one would resight a deeply admired sonnet "I would like you to be yourself".

As Mara relaxed again, she contemplated what that exactly meant. How could one exhibit one's true self? From her naive experience in courtship, and under the advice of artists prior, the true self could be regarded as undesirable. Ugly perhaps. Her Mother referred to the true self as something a woman should guard as religiously as her maidenhood. This went against everything she was advised to do as a woman.

Mara shuffled repeatedly, unsure exactly how to sit. She worried that every conscious choice she would make from then on could be regarded as ingenuine.

"I don't know how to..." she gestured to her entirety, and tried to cover her in composure with a trembled laugh again. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

He said to her "Have a walk around. I don't mind" which seemed quite bizarre. How could he possibly capture her if she were always in motion. Trying to pay no mind to his glances at her back, she decided to float near the bookshelves. Going over the array of differently aged and worn bookshelves. Often, she found herself sneaking little side glances at the artist at work. Although they were only meters apart, he seemed much more distant; in mind at least. Although she could feel herself being watched, she never saw him look at her once. She pondered over what he was drawing. His drawings, after all, would be a blunt statement of what he thought of her. But, by the fifth glance, she'd made a mistake. She timed it wrongly. Their eyes met...

It came unexpectedly when he rose from the chair and walked around her, across the room and to lean against the perch on the window. The ghost of his presence brushed past her as he moved. The tiny hairs on her arms prickleing from the cool air. The closer he approached, the more compelled Mara was to move away. And they found themselves at the opposite ends of the room. The edge of the desk stopped her and she turned towards him. Curiously, she chose to mirror him. They both sat perched. They both stayed motionless. Amusingly, she took her time watching him. They shared eachothers scrutiny. He even slanted a small grin, invested in his pages still. His curls cut through the bellowing streaks of warm light beautifully. He reminded her of those stained glass windows in the churches. His hand, shielded by the page, moved back and forth briskly, striking the pencil to make observed patterns and brisk sketches. Both hands were wrapped in layers of binding. Mara was unsure if perhaps they were part of his peculiar methods as a defined artist. One of his bandaged palms seemed murked with metallic lead stains from his tools. They could've been purely practical. She noted her Mother's disdain for dirty hands, and perhaps he shared similar sentiments.