The Artist's Muse

Chapter 1

Venazza, Italy. April 24, 2005

Sebastian placed the fifth and final painting in the crate and the ship master carefully hammered it shut. Despite taking every precaution, he still felt sick to his stomach about allowing the paintings to leave the studio. What if the boat carrying them from Italy to France capsized? What if they were damaged in transit?

What if he never saw them again?

It was a thought too crippling to even consider. He placed his worn and paint-stained hand atop the wooden lid and offered a prayer to any Gods that might actually exist that his most prized possessions be safe on their journey.

"You artist types and your long faces," the ship master laughed. "This ship is loaded with many priceless pieces on their way to the Louvre, not just yours. As we've told the others, no harm will come to your art. Otherwise, we won't get paid!"

The crew laughed along as two of them picked up the crate and carried it up the gangplank. But Sebastian didn't join them in their mirth. His stormy eyes followed the wooden box until it disappeared into the belly of the ship. Then he turned his collar up against the nighttime chill and left the wharf with curses lingering behind his teeth.

He walked along the deserted road with a heart as heavy as the leather cloak he wore. Shipping his paintings to Paris was a last-ditch attempt, but that didn't mean it was a decision he had been happy to make. Surely someone visiting such a prestigious venue would recognize the scenery or the woman!

Most of the night passed while Sebastian walked through the Italian countryside toward the crumbling remains of the castle which he called his home. He picked up the pace when the first glow of the rising sun peeked over the horizon, and made it through the solid oak door just before dawn.

He shed his cloak and boots at the door to reveal a simple white tunic and belted black pants beneath. Dust lay heavy on the decaying furniture he passed on his way to the depths of the castle. No light made it through the boarded-up windows, but that seemed to make no difference. Sebastian navigated his trail easily, unlocked the door to the dungeons with an iron key, and locked it again behind him.

Only then did he relax. His eyes glowed slightly in the pitch blackness until he struck a match and used it to light the torch at the top of the stairs. He removed it from the sconce and descended into the cold stone depths, lighting further torches as he passed them.

At the bottom, he was met by paintings. Hundreds of paintings in a multitude of sizes. They hung on the walls, they lay on the tables, and they lined the hallways. The settings spanned centuries: some featured medieval castles and rolling greens, others the industrial revolution, and some modern-day Italy.

Yet they all had one thing in common: the woman with sharp cheekbones, raven hair, eyes like the skies, and lips like red roses.

Sebastian lightly caressed the frames as he walked by, his face drawn into the depths of depression. He stopped at the last door at the end of the hallway and pressed his hand to the wood. Inside were the tools of his trade: paints, canvases, brushes, and all other manner of supplies.

He longed to pull out a canvas and feel the magic flow through him into another painting, but the well inside was as empty as the paints he'd tended for one hundred years. He heard no reply when he called to the power, only the echo of his own voice ringing in his mind.

This plan had to work, because there would be no more clues.

There was only one thing that managed to cheer Sebastian up when he got into this state. He turned away from the painting room and took another hallway, not bothering to light any more torches as he traveled into the darkness.

The paintings down this hallway increased in age with every step he took. Some had not lost their coat of dust in over two centuries. But the one he sought stood on an easel in its own room with torches flanking either side.

He lit both torches, placed the third in a sconce directly across from the painting, and sat down in a red velvet upholstered chair. Clouds of dust erupted from the fabric as he collapsed into the seat and stared at the painting.

As with the others, it featured the woman with the raven hair. This time she stood in a medieval ballroom, surrounded by men and women in exquisite finery. She wore a blood-red gown which cascaded down her body like a river over stones. And wrapped around her was Sebastian, his face full of love and joy.

He reached out and ran his pointer finger down the woman's cheek, then pressed his palm to the center of the canvas. Orchestral music began filling the room, joined by the rise and fall of joyful voices. The figures began to dance like spectral figures in his stone dungeon, growing more corporeal by the second.

Venice, 1620

Soon he stood in the warmth of the ballroom. Sebastian dodged the partygoers more out of reflex than necessity; none seemed to notice the pale and ghostly creature who had suddenly appeared in their midst. He positioned himself in an empty corner of the room and watched as the guests encircled the hosts of honor.

"Mirabel, you are the single most beautiful flower in Venice. Today is the happiest day of my life." This version of Sebastian wrapped his arms around the raven-haired woman and kissed her tenderly. He wore a night-blue, tight-fitting doublet with silver braiding over knee-length Venetians. A small ruffled collar framed his face and around his waist hung a sword of silver.

The woman, Mirabel, blushed and hid her face behind a lace fan. "Mine too. Everything has been perfect. It's hard to believe we're finally married."

The groom nodded and brushed the fan away to press a chaste kiss to his new bride's lips. The scene froze into the image from the painting and Sebastian left his corner, a mix of longing and pain in his eyes. He walked right through the guests standing between himself and the couple to stand next to Mirabel.

Sebastian lifted his hand and followed the curve of her face, fingers feeling nothing. That was the blessing and the curse of his magic; while he could relive any scene as if he were there, he could not interact with them. Like a ghost, his hand passed through the face he so desperately missed.

"Don't worry. I'll find you again. I always do," he whispered, and allowed the magic to fade. The lights dissipated and the cold of the dungeon returned, leaving him again in his stony isolation.