A Game of Colours

Chapter 44 Part 1

My time in the safe house is becoming desperately boring, but nothing can compare to the complete and utter loneliness I am starting to feel. With Lewis and Alex reunited, my place here is no longer necessary. Jim and the couple are one big happy family, and I have filled the role of a maid--making their meals and cleaning their rooms to kill time. 

Time is too precious a thing to kill so often. Cats may have nine lives, but I only have one, and this was not my intended way of using it.

I whistle to myself in boredom as I dust the cupboards of Jim's bedroom, who is away on business for the weekend. Lewis was right in saying that she and Alex make an exceptional team--bringing in almost double the food that she and I did. His charm and looks combined with her quick and silent movements in swiping goods off shelves and into her pocket make them incredibly valuable to Jim and the slaves that we have harboured here over the past year.

I lift a few parchments off the cupboard to swipe under them, when I stub my toe on the wooden leg and curse as I drop them all over the floor.

"Fan-freaking-tastic job, Alice," I mutter aloud, "I can really see why Lewis didn't like taking you with her."

I gather them as quickly as a can and try and scramble them into the order they were in before. My eyes widen when they catch a glimpse of a drawing.

I didn't know Jim could draw.

I pull it out to get a better look, studying what appears to be a portrait of...me?

My eyes dart to the bedroom door, which is wide open. I quickly shut it and lean against it, staring at the picture in shock.

It's a drawing of a woman. Her eyebrows are thick and strongly arched. Her hair is cut like a man's--short to avoid maintenance. Her eyes are gazing ahead in an angry determination, her full lips pursed. Her chin is proud, tilting up in defiance. Around her neck is a beautiful necklace, studded with diamonds and large stones fit for only a queen. She seems dangerously exposed, her collarbone and shoulders visible, and yet entirely comfortable with the darkness around her.

It can only be me.

Only one man draws like this, and it isn't Jim. So what is he doing with my Jarrah's drawing? I've never seen it before--I am sure of it, as something like this is not easily forgotten, so he must have acquired it after I left. I suddenly feel dizzy and confused, as I sink to the floor against Jim's door. It doesn't add up. Has Jarrah been in Preston? Has he been talking to Jim? Why would he not tell me about this? Why would he send Jim a drawing of me?  Nothing is making sense.

My hand runs over the parchment in admiration. I missed his art more than I realized. 

I miss him.

I flip the parchment on its backside, only to discover words. Hundreds of words, it must be, in a handwriting I will never be able to read, but unmistakeably belonging to Jarrah.

Curse my inability to read something like this. I lay the parchment to the side, shuffling through the rest of the sheets that are on the floor, but none of the others contain his handwriting or sketches.

My mind wanders to the constantly locked drawer in the parlour.

It must have some answers. 

I fold the parchment gently along its creases and carefully place it in my pocket, as if it contains a living memory of Jarrah that I need to protect. 

I run to the parlour room, fuelled by curiousity and a desire for answers. I grab the drawer handle desperately and try to jar it open, but it won't budge. I debate on just breaking the drawer open, but I don't want to risk Jim finding out I saw the contents just yet.