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Interlude

Iris

Sadie stands on coltish legs, exploring this new landscape she finds herself in. It is sunset, golden-hour light slanting horizontally through the leaves. She can hear the rush of a river playing over rocks, laughter in the near distance.

She walks along a deer path, out of the woods, and into a clearing, where a group of young people sit in a loose circle. Some of them are idly sketching. Others are drinking wine. A young man strums a guitar, his eyes closed. They don’t notice her as she takes her place among them. She looks about for Weston. He isn’t here, but Marguerite is. She reclines against a fallen log, a lap desk propped across her thighs. Her hair is loose, as is her blouse, the high neck unbuttoned to her clavicle. A half-finished glass of wine tilts precariously at her side. She is older here than she was at the dinner party with Weston, the first time Sadie traveled into the past, but not by much. Perhaps nineteen or twenty.

Another young woman comes to sit next to Marguerite and whispers something in her ear. Iris. Sadie recognizes her angular, handsome face, her full, dark lips. She exclaims over the drawing Marguerite is working on. Sadie soundlessly approaches from behind, watching over their shoulders as they study Marguerite’s sketch—a sensual-looking woman, chin tilted and eyes at half-mast, the long train of her black dress cascading down marble steps, her hand resting lightly on the banister.

“Is this your Lady Moss ?” Iris asks.

“Yes. I’m almost finished with the preliminary sketches, thank goodness. She’s been an impatient sitter. I’ll begin painting soon.”

“You’re better than Boldini, you know. You are.”

“I don’t know about that,” Marguerite demurs. “Let’s just hope I’m good enough to gain commissions.” She glances over her shoulder, as if she can sense Sadie’s presence. “Do you feel that?” she asks.

“What?” Iris asks.

“That chill. It’s as if someone just walked over my grave.”

“No, I don’t feel anything.” Iris rises, shaking out her long skirt. “Let’s go up to the conservatory so I can finish my sketches. The light is good right now and it won’t last very long.”

Sadie follows, from a distance, as Marguerite and Iris make their way to a small greenhouse perched on a shallow rise. The walls and ceiling are made of glass, the heady redolence of Asiatic lilies perfuming the air inside. Sadie watches as Marguerite places her lap desk on the tiled floor, then sits on a shabby, cushioned chaise, bending to unlace her boots. Iris stands behind her easel, charcoal in hand.

Marguerite unbuttons her shirtwaist, then stands to remove her skirt and undergarments. She and Iris share a long smile as Marguerite reclines on the chaise, tossing her hair over her bare shoulder. She places one foot on the cushion, the other on the floor, her elbow propped on her knee. The pose is insouciant. Bold. Unapologetically sexual.

“Beautiful,” Iris says. “You look like a lioness at the hunt. Stay just like that.”

Iris sketches quickly, her hand flying over the surface of the paper, her eyes locked on Marguerite. She looks down only once, to exchange the worn nub of charcoal for a fresh stick. The entire process takes less than ten minutes. When Iris is finished, she motions to Marguerite, who studies her own image, rendered in black and white and shaded with gray, fingers hovering over the surface of the drawing. The likeness is fierce. Erotic. Powerful.

“This is how you see me?”

“Yes,” Iris says, a small smile playing on her lips. “It is.”

The scene changes, suddenly. Now Iris and Marguerite stand looking at Weston’s portrait on a gallery wall, his stormy eyes gazing out at the well-dressed patrons strolling by. Marguerite holds an inscrutable expression as the museum guests pause to admire her creation, whispering to one another. “They’d rather look at that dreadful thing than Lady Moss ,” she says, scoffing.

“It is an arresting portrait, Marg.” Iris shrugs. “You’ve grown, it’s true. Lady Moss is spectacular. But your use of light and shadow in this one ... it’s as if you knew chiaroscuro without having yet studied it. It’s proof of your eye. Your talent.” Sadie sees Iris’s hand slide into Marguerite’s, hidden in the heavy folds of their skirts. “You should be proud of it.”

“I wish I’d never painted it. Truly. I’m sending it to Florence after the show. She’s always wanted it, so she can have the cursed thing.”

“What if someone wants to buy it?”

“I ... I don’t know. I don’t think it should be sold. The cost might be too dear. There’s something sinister about it.”

Iris laughs. “Don’t be silly, my love. You’re being superstitious. And all of us have a price.”

A pair of men pause before one of Marguerite’s other paintings—a landscape rendered in vibrant, autumnal hues, Arkansan hillsides rimmed with deep, golden light. Iris gasps, tugging on Marguerite’s arm. “Do you know who that is, dear? The one on the left, with the sideburns.”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“It’s John Taylor Johnston. I’d heard rumors he’d be here. He’s a voracious collector. He seems taken with your Last Light .”

Johnston murmurs something to the younger man at his side, who hastily scribbles across the pad of paper in his hands.

Iris squeals. “He’s writing down the identification number.”

“But I don’t want to sell that one.”

“Marg! Are you mad? If Johnston wants that painting, for God’s sake, let him buy it! It could make your entire career. You need to sell something .”

Inexplicably, a tear tracks down Marguerite’s cheek. She swipes it away, angrily. “That one ... you know why I painted it. Who I painted it for.”

Iris guides Marguerite away from the wide-open space of the gallery, into a narrow corridor. They sit together on an upholstered bench, where Iris offers Marguerite her handkerchief.

“You need to let go of the past, my darling. Think of the life ahead of you.”

“How can I let go? How? Not when my own sister ...” Marguerite’s fists clench on her lap. “I should have run away when I had the chance. I should have.”

Iris embraces Marguerite as she succumbs to her tears, comforting her with words Sadie can’t hear. The scene begins to flicker around the edges, like an out-of-focus stereoscope, until the two women fade from view, until all falls to the dark.