078 | April 15, 2019 | Drew Studio

[whitehellebore]

Vera was sketching with charcoal, her hand flying over the page fast and wild, uncontrolled and exhilarating, when a noise broke her concentration. Had the door opened? She frowned, brushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, and lifted her hand again. Now, where had she been? The trouble with originals was that there wasn't anything to work from, except real life. Real life didn't come with predefined brushstrokes and colors she never would have thought her own skin could show, except there they were, in oil and acrylic.


Voices echoed down the hallway; her father's, and another, strangely muffled. Maybe Father was talking to the television? It didn't sound like a show, it sounded like a conversation. And it was getting louder, clipped and short phrases taking turns. Father wouldn't have let someone in who was a bad man, would he?

Vera hopped down from her stool and wiped her hands on a rag. Then she picked up the original canvas by the hanging-wire on the back, and carried it over to the storage rack. It slid in behind several canvases covered only in gesso, and out of sight. Even if it was just the laundry delivery boy, Father had been very clear. The originals were always to be put away where no harm could come to them. Task accomplished, she tiptoed to the door.

A viewer in the living room would see only the studio door opening a little wider, spilling light into the hallway. The most astute of eyes might spot the edge of a canary-yellow sketchpad peeking out along with the sunbeams. A moment later, it was joined by four small fingertips, grimy with charcoal, wrapped around the edge of the doorframe.

Kristoph's first impression of Drew Misham was a deeply skeptical one. Of course, he was fully aware that he had next to no room to talk, considering his current appearance; with dark, heavily season-inappropriate scarves covering most of his face, along with his hair, he was looking more than mildly overdramatic - that is, of course, assuming that he didn't look completely ridiculous. At the very least that sort of thing came with a reason behind it - he wasn't about to give this man something he could remember him by - and while he wasn't sure exactly what sort of air Misham was trying to give off, he was coming off as horrifically eclectic at best.

He was compact and stocky, with disturbingly career-appropriate hair and a way with words that left much to be desired; he had a rather odd way of speaking to potential clients - managing to be somehow both frank and avoidant at the same time - that made Kristoph wonder exactly how the man sold his wares to anyone that wasn't seeking him out on their own. Bluntly put, Misham acted nervous, and Kristoph could imagine that most would lose patience with him before long; it was exactly these sorts of people, however, that offered the highest rewards - as long as one could work their way through the generally distressed aura being thrown repeatedly in one's face.

Despite the general lack of cooperation he was offering when it came to discussing details, it wasn't too terribly long before it became obvious that Drew Misham was prone to slips of the tongue - it was nothing more than small cracks in the meaning behind his words, but it was enough to render the man's formerly solid statements rather unsteady. It was at that point that Kristoph had been grateful that he had had the foresight to not show himself fully to this individual; he had offered to leave, though his tone had made it clear that he was fully aware that such an action would, in all probability, constitute a threat. Misham was far from being in any sort of immediate physical peril, but the hold Kristoph had over him monetarily would probably be considerable enough to make the man buckle, at least slightly - after all, there was something to be said about speaking to the desperate, and if the man in front of him had shown himself to be anything, 'desperate' was an apt way of describing it.

Kristoph had made himself perfectly clear - he would speak to the artist or their transaction was finished, as far as he was concerned - and it was after this ultimatum was laid down that he was told about the girl.

The actual studio appeared to be situated toward the back of the apartment; though Misham seemed less than content with the idea of showing Kristoph around back there, he was eventually allowed access to the hallway. Assuming, of course, that he could pick his way around the clutter - for what it was worth, someone in the apartment seemed dedicated to their craft, if the large amount of art supplies crammed into the rather small space was anything to judge by. Kristoph's gaze had darted to the hallway before he had returned his attention to the man in front of him - surely, the door down the hall hadn't been opened before?

Misham had seemed more or less defeated then; they had left the living room, moving deeper into the apartment. Kristoph had allowed himself to be followed until he was nearly at that door in the back of the apartment, where he had informed Misham that he had best occupy himself elsewhere; he would speak to this artist alone, whomever she was, and he would be less than pleased if he had to argue this point again.

After Misham had reluctantly left him in the hallway, Kristoph had taken to stripping away the thick fabric that had been covering his face; it wasn't pleasant leaving it there, and though he disliked the idea of showing his appearance to any of these people, breathing was a bit of a necessity.

He was in the process of removing the last of it, smoothing his hair down lightly with his hand, when he noticed that he was not necessarily alone in the hallway; the glance he had given the door was a cursory one, but he had caught a glimpse of someone through the opening that had been created between the jamb and the door itself.

He wasn't sure what to think of the fact that it appeared to be a child.

"...Hello?" His voice was quiet, his tone gentle despite his mild confusion concerning the girl he hadn't quite seen. Drew Misham had mentioned his daughter, but she looked so young...surely he wasn't serious?

For now, however, it was all Kristoph had to go off of. "I'm here to ask about some artwork; your father told me that you're the artist I should talk to about it. May I...?"

Vera peeked out through the crack between the door and its frame. The man in the hallway was unwinding a long scarf from around his head. He looked almost like she imagined a mummy might, and one hand went over her mouth to suppress a giggle. Whoever this mummy man was, he certainly had a lot of layers.

When he spoke, she jumped a little. Somehow, she had expected him to stand there forever, unwrapping layer until the finished work was unveiled like an alabaster statue. He didn't seem like a bad statue-man, though. Kind of funny, and his voice was as soft and careful. She opened the door further, inviting him into the room.

The light in the studio was much brighter than anywhere else in the apartment. Colors that were muddy and dull in the living room turned luminous. Overhead lights were aimed at the corners the sun missed, evening out the intensity. The only shadows were the corner behind the door where Vera had tucked herself.

Three easels and two stools were crammed into a small area by the window. The first held a large pad of blank newsprint, a compact mirror taped to one corner. The top sheet was covered in several half-finished self portraits. Smears and eraser marks, along with a dozen disembodied eyes tucked among them showed the artist's current challenge.

Detached sheets of newsprint, still damp with fixative, were draped over every available surface. These mostly consisted of stacks of equipment, some still in boxes. The subjects were all people -- a couple of Drew Misham, a cluster of baseball players and the Mayor of L.A., and, finally, a large sketch of Magnifi Gramarye, the charcoal a close match to the black-and-white stock photo that had topped the obituary column.

The second held an incomplete painting of the Virgin Mary at the annunciation. Her feet, and the wildflowers they were buried in, were perfect in every detail, but her face was little more than a rough sketch and some drybrushed guide lines. Gabriel beckoned with an open hand, the other clutching only negative space. An open book perched on a stool answered the implicit question; it was open to a section on working with real gold leaf.

The final easel was the one she had hastily emptied.

As he looked around, she watched him in turn, not budging from the corner behind the door. Her sketchbook she hugged to her chest like a shield.

Kristoph paused upon entering the studio, his eyes on the painting before him. He wasn't a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but the Madonna was generally unmistakable in artwork; even in her current faceless state, the attention to detail in this particular piece was highly impressive - and that description, though one Kristoph didn't give out lightly, was putting it lightly. The works in charcoal, upon closer study, were also incredibly high in quality; though the medium had changed, the attention to detail had not.

He turned back to where the girl was still standing. Her silence was oddly disconcerting, though the stance she was taking seemed more defensive than anything else; again, Kristoph was struck by the fact that he was looking at a child. Her charcoal-smeared fingertips were rather telling; either Misham was determined to make his life just that much more surreal, or...

"These are yours?" A smile graced his features at the question; the expression, too, was gentle, not unlike his tone. "They're rather lovely."

When the man walked over to the easels, he also walked into the best patch of sunlight in the room -- it lit him from behind, flyaway wisps of hair magically transformed into a gilt frame.

That was the effect. That was what no amount of real gold or perfectly-layered paint -- and here she paused even in her thoughts to pronounce the word properly -- no amount of chiaroscuro could truly capture. But oh, she wanted to try. She loosened her arms so she could look down at her sketchbook, and then back at the man, to see if the illusion had been broken. It hadn't. The light was just as brilliant as it had been a moment ago. She smiled, just a tiny bit.

Now he was asking her a question. She gulped, and bit her lip. He liked her practice drawings? This beautiful man thought her work was lovely?

"Yes." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you..." an angel, she wanted to ask, but she couldn't quite get the words out. "Who...who are you?"

Kristoph tipped his head slightly, returning his attention to the charcoal drawings as she spoke; despite the fact that she seemed to have taken to staring at him, she seemed hesitant, and he had a feeling that nothing much would be gained from staring at her. Nervous demeanors were unlikely to be helped by blatant staring, and while there were questions to be asked, but the answers she seemed willing to give at that point were already barely audible.

"My name is David," he said, and the name came easily despite its lack of familiarity. He may have shown his face to her, but he had decided before coming here that there wasn't going to be a genuine name to go with that gesture; the decision hadn't changed, whether he was speaking was a child or not. "As I've said, I'm here to ask about your art...might I ask for your name?"

When his head tipped, light danced down from his hair and along the golden wire of his glasses. That was enough for temptation to steal over her -- she ducked her head and flipped open her sketchbook. Her hand moved swiftly, without any of the hesitation she'd shown in speaking, tracing out clean lines showing a gentle smile, narrow glasses, and just a vague suggestion of hair framing one side.

Then she signed it with a flourish, using not just her father's Misham, but adding her first name in in slightly smaller letters. She turned the book up so he could see.

"Vera...Misham." She paused, but her mouth was still just a tiny bit open as she sought for more words. "I...like making art very much." She took a few steps towards him and the easels. "Especially paintings. I make a lot of those."

Kristoph's gaze had fallen upon one of the drawings - the fact that it should be placed out like that, serendipitous though it was, was somehow a promising sign - but he had glanced over at her again at the sudden rustling of pages. He wasn't what, exactly, had gotten into her; regardless of his curiosity when it came to whatever it was that she was suddenly trying to do, he remained silent, watching her with a slightly arched eyebrow until the hand flying across the page had finally come to a stop.

The image she showed him was slightly startling - this was a quick sketch? He hadn't expected something quite like that, especially not in such a short period of time; the lines were clean and even, without the messy guidelines produced by most in sketches of this nature, and despite the simplicity of the drawing, it couldn't be said that it was lacking in detail.

His eyes sought out her face; though his tone remained gentle and the soft smile had returned when he spoke to her, his interest had clearly been piqued.

"You're rather talented," he said, "though I see you don't work only with paintings." His gaze trailed downwards, and he gestured to the drawing he had been looking at earlier - the charcoal rendering of Magnifi Gramarye. "Do you know who that is, or is it only for practice?"

Vera was behind on the news; she knew only that performances had stopped for a short time while Magnifi Gramarye recovered from an illness; that his illness was terminal, and the fact that the illness was not what had killed him, were in the papers her father had recycled before she'd had a chance to grab them either for inspiration or floor protectors.

So when David pointed to the drawing she had done of Magnifi Gramarye, the smile on her face was unshadowed. It transformed her -- the skittish, shy girl became an ordinary twelve-year-old, giddy with enthusiasm for her favorite magicians and anyone who shared her love of them.

"Oh! Yes! They're the best!" Her voice was still quiet, but now it was because of breathless excitement. "The very, very best! I watch them on T.V. all the time!"

The smile Kristoph had been given her sidled closer to genuine then;though the most he knew about Troupe Gramarye was the result of the research he had done lately and one of the last things he wanted at this point was to find this girl endearing in any way, her excitement at the topic had changed her completely, filling her with a sort of energy that was impossible to ignore.

"Do you?" he said, folding his arms; the action brought with it a strange, sharp sensation digging into his hip, and he shifted his weight slightly, keeping the motion nonchalant and just enough to get the corner of the thin, hardbound diary away from where it had been pressed against his body. It wouldn't have done for him to be flashing pieces of evidence about in public; with the use of a mirror and a bit of creativity, he had managed to conceal the diary under the jacket of his suit.

It was mildly inconvenient at times, but easily dealt with; Kristoph's expression hadn't faltered, and the light sense of enthusiasm that had entered his tone remained as it had been. "I like watching them, myself," he continued, "though I wasn't expecting to come across another fan like this - and I'm certainly glad that I did! Their acts really are breathtaking, aren't they?"

David moved kind of funny -- like Father, when he was hiding a present for her. Had he brought her something? She peered at him for a moment, before his words made themselves into a better present than she could have ever imagined. Father would listen to her, but David understood.

"They can do anything! They made two motorcycles disappear! And turned the smoke into a whole flock of doves! Zoom! Whoosh!" She giggled, remembering the look on Valant's face when one of the doves had come back to take a few of his hairs for her nest. Zak had turned her into a rose, and tucked it in his buttonhole for safe-keeping.

"I saw them once. When I was little. The room was so big and they were so far away I had to use binoculars! And the crowd was so heavy I had to ride on Father's shoulders." All those people, excited and so very, very close. She hadn't known about the bad people back then. Her shoulders slumped, and she flicked a glance at the doors to the balcony. A row of small canvases leaned against the glass, and -- more telling -- a thick, even layer of dust blanketed the handle. It had been a long time since
she'd even ventured that far.

"I wish...I could see them again." One hand stole to her mouth, teeth worrying her thumbnail. Her gaze continued to dart between the sketch and the world beyond the balcony railing.

Kristoph's eyes remained on Vera, a slight twinge of morbid curiosity entering his expression; once again, there was a sense of transformation, but this time the alteration was glaringly dissonant - Misham had mentioned that his daughter was very shy, but hadn't given many details, and the sense of longing that had entered her stance was verging on depressing. If it was a natural shyness that was proving so crippling, he doubted she would have gone to see Troupe Gramarye in person to begin with, and even if she had, the memories would almost certainly not be such happy ones that she wanted to repeat.

"Oh?" His tone took on a slightly absent quality as his gaze fell upon the hand at her mouth. Nail-biting was one of those habits that tended to inspire more than its fair share of cringing, though he managed to refrain; his expression remained pleasant for now as he drew his attention away from her mouth and he followed her gaze toward the balcony.

He saw no reason for now to tell her that there was a good chance that she wouldn't be seeing those magicians again in any medium for quite some time, if at all - after all, she hadn't reacted with sorrow at his reference to Magnifi Gramarye's portrait; the chances were high that she didn't know the circumstances.

Which could only work out for the better in the end, really.

"I'm sure you'll be able to one day," he said, pulling his gaze away from the outdoors to look back at her. She had been fine until she mentioned the crowd, and in combination with state of the door handle and her odd behavior when he had entered the room... "Do people make you nervous, Vera? Is that why you haven't gone?"

She pulled her thumb away from her mouth long enough to flip to a clean sheet of paper. A dark smudge of charcoal was left on her lower lip. When she turned the notebook around, the finished sketch was a mustachioed man, other details vague beyond a suggestion of heavy brows and a hat-brim.

"Bad people do!" She paused, not paying much attention to David at all. "...Father said I was lucky that day. That if I hadn't been...something bad would have happened."

She took a few steps towards the doors, and then turned back. "I think...I might have used up all my luck that day. So I...stay inside now. It's safe here. And I can paint all day long."

Though he was obviously listening to her, and he nodded slightly as though in understanding, a moment passed in which Kristoph had no idea what to do with that. Granted, in his experience, children had a tendency to be very blunt - almost excruciatingly so - and Vera Misham was no exception in this regard; at the same time, there was something about the statements she was making that was, quite frankly, incredibly disturbing. That she should be so open about it...

Despite her words, however, Kristoph recovered himself quickly, shunting any extraneous thoughts he may have had on the matter to the side; logically, any information she gave him was an opening for something, and if any sort of emotional connotations were disregarded, he would be left with nothing but potential avenues for actually accomplishing what he had come here to do.

And if she trusts you well enough, she won't say a word.

"It doesn't have to be that way, you know," he said, his tone gentle. "Of course, you don't have to go outside if you don't want to, but I know of some things that can protect you if you need to go out. Certain items can ward off evil; it's a very old sort of magic, but it still works just as well."

He tipped his head slightly, smiling. "I can give you some of that magic, if you'd like - I know you said that you like staying inside to paint, but wouldn't it be nice to be able to go outside once in a while with nothing to fear?"

Vera's world, when it came to people, was a world of absolutes. Good people, and bad people. Shades of grey were found only in charcoal portraits, not in souls, and once she'd made her decision to trust this man, there were no distinctions between what she would and wouldn't say. Beyond the things she had promised Father never to tell, of course.

Her hand crept back to her mouth as she listened, instinctive comfort against the anxiety from even the thought of going outside. Magic? Really-truly-real magic? She didn't like finding out how magicians did their tricks, but she did know it wasn't real -- that she didn't have to cry over disappeared rabbits and doves that had turned into lace handkerchiefs. It was all some sort of three-dimensional trompe-l'il; beautiful and wonderful to see, but just an illusion.

But this man hadn't lied to her, she just knew it. Maybe she'd misheard him. "Magic...that can protect me? Against...evil?" Or maybe he did know something she didn't. There were a lot of things she didn't know. "...I'd like that very much."

"I'm glad," Kristoph said, sounding pleased despite the internal recoil at her fingers finding her mouth again; exactly what he was going to give her as this source of 'magic' was becoming increasingly clear in his mind, assuming this went through at all. "I'd imagine it would be nice for you to be able to see more of the world...there's more out there than you can see from just pictures."

He paused briefly, considering for a moment. "However, I don't have it with me; I'll have to come back later and give it to you. Perhaps...would you mind working on something in the meantime? Your art is fascinating - I was wondering if you could make something for me."

She still wasn't sure how she felt about going outside, even with the greatest magic charm in the whole world. She hung back, waiting to see if he would say anything else.

He did, and the change of subject was welcome, though it was only in her imagination that the light grew brighter and her notebook less heavy in her arms. She flipped it open and drew a smiling face, turning it around so he could see it for only a split second before turning to a clean page.

"I...wouldn't mind at all." He had listened to her; the least she could do was the same. Her pen hovered over the blank page, and her eyes had gone wide and curious.

It was this aspect of the girl in front of him that struck Kristoph so strangely - the way that, in between the general shows of normalcy that overtook her once in a while, she seemed completely devoid of any sort of affect display whatsoever. The drawings would take over at that time, leaving her expression unchanged regardless of what was created with strokes of ink across paper; Vera Misham was plainly far from emotionless, and perhaps it was that fact that made the behavior all the more disturbing.

However...

"I appreciate it very much," he said, the soft smile returning as he shifted slightly, unfolding his arms where they had been crossed over his chest and retrieving the diary from the folds of his jacket. "What I would like is something written, actually...the sort of handwriting I would like it to be written in is right here."

He held the book out to her then, slipping his index finger between the cover and the pages and allowing it to fall open to a random location. Words written in Magnifi Gramarye's distinctive scrawl covered the pages, chronicling times and events unrelated to the moment at hand. "Would it be possible for you to replicate that, or...?"

The thought of going outside, safe in a lacquer-bright bubble of some unknown magic, was still dominating her thoughts, until a book was held in front of her.

The handwriting was bold -- messy and masculine, but legible. She stared intently down at it, the words passing unnoticed as she examined a the and a that which had lined up one atop another. "...I don't have a pen that color." It was ball-point; that much she could tell even from a glance. She didn't work with them much; grocery lists did not count as work. "...Father can go shopping."

She peered at the page one more time, and then turned abruptly and ran across the room, to where several teetering stacks of boxes and equipment filled a corner. She patted down one box, and then climbed on top of it so that she could peer down into another. Her arms were barely long enough, but she snagged a large, round magnifying glass by its a swinging metal arm and held it over her head like a prize as she hopped down.

Then she dashed back and started attaching it to a leg of one of the stools. It was a tall one that she used to sit at the same height as her Father, and the top of it almost reached her shoulders. When it was securely fastened, she ran off again. This time she returned with a sheet of blank newsprint and a clean, white cotton cloth. The newsprint covered the seat, and the cloth she hung on to.

"I think so...let me see it again." She patted the top so gently that it made no sound, but she was going to keep doing it until the book was set down.

From what Kristoph had heard about Drew Studios, he had expected a high level of quality and competency; he hadn't exactly expected...whatever this girl was. He wouldn't deny that it was brilliance, as it certainly was; at the same time, the entire situation was highly surreal, and the experience seemed to be teetering quite perilously on a sharp, unnerving edge that begged the question of what, exactly, the girl in front of him was capable of. She was still a child, and the thought of what her full potential would look like was off-putting.

He arched an eyebrow as he watched her, unsure if he should ask what she was looking for or if he should simply leave her to her work; in the end he settled on silence. Her actions suddenly bordered on manic, and he had the feeling that interrupting would get him nowhere - not to mention that there were other questions that her initial words had brought to the surface. There was nothing unusual about the color of the pen, as far as he knew; it had looked common enough while Kristoph was poring over it, at any rate. But if she was sending her father out to go fetch something in that color - surely she couldn't know the sort of pen simply by giving the writing such a cursory glance...

Her next request, however, pulled him out of his thoughts and back to the task at hand; though it took him the briefest of moments to collect himself and notice the moments, he set the book down gently, muttering a quiet "Of course," and keeping the page he had opened it to bared to the room.

It was clear that Vera was easily immersed in her work; it was something she was eager to do, not a chore, and it was at that moment that it struck him to wonder if she fully realized what she was doing - if she realized what her 'paintings' were used for. Given her nature and their discussion so far, he doubted it, and there wasn't a comfortable way to ask.

Not to mention that asking questions at this point seemed like an intrusion somehow.

Vera peered at the open page, tilting the magnifying glass back and forth. Then she wrapped the cloth over her fingers before gently lifting the top sheet and peering at the other side. Her eyes flicked between the book and the man who had brought it, watching for any sign of approval or disapproval. When neither were immediately forthcoming, she turned her full attention back to the book.

"The writing...changes." It was still the same hand, but bold lines grew slightly less bold, and later loops slanted more heavily. It would take a more precise instrument than a magnifying glass for her to tell how much, but the progression was obvious -- to the right eye. She lifted a stack of pages, jumping backwards in time, and then flipped forward again. The page she settled on had neither date nor signature, but the opening words made it clear -- again, to the right eye -- when they had been written.

I write these words from the place where the world shall witness my final departure. This time, there shall be no miracle, no magic ...

Vera read the words again, her lips mouthing the words silently until she spoke again. "It's so sad." She took a deep breath. "...But I could copy this, if I had another book just the same." She'd copied sketches, down to the dents of erased lines, and the all-important signatures. This couldn't be that different, could it?

Kristoph tipped his head slightly, watching her work; though he was far from unobservant, again, she was seeing things that he hadn't. In the end, however, what mattered was that it was workable - and from the sound of it, it would be.

Granted, also from the sound of it, she didn't seem to understand what it was that he wanted - but if she was able to see the things that she was describing to him, he didn't imagine that what he was asking of her would be that far off from recreating the thing itself.

"Ah...actually, I was hoping for something a bit different than that," he said, and despite his words, his tone was far from a reprimand; his smile remained gentle as his gaze shifted from the page to her face. "I was wondering if you could write something else - if you could copy down a typed passage, using that particular handwriting, on a separate page entirely. And the torn edges, there..." He paused slightly, gesturing toward area where the page had been ripped out of the diary, though he didn't touch the book. "I need what you create to match up with that, as closely as possible. Could you do that for me?"

As David spoke, her free hand crept back to her mouth. She'd never done anything like that before, and she didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep. Especially not to this nice man. But if that was what he wanted, she didn't want to refuse, either.

She stared at the book, now open to the last page, as if the words would change and answer her question for her. As it was, they didn't make much sense. Whose hands? And did she have it in hers to do this. She had to try, at least.

She flipped her sketchbook to a new page, and tried a few words, and then a whole sentence. It looked...it looked alright. Pencil, not pen, and the angle was off, but it improved as it went on, and she could practice. Would practice. Somewhere, without intending to, she'd made her decision. She turned to a fresh page and sketched again. This time she did turn it around when she finished.

On the page was a perspective shot of a piece of paper, one edge ragged, the other slightly curled up. On that, in turn, were four words, and a tiny smiley face in lieu of a signature. I can do that. They were written in Magnifi Gramarye's handwriting.

Her initial reaction had sent a thick, unpleasant jolt through Kristoph's system; there had been a sense of apprehension behind this whole thing, and especially in showing her the diary. It had occurred to him, of course, that there was a chance that she wouldn't be able to do as he asked, but the quality of the work she had out - lying around as though they were simply practice, no less! - had been fairly convincing. However, the fact that she seemed so unsure of the request didn't bode well. Now that she had seen the diary already...

Well.

He wasn't sure how plausible it would be, but children had a horrific tendency to run their mouths, and if anyone were to investigate this place for whatever reason - after all, Kristoph knew well enough that most criminals were made to pay for their crimes eventually -

And no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that she wouldn't mention it - there was really no way for anyone to know that he had come here to begin with, and if she were being questioned about the forgeries, perhaps she wouldn't think to mention this particular instance (after all, Kristoph was certain there had been many others), and she seemed fond enough of him, so if she trusted him enough she would have no reason to try to bring him into it - there was no way to counter the constant argument of But she might.

The pale fluttering that started just in his line of vision pulled him out of his thoughts, drawing his gaze to the sketchbook; his eyes widened slightly when he saw what she had done, and for a startling, bizarre moment he couldn't be sure how those four words, in all their simplicity, were both a relief and the most horrifying thing he had ever been confronted with. He reached up for a moment, toying with his glasses as he studied the writing in silence for a moment that felt far longer than it really was; he could feel a sense of finality settling itself in his chest - he was actually going to go through with this, wherever it may take him.

So this is it, then.

He returned his gaze to Vera then, all traces of uncertainty gone from his expression.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. He slid his hand into his pocket, retrieving a sheet of paper that had been folded over and creased several times; the typed words inside the folds were what would become the last words of Magnifi Gramarye. "This is what I need written on the page itself; it's incredibly important that I have this as soon as possible. When can I expect that this will be done?"

David was worried about something -- his eyes, for all they seemed to focus on the diary and then her notebook, were looking at something very far away. He didn't even smile when she gave him her answer; instead, he looked very grave. Like he was the one promising to do something, instead of her.

Then his hand pushed his glasses up one last time, and she saw it. Just for a second, but her eyes grabbed the detail like a still frame on the television, captured forever. Two eyes, long and sad, stared down at her, over a cruel, cruel mouth.

She was already so tense that the surprise didn't budge her; her eyes went from narrowed with anticipation back to wide-open, but that was all.

Who is this man? David was one answer. Her client-to-be was another. She thought back on her first impression -- she had thought he could be an angel, fallen to Earth on a rush of sunlight. But angels didn't bear signs like that, carved into their own flesh. Whoever this man was, he was important, and nothing he touched with that hand would ever be the same again.

She barely registered that he was speaking, until that same hand held out a piece of folded paper. She reached out her own and took it; through the folds she could see typed letters, but the letters themselves didn't matter, so she didn't unfold it. She just looked down at it, waiting for something to happen.

Oh. He was waiting for a reply from her. She'd never done this part before either.

"I need to practice, and get more pens, and look at the torn ends under the microscope, and practice some more..." Her voice had regained the momentum that had bogged down in the confusion over the request, and her hands twitched with the desire to start right now. "...and eat dinner with Father and get some sleep and then cut the new fibers and then I can get started." How long would all of that take? It depended on how much she slept, which wouldn't likely be very much. She paused in her ever-growing list of Things To Do, and tried to assign a time to each. "I need at least a day. Can you," she hated asking him for anything -- he had given her such an interesting present -- but she had to, "come back tomorrow night? Or..." Don't make promises you can't keep, Vera. "The morning after? I'm sure I can have it done by then."

Again, the silence between the question and the reply was disconcerting; though Kristoph tried not to put too much thought into figuring out this girl's mental state and the meanings behind her expressions (or, more often than not, the lack thereof), the fact remained that she had been staring at him and he couldn't be sure why. Vera's expression had been strange - it had seemed almost shocked, though he couldn't be sure, as the reaction had been oddly blunted if that was the case - and though he wasn't about to ask, he had to wonder what had caused it; his first thought went to some sort of physical flaw, though he couldn't imagine what she had just seen as of the last several moments that would cause that sort of reaction. The injury that he had sustained to the back of his hand had healed over well, and it hadn't added to the amount of scarring that was already present; as for the mark itself...repulsive though it was, it wasn't that conspicuous - though the longer he considered it, he began to realize that he shouldn't be surprised if she had noticed it anyway. Given the attention to detail that she seemed able to put into the briefest of glances, he could just imagine what she would be capable of seeing while looking at someone for any length of time.

The concept wasn't one that he was comfortable with, and he was relieved when she finally answered him; the timeframe she gave him was workable, and even though he could feel the sense of unease creeping back up at the realization that he would be unable to back out of the whole thing as soon as he left this room, he dismissed it in favor of a soft smile in the girl's direction.

"That sounds perfect - I'll be back the morning after next, then." And unless Shadi Enigmar suddenly decides to be cooperative, the time in between will be spent trying to create a case out of nothing. He paused briefly, though his eyes remained on Vera. "I really look forward to seeing it. I'll be sure to bring that magic I was telling you about when I come back for it; hopefully you'll be able to put it to good use."

She hadn't forgotten his promise of magic -- but the whirlwind of things that had come after had pushed it back. Now he mentioned it again, and she smiled. This man I can trust. If he said he had magic, he had magic. "Yes, please!" Maybe she'd even get to see Troupe Gramarye again. And she'd definitely get to see David again, and they could talk some more.

But before then, she had a job to do, and she wasn't very comfortable with an audience, even a quiet, friendly one. She skipped over to a cabinet, and pulled out a metal tray, clean and shining. The diary and the note both went in it, and then the whole thing onto a shelf, covered with the cloth she'd used for handling the diary. The studio needed a good picking-up, first; there was charcoal everywhere, and that wouldn't do at all. "I...should get started. If...if you don't mind."

Kristoph tipped his head slightly. "Of course," he said; though his expression remained placid, his eyes darted to the tray containing the diary one last time before resettling his gaze on the girl in front of him. "Take care," he added, and with that he left the room, stepping into the hall and concealing his features once more.

He supposed he should have been surprised that Drew Misham wasn't in the hallway immediately outside the room, but it wasn't something he dwelled on for very long; after all, he had always known that there was something to be said about dealing with the desperate.

If he were to consider it for very long, Kristoph would have noted the irony behind that line of thinking, considering his current actions. For now, however, he was content to leave without incident - to return to his offices so he could work on a case he already knew the outcome of, trying to pretend that he hadn't just left a crucial piece of evidence with that young girl with a deep attention to detail and bitten-down nails.