Echo Bazaar: IC Journal
[Some spoilers for the Uncovering Secrets Framed in Gold storyline.]
The thing is done, and I must confess that I am, in equal part, both glad to see the back of it and tormented - tormented! - that there is no more to do.
The Forger, my dear friend, has been as stalwart in this and as valorous as one could ever ask, and he deserves far better than the meager thanks I can offer. He deserves far better than to have been involved in this ghastly business at all. Nevertheless, I shall have to make a stop in Veilgarden at my very earliest convenience: I have quite an excellent vintage to share, and I expect most of it shall go to him. The poor, dear man. He needs it more than I. Perhaps it shall go some way to repairing our no doubt strained acquaintance.
The painting! My God, if I should say it has not haunted my dreams these many nights I would be a d--ned liar. But it was not me who stripped away the layers of paint, one after another - that unhappy task I gave to the Forger, and may God forgive me for it.
(Did I swear so often in this way before I came to the Neath? I am certain I did not. A funny thing, that even as I rest my head in the very nearest thing to Hell, and cultivate the most dangerous of acquaintance with its infernal denizens, that I should become pious!)
... No, that is not the word. Or rather, it is the piety of a drowning man, swept out to sea, who grasps at the distant lighthouse and imagines that will save him. A pious woman would not have undertaken such deeds. A pious woman would have had nothing to do with this d--ned painting. Have mercy on my soul! I cannot stop thinking about it, even though it cannot possibly be thought to be my affair any longer. There is a part of me - a horrid, black, wretchedly loud part of me - that wishes I had made him continue! To strip away that last layer! What dreadful secrets might even the canvas have held? Might we have last have made some bloody sense of the thing? Even now I know nothing of it, for all the Forger's toil. Nothing! What, in God's name, did the horrible thing mean?! Am I become so avaricious for knowledge forbidden that I would drive that poor man, my dear acquaintance, beyond all that he could bear just for one more scrap of secret?! If only I had kept to jewels!
...
There. The air of the Neath is not so refreshing as on the surface, but it has braced me. God, but that last paragraph looks wretched. I must remember: whatever I thought of doing, whatever I wished to see, in the end I spared him. I did not progress past the point of no return. I may yet be able to make amends.
I think I had better arrange that trip to Veilgarden sooner than later.
The thing is done, and I must confess that I am, in equal part, both glad to see the back of it and tormented - tormented! - that there is no more to do.
The Forger, my dear friend, has been as stalwart in this and as valorous as one could ever ask, and he deserves far better than the meager thanks I can offer. He deserves far better than to have been involved in this ghastly business at all. Nevertheless, I shall have to make a stop in Veilgarden at my very earliest convenience: I have quite an excellent vintage to share, and I expect most of it shall go to him. The poor, dear man. He needs it more than I. Perhaps it shall go some way to repairing our no doubt strained acquaintance.
The painting! My God, if I should say it has not haunted my dreams these many nights I would be a d--ned liar. But it was not me who stripped away the layers of paint, one after another - that unhappy task I gave to the Forger, and may God forgive me for it.
(Did I swear so often in this way before I came to the Neath? I am certain I did not. A funny thing, that even as I rest my head in the very nearest thing to Hell, and cultivate the most dangerous of acquaintance with its infernal denizens, that I should become pious!)
... No, that is not the word. Or rather, it is the piety of a drowning man, swept out to sea, who grasps at the distant lighthouse and imagines that will save him. A pious woman would not have undertaken such deeds. A pious woman would have had nothing to do with this d--ned painting. Have mercy on my soul! I cannot stop thinking about it, even though it cannot possibly be thought to be my affair any longer. There is a part of me - a horrid, black, wretchedly loud part of me - that wishes I had made him continue! To strip away that last layer! What dreadful secrets might even the canvas have held? Might we have last have made some bloody sense of the thing? Even now I know nothing of it, for all the Forger's toil. Nothing! What, in God's name, did the horrible thing mean?! Am I become so avaricious for knowledge forbidden that I would drive that poor man, my dear acquaintance, beyond all that he could bear just for one more scrap of secret?! If only I had kept to jewels!
...
There. The air of the Neath is not so refreshing as on the surface, but it has braced me. God, but that last paragraph looks wretched. I must remember: whatever I thought of doing, whatever I wished to see, in the end I spared him. I did not progress past the point of no return. I may yet be able to make amends.
I think I had better arrange that trip to Veilgarden sooner than later.