turned to her friends. “I think we should cal Peter.”
“No!” For some reason, the thought of facing Peter Lely terrified Cam. There was something about coming face-to-face with someone from her university art history book that scared her. “I-I’l be fine. I just … need a dress.”
Another woman clapped excitedly. “A dress! Is Peter doing you in a dress?”
Whatever reply Cam was forming stuck in her throat like a wine bottle cork. “Doing me?” Then it struck her. Painting.
The woman meant painting! “Yes.”
“Are you standing in for Nel ? If so, you won’t need a dress.”
Cam was definitely not standing in for Nel , then. “No. I’m on my own. And in a dress. Definitely.”
“And how did Peter say to look? Like a goddess? A shepherdess? A lady? A whore?”
“Er, not that last. A lady, I think.”
Kate turned to the woman with the kitten. “Mary, find something in the trunk. Several new ones came in last week. Something dark, I think, to set off that hair.”
Cam’s hair, her one source of physical vanity, was long, curly and bright copper.
“Peter keeps dresses on hand?” she asked.
“You never know how he’l want us to look. And many ladies prefer a new gown when they pose. It’s one of the reasons they come here. Peter encourages women to become something new when they sit for him. He cal s it
‘putting on a second skin.’”
Cam remembered Peter’s particular penchant for skin.
She hoped the gowns had bodices. Her mind searched for possible
explanations
for
her
appearance.
She
remembered having dreams where she became aware she was dreaming, but she also recal ed that that realization usual y made her wake up. This felt nothing like a dream, nor was her obvious awareness of the incongruity having any impact on her state of wakefulness.
The phone booped. The sound of a text. She made a show of peeking inside her bag, as if to root for rouge or cheek lard or whatever they cal ed it here.
“Is the puppy asleep?”
Cam halted for an instant, then found the phone and made a show of patting it gently while stil keeping it out of sight. “Good little boy,” she said in a baby voice. “Yep,” she added to Kate, “sleeping.” The text was from Jeanne.
“WHERE DID U GO?!!!!” Cam flung her hand back like she’d been burned.
Kate’s brows knitted. “He nips.”
“Typical man.”
Jeanne didn’t know where she was. A bad sign. A very bad sign. Cam felt terror beginning to tighten around her chest. She needed to move, to act, to do something. She jumped to her feet. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Outside?” Kate eyed the drop cloth.
“Bathroom—er, privy?”
Kate pointed to the closet/hal way Cam had just left. “To the right. Down the hal . Left at the statue of Mercury. First door on the right. Ring the bel when you finish.”
Cam fled, jogging through the maze of hal ways and past Mercury, who not only towered over a curved staircase leading to a downstairs entry hal but was unquestionably a Bernini, which nearly caused her to fal down the steps.
A Bernini. Jeez . Lely was wealthy. There was no doubt of that. She whipped out her phone and hustled into the first door on the right. Then she froze. She wasn’t in a privy. She was in a smal alcove adjoining a much larger room in which two men’s voices could be heard. One was Lely’s.
“Sir David,” Lely said with impatience,“ ’Tis not a matter of an unfinished portrait. ’Tis a matter of a woman seated in my waiting room who desires to be painted.”
Lely spoke in a courtly bass, and Cam decided the undercurrent she’d heard there was Teutonic—a preciseness that gave his words quiet resonance.
She flattened herself against the wal and immediately regretted the movement, which she saw reflected on wal -
to-wal mirrors across the room. But the mirrors also gave her a view of the men’s backs. The men didn’t move, however, except for Sir David, who shifted under Lely’s obvious
“No!” For some reason, the thought of facing Peter Lely terrified Cam. There was something about coming face-to-face with someone from her university art history book that scared her. “I-I’l be fine. I just … need a dress.”
Another woman clapped excitedly. “A dress! Is Peter doing you in a dress?”
Whatever reply Cam was forming stuck in her throat like a wine bottle cork. “Doing me?” Then it struck her. Painting.
The woman meant painting! “Yes.”
“Are you standing in for Nel ? If so, you won’t need a dress.”
Cam was definitely not standing in for Nel , then. “No. I’m on my own. And in a dress. Definitely.”
“And how did Peter say to look? Like a goddess? A shepherdess? A lady? A whore?”
“Er, not that last. A lady, I think.”
Kate turned to the woman with the kitten. “Mary, find something in the trunk. Several new ones came in last week. Something dark, I think, to set off that hair.”
Cam’s hair, her one source of physical vanity, was long, curly and bright copper.
“Peter keeps dresses on hand?” she asked.
“You never know how he’l want us to look. And many ladies prefer a new gown when they pose. It’s one of the reasons they come here. Peter encourages women to become something new when they sit for him. He cal s it
‘putting on a second skin.’”
Cam remembered Peter’s particular penchant for skin.
She hoped the gowns had bodices. Her mind searched for possible
explanations
for
her
appearance.
She
remembered having dreams where she became aware she was dreaming, but she also recal ed that that realization usual y made her wake up. This felt nothing like a dream, nor was her obvious awareness of the incongruity having any impact on her state of wakefulness.
The phone booped. The sound of a text. She made a show of peeking inside her bag, as if to root for rouge or cheek lard or whatever they cal ed it here.
“Is the puppy asleep?”
Cam halted for an instant, then found the phone and made a show of patting it gently while stil keeping it out of sight. “Good little boy,” she said in a baby voice. “Yep,” she added to Kate, “sleeping.” The text was from Jeanne.
“WHERE DID U GO?!!!!” Cam flung her hand back like she’d been burned.
Kate’s brows knitted. “He nips.”
“Typical man.”
Jeanne didn’t know where she was. A bad sign. A very bad sign. Cam felt terror beginning to tighten around her chest. She needed to move, to act, to do something. She jumped to her feet. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Outside?” Kate eyed the drop cloth.
“Bathroom—er, privy?”
Kate pointed to the closet/hal way Cam had just left. “To the right. Down the hal . Left at the statue of Mercury. First door on the right. Ring the bel when you finish.”
Cam fled, jogging through the maze of hal ways and past Mercury, who not only towered over a curved staircase leading to a downstairs entry hal but was unquestionably a Bernini, which nearly caused her to fal down the steps.
A Bernini. Jeez . Lely was wealthy. There was no doubt of that. She whipped out her phone and hustled into the first door on the right. Then she froze. She wasn’t in a privy. She was in a smal alcove adjoining a much larger room in which two men’s voices could be heard. One was Lely’s.
“Sir David,” Lely said with impatience,“ ’Tis not a matter of an unfinished portrait. ’Tis a matter of a woman seated in my waiting room who desires to be painted.”
Lely spoke in a courtly bass, and Cam decided the undercurrent she’d heard there was Teutonic—a preciseness that gave his words quiet resonance.
She flattened herself against the wal and immediately regretted the movement, which she saw reflected on wal -
to-wal mirrors across the room. But the mirrors also gave her a view of the men’s backs. The men didn’t move, however, except for Sir David, who shifted under Lely’s obvious
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