peculiar sensation! His eyes seemed to strip me bare, layer by layer, down past my flesh and bones straight to my naked soul, making me feel even more naked than naked; I hated and loved it at the same time. In one hand, he held what appeared to be a small, light scrap of pale wood, whilst the other clutched a stick of charcoal. He was drawing me.
Though I was rather flattered, I thrust my chin high, gathered up my skirts, and, regal as a queen, made my way across the street to stand before him.
“Let me see that!” I imperiously thrust out my hand.
When he stood up full straight, he towered high above me, but I wasn’t afraid.
“How dare you draw me without my permission?” I demanded. “I did not give you leave to sketch me! Do you know who I am?”
With a lift of his brows and a slight little smile that suggested he found this absurd, he turned the drawing around so that I might see, keeping, I noted, a possessive hold upon it rather than relinquishing it to me.
The brows I labored with my silver tweezers to keep plucked into fine, thin, graceful, perfect black arches shot up in surprise.
It was only my face! The way his gaze had made me feel, so hot and penetrating, like I imagined a phallus would be, I had expected to see my whole form, perhaps even unclothed in some lewd pose. But it was only my face as perfect as I saw it in my mirror each day. He had captured every line, every nuance, flawlessly. He had actually done justice to my beauty!
“It is rather good,” I coolly admitted without abandoning my haughty stance.
I fumbled for my little velvet purse, but he shook his head and hid the sketch behind his back, silently adamant that he would not part with it.
“Now don’t be absurd!” I cried. “What artist does not want to sell his work?”
He shook his head again. “I need it . . . for my work.”
He spoke softly, in a shy voice with just a whisper of a French accent.
“For your work?” I repeated, my brows arching high in disbelief. “And what pray tell is that? You are obviously not the average artisan since you shun payment for your humble scribblings.”
“I am a doll maker,” he said, turning and pointing proudly to the modest wooden shingle that hung above a door set like a jewel into the wall he had been leaning against. Remi Jouet, Doll & Toy Maker, it read, carved in elegant Italianate letters painted with weather-faded gilt.
“This is your shop?” I asked incredulously. It had never occurred to me that such a young man of clearly modest means might be the proprietor of his own shop, an apprentice boy, yes; indeed I had taken it for granted that that was what he was, but not a craftsman in his own right.
“Would my lady care to see inside?” he asked with a certain shy pride imbuing his voice that at the same time betrayed a fear of rebuff.
He was clearly not a man accustomed to conversing with ladies as beautiful as I, so I took pity on him. I nodded, and without waiting for him to open the door, grandly swept inside with a pleasing swish of sapphire velvet.
The large front room was a fine, orderly place, well lit and clean, and not too cluttered, the tables and shelves all neatly arranged, like a well-ordered jewel box, so each toy could be seen and admired in its own right instead of in a careless, tangled heap that must first be sorted and straightened out like the beaded necklaces I often threw at Matilda, screaming for her to unknot them so I could wear whichever one I pleased; though more often than not, I would end by capriciously flinging them right back into the box, to become tangled again, and slamming the lid. It never really bothered me if such rough handling broke them. My father would always buy me more; I had only to ask him.
There were toys for both humble and highborn children, boys and girls. There were gaudy rag poppets, floppy-limbed with embroidered eyes and smiles, and mops of bright yellow or red yarn hair; stump dolls carved out of a single
Though I was rather flattered, I thrust my chin high, gathered up my skirts, and, regal as a queen, made my way across the street to stand before him.
“Let me see that!” I imperiously thrust out my hand.
When he stood up full straight, he towered high above me, but I wasn’t afraid.
“How dare you draw me without my permission?” I demanded. “I did not give you leave to sketch me! Do you know who I am?”
With a lift of his brows and a slight little smile that suggested he found this absurd, he turned the drawing around so that I might see, keeping, I noted, a possessive hold upon it rather than relinquishing it to me.
The brows I labored with my silver tweezers to keep plucked into fine, thin, graceful, perfect black arches shot up in surprise.
It was only my face! The way his gaze had made me feel, so hot and penetrating, like I imagined a phallus would be, I had expected to see my whole form, perhaps even unclothed in some lewd pose. But it was only my face as perfect as I saw it in my mirror each day. He had captured every line, every nuance, flawlessly. He had actually done justice to my beauty!
“It is rather good,” I coolly admitted without abandoning my haughty stance.
I fumbled for my little velvet purse, but he shook his head and hid the sketch behind his back, silently adamant that he would not part with it.
“Now don’t be absurd!” I cried. “What artist does not want to sell his work?”
He shook his head again. “I need it . . . for my work.”
He spoke softly, in a shy voice with just a whisper of a French accent.
“For your work?” I repeated, my brows arching high in disbelief. “And what pray tell is that? You are obviously not the average artisan since you shun payment for your humble scribblings.”
“I am a doll maker,” he said, turning and pointing proudly to the modest wooden shingle that hung above a door set like a jewel into the wall he had been leaning against. Remi Jouet, Doll & Toy Maker, it read, carved in elegant Italianate letters painted with weather-faded gilt.
“This is your shop?” I asked incredulously. It had never occurred to me that such a young man of clearly modest means might be the proprietor of his own shop, an apprentice boy, yes; indeed I had taken it for granted that that was what he was, but not a craftsman in his own right.
“Would my lady care to see inside?” he asked with a certain shy pride imbuing his voice that at the same time betrayed a fear of rebuff.
He was clearly not a man accustomed to conversing with ladies as beautiful as I, so I took pity on him. I nodded, and without waiting for him to open the door, grandly swept inside with a pleasing swish of sapphire velvet.
The large front room was a fine, orderly place, well lit and clean, and not too cluttered, the tables and shelves all neatly arranged, like a well-ordered jewel box, so each toy could be seen and admired in its own right instead of in a careless, tangled heap that must first be sorted and straightened out like the beaded necklaces I often threw at Matilda, screaming for her to unknot them so I could wear whichever one I pleased; though more often than not, I would end by capriciously flinging them right back into the box, to become tangled again, and slamming the lid. It never really bothered me if such rough handling broke them. My father would always buy me more; I had only to ask him.
There were toys for both humble and highborn children, boys and girls. There were gaudy rag poppets, floppy-limbed with embroidered eyes and smiles, and mops of bright yellow or red yarn hair; stump dolls carved out of a single
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