Good and straight now, right?”
She shielded her eyes and glanced at his mouth.
“Every time I see you, you’re different,” she said. “I
can hardly remember what you looked like six years
ago.”
A tear suddenly ran down her cheek. Her chin
trembled.
“Now what’s wrong?” asked Tosch, perturbed. “I’m
sorry. It’s just that I sometimes forget what Seron used to
look like, too.”
The dragon lowered his plummaged head and sighed
with exasperation. “You still think of him?” “I never stop.”
“Well, I still can’t understand what you saw in him. I
grant you, he was a passable painter, but after all, he had a
wonderful subject. You know,” Tosch added, “he was never
very nice to me.”
“He liked you very much,” Kyra said defiantly. “And I
don’t want you to say another bad word about Seron. Not
ever.”
“Sorry,” apologized Tosch, shrinking just a bit under
her wrath. He thought it wise, just then, to say something
nice about her late husband. “It’s too bad he never did a self-
portrait,” offered the dragon. “He would
have done a fine job. And then you would have had a
picture of him always.”
Kyra nodded sorrowfully. “Listen, let me take you for a
ride,” suggested the dragon, trying to change the subject.
“It’ll lift your spirits. Where would you like to go?”
“Home,” she said sadly. “I’m not very good company
when I’m feeling like this.”
She lay in bed for hours, unable to keep from crying.
It’s been six years, she thought to herself. Why am I still
grieving? Why can’t I stop?
The answer was as plain as the tears on her face:
Her love did not die in that fire. Yes, her memory was
fading, but her feelings were as strong as ever.
Finally, late that afternoon, she climbed wearily out of
bed and built a fire in order to make herself a light meal.
Later, after sitting down at her rickety wooden table to eat,
she noticed that her hands were smeared with charcoal.
Without thinking, she absently cleaned her fingers by
etching an image of her husband in charcoal on her faded
white tablecloth.
When she realized what she had done, she stopped and
stared at her work. The picture stared back at her. It wasn’t a
very good likeness of Seron, but it was still undeniably him.
More than that, though, while she had been sketching, she
had sensed – for the first time in more than six years – the
peace and security she had felt in her husband’s arms.
After all this time, Kyra finally knew what she could do
with her life besides serving ale. Still staring at the sketch,
she whispered, “I’m going to paint you, Seron. I may not be
the artist that you once were, but I’ll do my best to be as
good as I can be. I won’t settle for less; I can’t settle for less,
because it’s the only way I can have you close to me.”
With paints, brushes, and a canvas bought out of her
meager savings, Kyra started the memory portrait of her
husband that very night. Painting by firelight, she worked
until dawn. Her body ached, her eyes were strained, and she
was thoroughly exhausted. And when the sun came up, she
was also thoroughly disgusted. She hurled the canvas to the
floor, where it landed face down. “Terrible,” she muttered.
“He didn’t look anything like that.”
It was then that Tosch flew to her door, calling out,
“Come look at my new wings!”
Kyra stuck her head out the window and saw gold
sparkles on Tosch’s wings, dancing in the dawn light.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” she declared.
“And so have you,” Tosch cried happily, seeing the
paint smears on her face. “Are you coloring your body now,
too?”
“No,” she sighed wearily. “But I have decided to do
some painting.”
“Ooh, let me see. I want to see.” Tosch bubbled with
excitement.
“There’s nothing for you to look at yet,” she explained.
But she knew deep in her heart that even if there had been,
she would not have shown it to anyone, not even Tosch. Her
painting was too private, too personal. Later, when she