![]() ![]() Magnus had seen portraits like this before, the last images of the lost. He had dark hair falling, as fine-spun and straight as silk, across his brow, and his long fingers were curled over the arms of the chair, almost clinging to it, and the desperate clutch of those hands told a silent story of pain. His eyes were a deep, still green, like a woodland pool hidden under the overhanging leaves of a tree, never exposed to sun or wind. He was terribly thin and as white as salt. ![]() He was sitting in a chair, his head resting against the back as if he did not have the strength to support it on his own. The portrait was of a boy, about seventeen years old. It was the only clean thing, besides Grace, in the entire house. It was an oil painting, with no glass covering it, but there was not a speck of dust on its surface. There was only one portrait that was whole and clean. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |