48 / 164
48
Portrait
bent to snatch them up, only to freeze in surprise as something
caught her eye.
A straw hat was sitting innocuously in the snow beside her.
Straightening, she grabbed it and glanced around. ‘Is this any…?’
Her voice died as her eyes grew riveted to the name scratched in
black on the underside of the hat’s brim.
Chelsea Abbot.
She trembled. Her sister Chelsea had been an artist, possibly even
better than her, yet few of her paintings had been sold during her
lifetime. The remainder were probably lost forever in dusty packing
crates abandoned in lonely attics. For Chelsea had certainly died,
and died of cancer, no matter how many times Audrey had painted
under the watchful light of the stars, trying to bring her back, trying
and never succeeding…
Look
, the wind whispered, and guided her gaze upwards.
A figure was standing on the steps of the gallery: a slender, girlish
figure dressed in faded jeans and a dark shirt. Audrey’s memory
supplied the image of a faded, listing straw hat perched atop waves of
unruly, curly blonde hair that shadowed her forehead and darkened
her eyes...
Chelsea smiled and walked into the gallery.
Audrey’s legs moved, muscles reacting – suddenly, she was on her
feet and climbing the stairs to the gallery.
It was insane. Her sister had died; she had been there in the
hospital when Chelsea had slipped away, her last breath fading away
beneath halogen lights and masked doctors, her beloved sister’s grip
on life growing weaker by the minute until, at last, it finally slipped...
But she had
seen
her…
The lobby smelt of polish and lavender, the marble floor
stretching over to dark panelled walls. A slowly revolving chandelier
flung bright spots of light around the room, dappling the walls and
floors with glimmers of brightness. The corridors were almost
religious in their silence, an undeterminable feeling of solemnity
trapped within their dazzlingly white walls. Silver moonlight
grappled cheerfully with shadows in the edge of the room, where the
windows scarred the floor with lines of darkness. Audrey’s footsteps
sounded oddly metallic as they connected with the floorboards; it
seemed eerily familiar, like she was caught inside a well-watched
black and white film, watching as her sister worked, painting wide,
9