The morning light, weak but persistent, pried its way through the gaps in the curtains, coaxing Kaima awake. For a moment, she lay still, the memory of the previous night's watchful silence clinging to her like a cobweb. The feeling of being observed had been so intense, so real. But in the clear, grey light of day, it felt foolish, a product of an overactive imagination fuelled by a strange house and a stranger client.
She dressed quickly, choosing a warm jumper and trousers, and made her way downstairs. The transformation was, once again, complete. The grand hall was no longer a silent tomb. Maids moved with quiet efficiency, dusting, polishing, and sweeping. The distant clatter of pots and pans came from the direction of the kitchens. The eerie emptiness of the night had been a dream; this daytime industry was the reality.
Vincent was in the hall, overseeing a young maid who was arranging flowers in a large vase. He turned as Kaima approached.
"Good morning, Miss Bernard. I trust you slept well?"
The question felt loaded. Had he heard her stirring? Did he know? She pushed the paranoia down. "Well enough, thank you, Vincent. The house is… very quiet at night."
"Indeed. The staff are day-workers only. They depart the estate each evening. The Master values his privacy after dark." His explanation was delivered with smooth, rehearsed ease. It made sense, she supposed. A recluse would want the nights to himself.
"I see," she said, deciding to press just a little. "It's quite a change. The place feels so alive now."
"The estate requires a great deal of upkeep," he replied neutrally, effectively ending that line of inquiry. "The Master has requested your session today be held in the sunken garden. He will meet you there at eleven o'clock. The path is through the terrace doors to the east." He gave a slight bow and turned his attention back to the flowers, his dismissal clear.
After a solitary breakfast in the morning room, Kaima returned to her room to gather her notebook and a jacket. The sun was trying its best to break through the cloud cover, and the air had a fresh, damp chill. As she approached the window to check the weather, movement in the garden below caught her eye.
She looked down into the sunken garden, a geometric arrangement of overgrown box hedges and dormant flower beds. And there he was.
Damien was seated before an easel, a palette of colours in one hand, a long brush in the other. He was focused intently on the canvas, his movements sure and graceful. The grim aura of grief that seemed to perpetually surround him had lifted, if only for a moment. He wasn't smiling, but the tense, anguished set of his shoulders had relaxed. In the soft, diffuse light, dressed in a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked younger, almost peaceful. He was an artist lost in his work, not a monster haunting a manor.
Kaima found herself staring, captivated by the transformation. This was a glimpse of the man he might have been before tragedy claimed him. It made him seem more human, more reachable. The terrifying image of the crimson eyes in the darkness seemed to belong to another person entirely.
At eleven, she made her way down to the sunken garden. The air was crisp, smelling of wet earth and decaying leaves. Damien was still at his easel but had set his brush down. He watched her approach, and the familiar shadow of melancholy settled back over his features, though it seemed less heavy than before.
"Miss Bernard," he said, his voice soft. "I hope you don't mind the change of venue. Even I must admit to the occasional need for fresh air."
"Not at all," she said, smiling. "It's a beautiful spot." She glanced at the canvas. It was a painting of the manor itself, but not as it was now. It was vibrant, the bricks a warm red, the windows gleaming, the gardens bursting with colour and life. It was a painting of a home, not a monument to loss. "It's stunning," she breathed, genuinely impressed.
He looked at the painting as if seeing it for the first time. "A memory," he said quietly. "A futile attempt to capture a feeling that is long gone." He gestured to a stone bench nearby. "Shall we?"
They sat, and the session began. The atmosphere was different outside, less intensely intimate than the firelit library. Birdsong provided a natural soundtrack. Kaima found it easier to breathe, to think.
She tried to steer him back to the painting, to the memory of the happy home he had depicted. "The house looks so full of life there. Was that how it was… before?"
His gaze grew distant. "It was. For a time. It was a place of laughter. But memories, like paintings, are merely impressions. They fade. The details are often… lost."
He was doing it again, speaking in beautiful, melancholic generalities. But today, Kaima felt a little less mesmerised and a little more determined. She was here to do a job, to help him. And that meant trying to find a way through the walls.
"Perhaps we could try to focus on one of those details," she suggested gently. "A specific happy memory. The sound of that laughter you mentioned. Whose was it?"
For a fraction of a second, his guard seemed to falter. A real, unguarded pain flashed in his dark eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, to finally give her a fragment of the truth.
But then he closed it. The shutters came down. He offered her a sad, apologetic smile. "I am afraid that particular memory is too painful to give voice to today, Miss Bernard. Forgive me."
The session continued, a delicate dance between Kaima's gentle probing and Damien's elegant deflection. Yet, as they talked of loss and the struggle to move forward, Kaima couldn't shake the image of him painting at the easel, a man not entirely consumed by his darkness, but one still fighting to remember the light. It made him more fascinating, and more frustrating, than ever.