All the Little Things

a mug of tea and went out into the garden to finish some work.
Although I fell in love with the cottage the moment I saw it, I knew it would never do for drawing. The low ceilings were cosy, and suited mine and Vi’s hobbit stature, but there was not enough light. I can’t work with any sort of light but natural, so I had a small studio built at the end of the garden which was glass on two sides and had two sky lights – nothing but light everywhere to suit my snobby eye. It was my happy place, to use a trite phrase. My only one.
The author of the book I was working on wanted ten images, one every other chapter, at my discretion. The only problem with illustrating for books was that I had to read a cumbersome proof print of the damned things first to get a true sense of character. Sometimes – most times, actually – I did like the books that I read. Young adult fiction is generally pretty easy going, if a bit predictable. It’s either a dystopia where some people have magical powers, or it’s sexy vampires or, currently, they all seem to be mad keen on faery worlds that sit alongside ours in parallel dimensions of magic and mayhem. I’m not sure why they all insist on writing it ‘faery’, but there you are. Some of those ones were quite dark and delicious, and it’s a guilty pleasure to stay up and read all night, tucked up on the sofa.
I picked up the latest, which was tentatively titled Prince of Dark Wings, and flicked through to the end. I had rough-sketched eight of the ten plates already, so only had two to go.
His cold lips crush down upon hers, cruel fingers grip her waist, pulling her against his hard, angular body. Arabella can feel how much he wants her, this Dark Prince, this would-be king. She pushes him away, though it tears something vital inside her to do so.
‘I am not for you,’ she whispers, the words choking her.
I managed to not grimace at the purple prose as I pulled my sketchbook toward me. The usual thrill rose in me as I began to draw, pen scratching across the paper in a pleasing skitter as I quickly traced out the figures, standing waist pressed to waist, her pushing back from him, thick hair twined with small flowers and bells and braids flying wildly, looking up into his face with over-large eyes. His own slanted cats-eyes were brooding down at her, his black, feathered wings swept up high, wanting to fold and protectively curl around them both. Winter trees surrounded them, barren branches split the paper as I slashed black ink against the page. It felt strange drawing a cold landscape when my own was so warm.
I put down the pen – this would do for the bare bones the publishers wanted, they knew my final work would be more detailed – and I stepped out of the studio, into my garden.
A casual observer might have thought it a mess, but it was all planned and cultivated carefully. I liked it to look wild. There was buddleia for the butterflies and for the delicate lilac bursts, as well as a patch of red valerian, thriving in the chalky soil. Lavender in the border brought the bees. I love the smell – it reminds me of my grandmother, who made sachets of it for her wardrobes and always smelt faintly purple. I was contemplating a nap of my own in the hammock but I decided to go indoors and shower instead; the evening was so hot that I felt like sweat and dirt had created a film of filth on my skin.
I was also still feeling hungover after the wine the previous night, so I set the shower to cold, stepped under the needling water and took a sharp breath, my skin pulling and goosebumps prickling before taking pity on myself and running it back to warm.
It wasn’t until I stepped out that I realised that Vivian had nicked all the bloody towels. I tried wringing my hair out and hopped a little to scatter some of the water, but I knew I’d have to run downstairs to get a fresh one.
I was halfway down the stairs when there was a knocking at the door. I swore under my breath. I scurried down the rest of the way and along the corridor and grabbed the biggest towel I had from the airing cupboard, wrapping it around myself. I put the chain on the door before I opened it.
‘Hello?’ I said, blinking as the low sun shone brightly into my face through the gap, blinding me briefly. There was no answer but, as my vision cleared, I saw someone standing there silently. Alex. He was dressed for the weather in cut-off blue jeans and a fitted vest top. I noticed how his muscles moved under the skin of his tanned shoulders and across his chest as he fidgeted on the doorstep, moving a heavy art folio from under one arm to the other and sweeping his dark fringe away from his forehead.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a jarringly smooth and modulated voice – I realised I had been expecting the pitched and jerking voice of a teenage boy, and his was not that. He had a man’s voice, rich as cream. ‘I’ve caught you at a bad time.’
‘How do you know where I live?’ I accused him, querulously, like an old woman, full of headache and annoyed that this strange person had accosted me at home when I was practically naked. I took the chain off the door and opened it further, feeling a bit foolish at peering out through the gap.
‘I asked in the pub,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a big place, everyone seems to know everyone. We’ve just moved here…’
‘Yes,’ I said, still feeling cross and discomfited, wondering if Steve had