Her Silence, In Paint

by orphan_account

Jonathan was told once that there are secrets between women that men will never know; as, indeed, there were secrets confined to male friends. It still seemed amazing to him that there'd be something Mina hadn't whispered in his ear in the gardens of their courtship, or later, in the frightful intimacy of their bed, but he remembers, long into their life together, other mornings, afternoons, evenings, when he'd see her head bent down to Lucy's in some corner, over a book, a flower, their joined hands.

She walks to her tomb every Friday, and stays half the day.

Once he found a painting she was working on abandoned in the tearoom, bathed in the perfect autumn evening's light. Not a leaf of the beautiful orchard outside was reflected on the canvas. Instead, on the right of the painting he recognised a figure, tall as the earth, black and red and terrifying. On the right, another figure, just as large, but luminous as the sun. Between them stood Mina herself, a small figure in her dainty walking dress, her eyes and mouth covered with a black rag.

The white goddess's face wasn't painted in, but he knew who she was.