7 - Meres, continued

       His first strokes seem hardly more than water on the page, so light is the color. But after a few dozen passes of the fine sable hairs across the textured page, the color begins to show, glowing faint as a spring sunrise. I continue watching for some time, and the rose blossoms before me, as fresh and lifelike as the petals suspended above the marble pedestal. I smile warmly at the boy, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It is lovely work... for such a brief sketch, you have captured the color and sense of it perfectly.”
       Claude beams proudly, looking up into my face eagerly, with both gratitude and... a bit of avarice, I suspect. He drinks in praise as a fool quaffs wine, losing his sense in the heady brew. I have caught glimpses of this in him before, though I am now more certain of it. This, more than his innocent inquiries into the perverse areas of nature, will be his downfall. A connoisseur is only in danger when he loses his mind to the things he tastes – Claude tastes them and is intrigued, but takes nothing to heart, and so remains untarnished, though he walks through the coal-dusted alleys of sin. But pride, that superbia which has brought the greatest kings to ruin, is soaking through the boy's skin...
       He darts the brush into the crystal vase, swishing it rapidly, not wishing to lose that flow of semi-lucidity that allows the artist to properly convey information from the eye to the hand. And – I see it the moment before it happens, though I do nothing to prevent it – his hand knocks the vase over, he gasps and makes a futile grab for it, the crystal strikes the edge of the marble pedestal and sparks of light scatter in the air, one hand swipes through the air again, the other clutches frantically at the sketchbook, he throws himself off balance and drops to the marble-tiled ground, the pedestal and the rose pot falling alongside, his limbs forced to odd angles, a loud cry from his throat.
       “Ah! Meres, I'm so sorry, I'll find a replacement--- oh! Oh, Meres!” His voice chokes into a sob, as his trembling fingers let fall a portion of the page with the mirrored rose. The book fell away from his hand as he fell, and his grasp ripped the lovely little painting into pieces. The plant which had been his muse has splayed itself painfully on the cold marble floor, dirt scattered among now-dead leaves and petals, torn from the tiny bush which had been so beautiful. His world had shrunk as he painted, all that had existed was the canvas and his subject, all that had existed was that invisible mirrored link, that transmutation of his vision into a vision which others could see and perhaps comprehend. That beauty which only he saw, and only he could capture and bring to the world in such a way... that beauty grows to the size of the universe, and when it is torn away, we lose our whole world...
       To have grasped, even for a moment, some form of perfection, even if it is only the realization of a moment's wild vision, is to taste fulfillment in one's very soul. And that... that is not a gift which can be lost without pain. It tears the very soul, and the wound never quite leaves. Though the drawing was small, Claude will never be able to recall it without a pang deep in his chest, where no panacea can reach.
       He will paint no more flowers today. And I will not paint another image such as the one I have lost. We shall both suffer the pain, and the only relief is diversion from the memory.
       I turn to walk away, the boy's cries now silent in my mind. A servant will be along soon enough to tend his wounds, I need not trouble myself. The inner pain, nothing will heal, and it is a lesson he will simply have to learn. I wonder vaguely if he will continue to paint, or if the very thought will hurt him for some time to come.
       “Meres! Where are you going? Meres! My hand, I've cut it, I'm--- How can you just walk away from me? Meres!”
       I lift a scarlet poppy from a windowsill. It is potted in a lovely old vase of Chinese lacquer work, the black and gold and scarlet designs a pleasing compliment to the vermilion petals. The colors will be a nice antidote to the gray day, and I shall soon forget it all as I paint.