Sword of the Highlands by Veronica Wolff, now you can read online.
A Dream Come to Life
"Oh!" James said, surprised. Then he added seductively, "you wee jade!"
The hard thud of her landing jarred Magda's senses back to her. She was kneeling astride a man in bed. His chest was warm beneath her flattened palms, a light dusting of hair bristled softly through the thin flannel of his nightshirt. Shadows flickered in the dim candlelight, exaggerating the intensity of his black-eyed gaze.
"You?" Shock choked her voice into a squeak.
"Aye," his voice was groggy with sleep, but the rest of his body seemed to be rousing to wakefulness beneath the covers. "Me indeed."
James shook the bed-mussed hair out of his face and broke into a devilish smile as his eyes devoured the length of her. "But do tell, love, who are you?"
His hands glided up Magda's legs, disappearing easily under the folds of her dress, thumbs roving to stroke the insides of her thighs.
Clearly this was a dream. She had been so obsessed with that portrait, it was no wonder her unconscious mind would summon this particular man.
"Still here, love?" James prompted, giving her thighs a quick squeeze. Jerking her hands from his chest, Magda sat bolt upright and stared down at him. Eyes bright, the man was studying her, and the tremble of his lips betrayed his puzzled amusement. Despite continuing to stroke her legs with his thumbs, he seemed to be waiting for Magda to make the next move.
"I know who you are," she blurted out.
His smile flared to life. "But of course, love," he winked. "All the lasses do, don't they?"
Chapter 1
The image of Magda's brother stared back at her from the bathroom mirror. Gripping the counter, she leaned in closer. Though it had been only one year since his death, she had a hard time picturing his face in her mind. But, staring at her reflection, she could summon Peter to memory, layering features one by one into focus. They'd always been a pair, with the same broad forehead and full mouth. She could just picture his hair, red, but many shades lighter than her own, smooth like dark copper. Magda pushed away from the sink and stood straight. That was also like Pete, an erect posture to match the patrician nose.
The ringing phone startled her back into the present. Moments like this, feeling the grief claim her suddenly, came less frequently now, and so when they did she always let herself experience the full force of her pain. Bring it out. study it fresh, see how it might have changed.
"Hey, Magda." Walter's tinny voice warbled on her ancient answering machine. "Ya there? I know you're there."
The disembodied voice paused and Magda heard herself murmur testily, "Coming," even though there was no way her boss could hear. Having lived alone for so long, she increasingly caught herself mumbling around the apartment. She supposed it was how people ended up with cats.
"Hi Walter." Phone tucked at her shoulder, she reached back into the bathroom for her hairbrush, the powder blue phone cord strained tight. "I'm here."
The old-fashioned telephone never posed much of a problem in her Manhattan studio, because she was able to reach three of the four walls while tethered to its base in the kitchenette. That Magda lived in such a tiny apartment aggravated her parents to no end. She told herself it was because she liked to live humbly, but somewhere in the back of her mind Magda also knew she stayed in the place to goad them.
"I need you in here." Walter was typically curt, his thick Long Island accent, ragged from decades of cigarettes, at odds with his lofty position as one of the principal curators at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
"That's what you always say, Walter. Please. It's Saturday." She tugged the brush through the length of her hair. "I pulled a twelve-hour day yesterday, in case you don't remember. Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a life, you know." Her eyes roved the room, scanning the morning's paper, the tepid remains of a cup of coffee, the stack of overdue library books, and a pile of dry cleaning. She winced. "Kind of."
"Yeah, so you insist on telling me. Now we got an anonymous bequest, and it's got a couple of plums that'll be perfect for the new pastoral exhibit. I just need you to come in and clean these bad boys up for me, so be a honey, okay, and get your butt in here."
"But Walter…" Magda protested weakly. She looked around the apartment again. Peter was suddenly everywhere. Tossing the brush aside, she plopped down on the loveseat and nestled down, trying to push her brother from her mind. But she could just picture him, flopping back on that very sofa, making one of his cracks about its hideous pink and green flowers. She would've swatted his red
Converse high-tops off the upholstery.
She grabbed a silk throw pillow close to her chest. "Walter, the pastoral exhibit is ready to go. There's not an inch more space. Besides, it takes weeks to properly restore a painting, I mean, I assume you're talking about oils, right?" "Don't sweat it. They're all oils, recently restored too. It won't be much work at all."
She almost caved, but then thought how she was always the last one out at night. The only one in on the weekends. Since Peter's death, she'd immersed herself in work. It was why Walter called on her alone for just this sort of emergency. Because Magda alone responded.
But the stabbing grief and disbelief that paralyzed her after the accident had begun to dull. It was as if some crucial part of her had grown numb, like a deadened limb she knew was a part of her yet was unable to rouse. She'd begun to question what all that work meant. Why she should even bother. "No way, Walter." Magda surprised herself with the vehement reply.
"Aw, come on kiddo," he persisted. "They're in bang-up shape already. Just get your tools, and I'll meet you here." She looked around again. She'd learned how to tuck away her brother's memory, but it had surged to the surface that morning with raw force. There he was again: She could almost see him rummaging through her freezer. Or making his too- strong coffee and leaving the grounds scattered on the counter for her to clean up. His freckled face would've broken into an apologetic grin.
The prospect of another weekend alone yawned long and grim before her. Another weekend where Magda would tick away the minutes until Monday when she could dive back into her job.
"Fine." She didn't even try to conceal the defeat in her voice. "I'll do it."
"There's a honey!" Walter's patronizing be - a-doll this and you're -a-peach that would feel more condescending if he hadn't been so sensitive just after Peter's death. He'd treated Magda like the kindly uncle she'd never had. It was a fine line, though, between pleasantly familiar and flat-out presumptuous.