the corner while three torso mannequins stood like soldiers along one wall. Two were completely bare, a pool of fabric at the foot, as if they had been hastily torn off. The last mannequin’s dress was barely clinging on with one of its shoulders ripped down. Pinned up on the wall behind it was what looked like an illustration of the same dress. Or half of an illustration anyway. It was torn, ripped down the middle. Taking the corner hanging down, he pushed it up, the jagged edges meeting perfectly to form a whole picture.
Krieger wasn’t a fashion expert by any means, but his breath caught at the beauty of the work—the colors, the masterful strokes of the pen, and the sheer talent it took to transform pen and ink into something real. The gown on the mannequin looked like dragonfly wings layered across the torso, the gorgeous blue and green iridescent fabric like gossamer, fanning out into a full skirt. It didn’t really hit him until now how talented his mate was and how humble she had been. To say she only designed gowns was like saying Michelangelo only painted ceilings.
Walking past the mannequins, he padded over to the large wooden desk next to a drafting table. There was a lamp and a laptop computer, and a magazine that was left open on a spread with a beautiful woman wearing a stunning bronze and gold gown as she stood atop a grand staircase. “Royal Wedding of the Century” the headline proclaimed. But he didn’t bother reading the article, because what caught his eye was the photo inset at the bottom right. It was of Dutchy, wearing a pale blue gown, on the arm of a handsome, dark-haired man in a black doublet and kilt. The caption underneath read, Gown designer and bridesmaid Duchess Forrester with groomsman Ian MacGregor, Duke of Rothschilde.
He wanted to tear that page out and shred it to a million pieces with his claws. His bear agreed, but he reined it in. This magazine was obviously important to Dutchy, and though he hated seeing her next to another male, he had to remind himself it was only a photo.
Closing the magazine, he turned to her drafting table, but nearly tripped over the several dozen colored pencils, markers, and brushes scattered across the floor, as if someone had tipped over a container full of them and forgot to clean up. On top of the table was a large ring bound sketchbook. Unable to stop himself, he flipped the top open.
The front page was clean, as was the one after it. Strange, as the torn pieces still stuck on the ring indicated this wasn’t a new sketchbook. As he shuffled closer to inspect the table, he kicked at something. Bending down, he picked up a balled-up piece of paper. And another. Inspecting the underside of her table, he found several more, made from the same heavy-duty stock as the sketchbook.
He gathered about a dozen of them, finding more underneath her oak desk and unfolded each one, frowning as he saw what was on them. Half-finished sketches. Some just had naked figures. Others were wavy lines and colored pencil strokes. His eyes darted back to the empty sketchbook, noting the layer of dust he didn’t notice before on the drafting table and the art supplies.
When she had told him that she couldn’t work and couldn’t see color, it had been an abstract idea. But now, seeing her gowns across the room and the pages of scrawls, unfinished sketches, and empty pages, it struck him like lightning. He was seeing her devolve. This was what she meant when she said she couldn’t work or see color.
This was how broken she was.
He balled up one of the pages and grit his teeth. Her work, her talent—he couldn’t let it disappear. But surely, it didn’t just evaporate into thin air. No, this ability was innate in Dutchy, carefully cultivated with years of hard work, even before they met. She had it in her, he knew it. He wasn’t just going to stand by and let her brilliance be extinguished, not because of a mistake he’d made.
Her world was turning drab, gray, and lifeless? Well then, it was up to him to show her the colors again.
Chapter Ten
“Anything else I can get you?” J.D. McNamara asked as she sat down on the sectional sofa in Angela’s living room.
“I’m fine,” Dutchy said, scratching at her cast. “Thanks for coming over again. Sorry to bother