Prologe

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Patrick O’Donnell

May 10, 1797

Wexford County, Ireland

My lower back was beginning to ache. I’d been hunched over far too long, but I wasn’t about to move just yet. I was finally getting it right. The shading wasn’t too dark around her eyes, and the gentle planes of her small face were sloped almost to perfection.

This in itself would have been reason enough for me not to move. I was a painter—sketching had never come easily to me. When I worked with paints, it required no thought. The canvas called to me, guiding my strokes. The art of drawing was an entirely different experience, however. I would agonize over every line, second-guess every mark I tried to make. Sometimes I enjoyed the challenge, while at other times I had to force myself through every second. Today was surely a mixture of both.

There was another reason I refused to acknowledge the muscles screaming in my body, the reason for my taking up the sketch at all, even though I would have rather spent the day working on the painting of my mother’s garden—a painting I’d started a few days ago. I’d recently finished a painting of my father’s cherished church, where he was the local pastor, and my mother loved it so much that she insisted I immortalize her flowers.

That is how I would have spent the day, had I not remembered the dream.

It was simple, as dreams go. Just a face. At first, I believed it to be pretty, though upon further staring I realized the deeper beauty. Small, delicate, and perhaps more rounded than most people would consider attractive. But there was something so warm, so real about that face. She had a small smile playing about her lips, and her hair was long—a combination of blonde and brown. It looked so soft, and I remember wanting to reach out and touch the subtly waving locks, though I couldn’t. In my dream, I stood frozen. I simply watched her, and although she didn’t seem to notice me, I had a feeling that she knew she was being watched. Her eyes were green at first glance, yet a deeper look revealed thin flecks of gold. It felt like I stared at her all night. Her image was burned into my mind, and I was sure that it would be forever. Still, I was working feverishly to finish this unjust portrayal of her unique beauty. And though it did not capture her completely, my drawing was one of the best sketches I’d ever managed to create.

“My brother, the genius!�a boisterous voice called suddenly, breaking into my thoughts.

I glanced up quickly, my pencil pausing instinctively against the paper. I smiled as I watched my younger brother approach. He had just celebrated his sixteenth birthday two days ago. I would be eighteen soon, but I knew he would still take pleasure in the fact that he was “gaining�on me.

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