The ceiling was the most interesting thing in the room to Susan. It was the only aspect of the décor that wasn’t able to be neatly arranged, the only thing with which she could commiserate. Haphazard swirls in the plaster moulded a truer rendition of reality — her reality — than the calm, structured activities that her mother, Prudence, had set up to ‘keep her mind off things’.
Painting pictures of flower vases and fruit bowls wasn’t going to make her forget about her Aunt Amelia. It wasn’t going to erase her aunt and uncle’s blood that graffitied her family’s canvas that was already stretched too thin. It wasn’t going to bring back her cousins, one of which should have started Hogwarts the same year she did. All it did was line the hallways of the house with gaudy colours that belied the violence that doomed the portraits hanging next to them from growing old with the rest of them.
But the ceiling wasn’t going to distract Susan for long; it was already beginning to lose its power over her focus. Rolling out of bed, she turned on the light. There was no way she was going to get to sleep anytime soon, which told the story of her past fortnight. Her eyes fell upon the half-done painting of a bouquet of daisies that she was to finish at her next lesson, but it looked much the same as the other five she’d done. She had absolutely no desire to complete it, not then or when her instructor was set to arrive the next day.
The pale surface of an unused canvas caught her eye from behind her easel, and a new thought crossed her mind. Casting off her work-in-progress, she set the blank canvas in its place. From her desk, she retrieved her paints and palette, doling out a variety of hues for her to use, including an extra portion of sky blue, though she wasn’t sure why.
As Susan was poised to coat her brush with paint, she stopped. She knew what she wanted to paint, but not how to carry it out. All she had was her imagination and memories of stories that were over and done by the time she was old enough to walk. However, she did know where she could get a rough guide of what she wanted to do. Setting down the palette and brush, she walked out of her room and into the hall. Next to Ugly Flowers One, which she’d christened her first ever painting from her lessons, there was an old photo of a smiling blond man with his arms wrapped around a woman with striking chestnut hair. In her arms was an infant, waving its chubby little hand in the air at some invisible foe, likely a stray tendril of the woman’s hair, and at her side was a boy of about seven, whose gap-toothed grin told of every typical childhood shenanigan.
Susan had never known them personally, at least not to her knowledge. She had not even been a year old when they were murdered, but her mother had shared as many tales of her older brother as she could. “The dead don’t forget us,” she had said. “So we can’t let ourselves forget them.” Hence was born everything Susan knew of her Uncle Edgar, Aunt Lorelei, and their children, Patrick and Renée.
The portrait was obstinate, though. No doubt her mum had used a Permanent Sticking Charm to keep it from being accidentally destroyed, but that posed a problem at the moment. She needed it as a guide, but it was clear that it was going nowhere. Instead, she went back to her room and carried out her easel and canvas. Next came her palette and brushes, as well as her case of paints, and after some angle adjustment, she finally left that first stroke of colour.
With no idea what compelled her to do so, Susan started her work on a girl about her age. She had reddish-brown hair and a pale complexion, and her facial features were well-defined. The accompanying smile, which bordered on a smirk, oozed mischief. A maroon jumper and a plaid skirt soon followed, even though Susan couldn’t figure out why it felt like the right thing for her to wear.
Next was a young man with dark blond hair. His cleft chin and overlong nose were the first things Susan felt the need to illustrate, followed by a politely bored expression. To her, he was the type who could think of a thousand things to do other than standing in one place. His attire consisted of jeans and a polo shirt — perfect for an active person.
The woman was the easiest for Susan to picture in her mind. Her mess of warm brown hair would have been the same, save for a few streaks of grey, and her blue eyes would’ve sparkled the same way. There was always going to be that serene smile, one that told everyone that she had everything she’d ever truly wanted. Something compelled Susan to add a wisp of hair that wouldn’t stay in her coif, dangling brazenly on her cheek, despite the rest of her mane remaining neatly tucked back.
Despite how little she thought he would have changed, the man was by far the most difficult to paint. From all known accounts, he was a worrier by nature, but Susan wasn’t sure how to convey that. Even in the photo on the wall, he had that look in his eye, constantly glancing down at his family to make sure they were still there, still okay. She didn’t want that for him, not in her picture. Instead, his lips were pressed against his wife’s cheek.
Not wanting to leave anyone out, the next and last person to make an appearance in her painting was a stern woman, complete with short hair and her ever-present monocle. Though she didn’t look outwardly happy, it felt right for Susan to leave her with a slight smile, which was typical of Amelia when she showed approval. Though she wasn’t outwardly embracing anyone, her hand rested on her brother’s shoulder.
This was it. This was how Susan pictured them, but something didn’t feel quite right about the portrait. It felt like a cut-out and not a scene captured in time. Looking down at her palette, the only colour left was the light blue she had inexplicably squeezed out. She’d never used it before; that was the first time the tube of paint had been disturbed. But it didn’t take long for her to figure out why she had done that.
Behind the family, Susan began filling in the blank space with that intense blue. It was almost too bright, but she kept at it until there was no white left on the canvas at all. Next, she took her fan brush and dabbed it in white paint so she could craft clouds in the background, which softened the blue and added a different dimension to the portrait. It seemed the thing to do, putting them outdoors. Most of the stories that Susan’s mum had shared put her aunt and uncle on camping trips and picnicking at the park before war had restricted them to necessary outings only.
Her picture complete, Susan put her paints, brushes, and palette back in her room to clean up later. What she wanted was to know these people. Her uncle and his family deserved that; they were brave, and even though they had been killed in their sleep, she preferred to think that they had fought until their last breath, for that first family outing they could take once the war ended.
As Susan tried to think of all the things that could have taken them outdoors, she heard the tell-tale sounds of coffee being made in the kitchen. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to share this portrait with her mother yet, not sure how she would react, whether it would bring back bad memories or the depictions of the grown children were just plain wrong. All Susan had had to go on was an old picture and assumptions based on childhood stories. For all she knew, clones of either of her cousins could have walked by on the street and she would have no basis of comparison or recognition.
But before Susan could finish transferring her easel and canvas back into her room, Prudence, nursing a cup of coffee, found her first. “Were you up all night, sweetie?”
“Yeah,” Susan said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Her eyes moving toward the canvas, Prudence asked, “What have you got there?”
Not looking up, Susan set her cargo inside her door. “Nothing.”
There was never any point in Susan lying to Prudence, because she was always exposed right away. This time was no exception. “No, I saw you holding your easel and a painting, and all your other ones are still up. What did you paint?”
It was unlikely that the matter would be dropped, so Susan pulled the painting back out, holding it by the edges to keep from smudging the wet surface. Not sure how else to say it, she said, “I, er, painted Aunt Amelia and Uncle Edgar with his family.”
Nodding in understanding, Prudence said, “I see. Were you using that picture as a guide?”
“Sort of,” Susan started. “I wanted to paint them, you know… how they’d be like now. Like they’d never died.”
Her voice wavering a bit, Prudence said, “Let me see.”
Susan grabbed the easel quickly and set down the portrait. Taking a step back, the actual picture didn’t quite represent the images in her mind, but they were fairly decent, despite having a bit of a cartoonish appearance. It was definitely the best thing she’d ever painted, in terms of things looking like what they were supposed to look like, but she doubted her mum would see the same things she did.
She almost jumped when Prudence wrapped her arm around her shoulders. “It’s gorgeous. You did a really good job with Edgar. It’s what… it’s what he was always like before the war.”
Looking over at Prudence, Susan noticed a few stray tears slipping down her cheeks. This was why she’d wanted to stow the picture; memories were lovely and helped her hold on, but they also hurt.
“Mum, I’ll put it away if you want me to. I didn’t really think you’d see it, and —”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Prudence said before sniffing loudly. “I want to hang it up.”
“It’s not dry yet.”
“That’s okay. We can have it animated later.”
Her heart nearly stopping, Susan wasn’t prepared for the thought of having the portrait animated. None of her other paintings had been animated — mostly because no one needs to look at live fruit — so she hadn’t even given the idea any consideration. Honestly, it was barely of sufficient quality to be animated. In retrospect, she probably should have waited until she was more skilled to try such a large project, but if she hadn’t done it right away, she might not have done it at all.
But even through her tears, Prudence was smiling broadly, which told Susan that she’d done the right thing. She pulled herself close to her mother and embraced her tightly before they both carried the painting into the sitting room and hung it above the mantle.
One Month Later
“Susan!” Prudence called. “You’re running late, and the train isn’t going to wait for you.”
Dragging her trunk from her room, Susan shouted, “I’m coming! I almost forgot my Charms book.”
Hurriedly hauling her things out into the foyer, Susan went in search of her mother. “Mum?”
From the other room, Prudence said, “In here, love.”
The sitting room. Susan had only entered the room once since the morning they had hung the painting. Something about looking at it made her feel like her lack of skill had done her fallen family an injustice, despite what Prudence would say. That was why it surprised her when there was movement in the room that didn’t come from her mother.
“It’s moving,” Susan said. “You had it animated.”
“It just came in yesterday. I wanted to show you then, but you were busy packing, and…”
Susan was about to speak, but she stopped when Renée winked at her. Startled, she backed away. “That was…”
“Disconcerting?” Prudence finished. When Susan nodded, she added, “I know, but they’re your family. You’ll get used to it after you learn to love them like I do.”
“But I do love them,” Susan said defensively.
Shaking her head, Prudence said, “That’s not what I mean. Talk to them. Learn about them.” With a sigh, she said, “The animator said they won’t be able to talk, since the picture isn’t quite as… clear, but they can move around.”
“Thank you, Mum.”
“For what?”
“For liking the picture.”
Rolling her eyes, Prudence said, “Of course I love it! You taking interest in your family means more to me than anything.” With a sigh, she said, “Anyway, let’s move along. The Express waits for no one.”
A smile creeping onto her face, Susan said, “Okay.”
As she headed back toward the foyer, Susan glanced over her shoulder. All five of them — Amelia, Edgar, Lorelei, Patrick, and Renée — waved at her as she left, wishing her well on her journey. Not many things would have given her the strength to face her classmates’ questions about her aunt’s death over the summer, but that was one of them: their blessing.