Nurturing the Petals, Part 2

Andy didn’t remember the walk back. His legs took him through the winding halls, past the glass walls, up the elevator whose touchscreen now glowed a little too cheerfully, and into the Master’s Suite. The door swung shut behind him with a magnetic click. Only then did he realize he was breathing in shallow, panicked gulps.

He stopped in the foyer and flexed his hands. They felt tight, cramped, as if he’d been gripping a steering wheel through a hundred-mile whiteout. He laughed, once, and heard it echo off the stone and steel. Then he paced—back and forth, from the long wall of glass overlooking the ocean, to the half-kitchen, to the ragged edge of the living room rug. He ran a hand through his hair. He doubled back, did it again. For a full minute, he was a caged animal.

He was not alone. Katherine watched him from above the fireplace. Her painting, in the night’s pale side-light, was at its most uncanny: she stood in front of the wildflowers, knees wide, arms folded, but her eyes tracked him with the patience of a biologist studying some unfamiliar mammal.

He stopped on the fourth pass, just inside her line of sight. “You’re enjoying this,” he said. His voice cracked, rough from lack of sleep or maybe the nerves. “You finally get to see me squirm.”

Katherine raised an eyebrow. She looked amused.

Andy exhaled, dragged both hands down his face, and **** himself to slow down. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll give you the full show.” He walked to the couch and slumped into the cushions, propping his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I think I just broke the rules. Or maybe I just bent them?”

He looked up at her. “You ever feel like you’re being played, but you don’t know who’s holding the controller?”

She gave him nothing. Just that steady stare, as patient as time.

Andy ran a thumb across the business card in his pocket, then tossed it on the coffee table like it was a talisman. “Maintenance guy came by this morning. Herman. You saw him. Weird guy. He was supposed to swap out the elevator buzzer for a new screen, but I think the real point was to show me something. Show me how the voting actually works.”

He waited, as if expecting her to interject. When she didn’t, he kept talking. “Remember the glitchy TV screen? I saw the rankings. The actual ones, from the Audience. And then I realized—” He broke off, his mouth pulling into a grim smile. “I realized maybe they wanted me to see. Maybe Arabella wanted me to see.”

Katherine’s gaze grew sharper, if that was possible. She uncrossed her arms, one hand floating to her cheek, the gesture elegant, a little dismissive.

Andy chuckled. “Yeah, I know. It’s arrogant. But it makes sense. She never does anything without a reason.” He sat back, staring at the ceiling. “So I rigged the vote. Gamed it. Matched every ranking to invert the Audience, every choice a deliberate contradiction. Stalemate.”

He looked over. “I’m guessing you think it was a dumb move?”

Katherine shook her head. She leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulder like black water. She cupped her chin in her palm and regarded him with an intensity that made him squirm.

Andy stood, unable to hold the eye contact. He moved to the fireplace, stood a few feet from her canvas. “If it was a test, I probably failed,” he said. “But nobody got eliminated. Not this time. And the rules…” He shrugged. “I can’t tell if I just bought us time, or if I’ve made things worse for everyone.”

Katherine tilted her head. The motion was slow, deliberate. She pressed her fingertips together in front of her, contemplative. Then, with a series of careful gestures—right hand tapping her breastbone, then pointing outside the frame, then a shake of her head—she tried to communicate something deeper. Her shoulders slumped, her lips parted in the ghost of a sigh.

Andy frowned. “What? You think it doesn’t matter? That the game just… keeps going, no matter what we do?”

She tapped the air again, the gesture more urgent. Then she reached with both hands to the edge of her painted world, fingers curling around the “wood” of the fence at her right, as if trying to show him the edge of something.

He watched, brow furrowed. “The boundaries?” he guessed. “You’re saying there are limits I don’t see?”

She nodded, emphatic. Then she pressed her hand to her heart, her eyes locking with his. There was no accusation in the look, but there was a question, a challenge.

Andy considered. He looked away, pacing to the far end of the fireplace, then back. “You still think I’m wrong about Arabella?” he said, voice soft. “You still think she’s not what she seems?”

Katherine’s painted mouth almost smiled. She lifted her left hand, palm up, then slowly closed it into a fist—holding something, keeping it close. She brought the fist to her chest and tapped it, twice. Then she pointed to herself, and finally to Andy.

He stared, trying to decode the message. “She was like you,” he said at last. “She used to be… what? Trapped?”

Katherine’s nod was nearly invisible, but it carried the weight of centuries. Then she released her fist, fingers spreading in a gesture that was equal parts relief and sorrow.

Andy sat down on the hearth, close enough to see every brushstroke, every glint of gold in her painted meadow. “You’re saying she’s changed. That she’s not the same as when…” He trailed off, uncertain. “When she did this to you.”

Katherine’s whole body softened. She leaned back, hands resting on her thighs, her hair spilling in a dark river down her side. She looked tired, but there was a light in her eyes—a sad, resigned clarity.

He watched her for a long time, unsure what to say. In the end, it was Katherine who broke the spell. She lifted her right hand, palm out, and held it there, steady as a promise. Andy raised his own hand, pressing his palm to the glass that covered her painting. For a second, the boundary seemed thinner. For a second, he almost believed he could feel the warmth of her skin.

She smiled, just a little. Then she withdrew, folding her arms over her chest, her face turning away.

Andy sat on the hearth and listened to the silence. The world outside was black, the ocean nothing but a moving shadow. Inside, the lights cast a circle that included only him, and the woman who could never leave her frame. He moved closer, knees bumping the stone ledge beneath her. He leaned in until his reflection blurred with hers in the glass, as if they were two ghosts in different dimensions, doomed to circle but never touch.

He let out a breath. “You think if you’d been in this season, your… ‘exit’ wouldn’t have been so harsh.”

Katherine didn’t move at first. Then she nodded, slow and heavy, her eyes turning down. She pressed a fist to her stomach, then banged it gently against the inside of the glass. The sound didn’t carry, but the meaning did.

Andy let the silence hold, watching her features shift from surprise to a resigned sadness. “So it’s too late for you,” he said. “That’s what you’re saying?”

Katherine drew her hand down from the glass, then gestured outward, indicating the suite, the resort, the world beyond. She tapped her own chest, then shook her head. She made a sweeping motion, arm moving from the left to right edges of the painting, as if measuring the walls of an invisible box. Her gaze dropped to the ground, lashes shadowing her cheeks.

He realized, with a sick twist of the gut, that she wasn’t just talking about Arabella or the rules. She was talking about herself—her entire existence circumscribed by the bounds of the frame.

Andy let his own hand fall, flexing the fingers as if they’d just been pried loose from a clamp. He looked up at her. “You want me to stop thinking I can save you,” he said. “Because it hurts more to hope, doesn’t it?”

Katherine pressed her lips together, then gave the smallest possible nod. She pointed, then, not at him, but at the elevator door, then to the painting, then back to the doors. She mimed a line connecting them, but always left herself out.

Andy tried to follow her logic. “Arabella can only change what’s in the game,” he guessed. “The active players. Until you’re in, or once you’re out…” He trailed off, unable to say the rest.

She met his eyes, and in that look was all the bitterness and resignation of someone who’d spent fourteen years waiting for a break that would never come. Her next movement was slow: she set both hands on her thighs and blinked once, as if steeling herself for what came next.

Andy felt the guilt settle on him, heavy as a lead apron. “I’m sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I thought if I did the right thing, if I was good enough, I could find a way to help you.”

Katherine’s gaze softened. She lifted her hand again, palm up, then closed her fingers into a loose fist and pressed it to her heart—a gesture of comfort, not blame.

He watched, heart thumping, as she held that pose. Then he turned away, unable to stand it. He walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and stared at the painting from across the room.

There was a long silence, broken only by the soft hiss of the vent and the distant echo of surf. Andy drew his knees up to his chest, elbows resting atop them, and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t cry, but the pressure behind his eyes was enough to fog his vision.

He looked up again, half expecting her to have vanished, but Katherine was still there. Still waiting. Still watching him with the mute patience of the painted damned.

“You know,” he said, quietly, “if you’d been in my season, I would have taken the same risk for you. I would have tried to protect you, too.” The words came out rougher than he’d meant, raw in the stillness.

He let the words settle. Katherine didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand crept up from her thigh and pressed against the inside of the canvas. The gesture was shaky—just a fraction, but enough to betray the trembling of emotion.

Her eyes widened. For a moment, the painted surface seemed to ripple, her features alive with feeling so real it made Andy’s chest hurt. He placed his palm against the glass, lining it up with hers, feeling the chill of the barrier, the impossibility of the gesture, and yet needing to do it anyway.

Katherine’s face changed—softer, so much softer than he’d ever seen. The mask of resignation melted away, replaced by a tenderness that bordered on the unbearable. Her eyes met his, and in their depths he saw gratitude, hope, and the bright, impossible pain of wanting something you can never have.

Andy’s throat closed. He kept his hand there, matching hers, as if by sheer will he could transmit the warmth and weight of his presence through to the other side. For a while, neither moved.

The minutes stretched, not static but electric. On the canvas, Katherine’s hand began to slip, sliding down the imaginary glass. Andy traced the movement, not letting her go. When she stopped, her fingers curled, resting gently against his. She smiled, then, the saddest and loveliest smile he’d ever seen.

Andy leaned his forehead to the glass. “I wish I could do more,” he whispered.

Katherine blinked, a single painted tear trailing down her cheek. She raised her other hand and pressed it to the canvas, palms open, a silent embrace.

Andy matched her, palms wide, letting his warmth leech into the chill. He closed his eyes. For a moment, it was enough to just be there, together, held by nothing but a pane of glass and the strange mercy of shared understanding.

He opened his eyes, and Katherine’s gaze had softened even more, the melancholy shaded now with something like devotion. She was looking at him—not through him, not at the world, but only at him.