“Then what?” he said. “What do you need me to do?”
She didn’t answer. It wasn’t about him, or not just about him. It was about her, how he made her want to go to dark places. She’d come here to learn about herself, to absorb the things that Eloise could teach her about what she was and how to control it. She had so much to learn about herself. She couldn’t do that if she was lost in Rainer and all the drama that always seemed to crop up around them, between them: the fight in the bar when Rainer thought she was flirting (she wasn’t); the day she missed an exam because she was sleeping off a high in his bed; the girl in love with Rainer who tried to cause trouble by constantly calling and hanging up on Finley’s cell phone; the argument he’d gotten in with her mother where he’d called her a controlling bully. (Not a deal breaker, but still.)
“He’s wearing jeans and a striped tee-shirt,” she said. “He loves trains.”
He rubbed her shoulder, kneading it with two strong hands. “What about The Three Sisters?” he asked.
There was an uncompleted tattoo on her inner right arm, an image of Patience, Sarah, and Abigail. It was the black outline of their faces, hair wild, eyes bright, all leaning in together with no space between their bodies. Rainer had started it for her before Eloise even told her who they were.
A few months after he’d done the initial outline, her grandmother showed her a drawing that was identical to the tattoo, something Eloise had found in The Hollows Historical Society archives. Eloise told Finley their dark history then—that The Three Sisters were tried and burned at the stake as witches in the 1600s. They were only girls when they died—twelve, fourteen, and sixteen. Faith never got over it. Centuries later, poor Faith was still hovering, trying and failing to keep bad things from happening.
Rainer had started some shading on Abigail—her dress, her hair. But the other two were still just outlines, waiting. As Finley understood them better, they would get their colors, their details, their shading.
“Not tonight,” Finley said.
If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. She knew he was dying to continue his work on The Three Sisters, Abigail especially. Instead, he took out a sketchbook and charcoal pencil. She waited, her eyes closing, the exhaustion of the day pulling at her. The sound had quieted, which must mean she was on the right track with her research. She found herself thinking of the rose-breasted grosbeak, its pretty black and white and red body, its sweet and joyful song. Little Bird. The phrase stuck in her head, repeated itself—a loving term of endearment, a nickname. Yes, that was it.
“How’s this?” he asked. He walked around in front of her and held up the sketch. It was nearly perfect, almost exactly as she’d seen the little boy—from the glint in his eye to the train in his hand.
“His face could be a little chubbier,” she said. “But yeah. You’re amazing.”
He gave her a deferential bow and then went over to the copier to make the stencil. She liked him best in the shop, where he was focused and knowing. He was less wild in here, less dangerous. She flashed on that moment in the bar when Rainer came out of nowhere to punch the guy she was talking to in the face. Blood gushed from his nose and he’d cried like a girl. That was the first time she glimpsed Rainer’s dark side, the anger deep inside him. Once she’d seen it, she couldn’t forget it. She couldn’t even remember what the guy had said to her. He pressed charges, though, and Rainer went to court, paid a fine for drunk and disorderly.
“Hold still,” he said now.
As he spoke, the hint of movement in the dark corner of the shop caught her eye. She wasn’t surprised to see Abigail leaning against the wall. Rainer pulled his cart over, unwrapped a new needle, put on surgical gloves. He was a professional; he did things right even when it was just the two of them. He arranged the pile of gauze, which he’d use to mop away the blood and ink. Abigail walked over until she was standing behind Rainer, who held the tattoo gun.
“How about here?” he asked, laying a hand on her lower back, close to her hip.
“That’s fine,” she said. He pressed the paper there with a crinkle, then peeled it back. She knew it was just a starting point, all the magic would happen with his freehand work.
Rainer pressed his foot on the round pedal, making the machine hum with its electric sizzle. Finley breathed deep in anticipation of the needle, the heat, the pain. It was a hurt that brought with it a kind of relief. Eloise had expressed concern that Finley’s “tattoo addiction” was a form of masochism. Maybe.