A Portrait for the Unburied

How it begins

Clara's sitter was alive, punctual and very particular about the expression he wanted at his funeral.

"Peaceful," he said.

"That is usually arranged before I arrive."

He did not smile.

The studio had been prepared in the east drawing room. Someone had covered every mirror. Someone else had placed a black suit on the chair beside his.

Clara unpacked her brushes.

"I normally work from the person."

"You may use references."

"For a face currently in front of me?"

"For the parts you cannot see."

He handed her a folder.

Inside were photographs of household servants.

Names.

Dates.

A small penciled number beside each.

Clara looked up.

"Are these people available?"

"Some of them."

The house clock began striking twelve.

Her sitter stood before it finished.

"I will return at four."

"And until then?"

"Choose carefully."

After he left, Clara opened the folder again.

A young woman's photograph showed a faint scar beside her eyebrow.

Clara had seen that woman on the stairs.

She rang the bell.

A man carrying archive boxes answered.

"Edward Shaw. I'm afraid the staff are occupied."

"I'd like to speak to Miss Mercer."

He looked at the photograph.

Then at the covered mirrors.

"There is no Miss Mercer."

"She brought my luggage."

"That isn't possible."

Clara placed the photograph on the table.

Edward took a household register from one of the boxes.

He turned to the relevant page.

A narrow white strip crossed the paper where a name had been scraped away.

The ink beneath it was still damp.

Clara had spent twenty years learning how a surface revealed what somebody had tried to remove.

She put down her smallest brush.

"Bring me the earlier registers."

Edward looked toward the door.

"They aren't supposed to exist."

"Neither, apparently, is my model."

For the first time, he seemed glad she had accepted the commission.