Act Fourteen - Scene 11: Finished Portrait

‘I returned to Hope’s studio one final time after the sitting on Tuesday, to pick up the portrait she completed of me. It was far better than the one that Roger made, though I will never tell him that. At home, I took it and hung it up next to his on my bedroom wall. For a long while, I sat and looked at the two pictures, but I could not tell which one I liked more. And then I recalled the conversation that I had with Hope.’

 

   “What happened with the cards?” she asked as I handed her the cards back, with the box sealed around them once more.

    “I do not remember, but Roger Smith was ill affected by them. He passed out.”

    Hope nodded thoughtfully. “You recall nothing of what happened?”

    “I recall nothing more, at this point, than that I laid them out in a pattern on the floor. My memory banks are undergoing internal diagnostics.”

    “What happened?”

    “I was shot protecting Roger Smith’s life.”

    “You sound quite proud of that,” she replied, covering the canvas with a cloth and then putting it in a case for me to carry back to Roger’s mansion. “Were you badly damaged?”

    “My tertiary memory banks were affected, and part of my secondary banks. The tertiary are what would equate to short term memory, if I were human.”

    “You seem to be doing quite well.”

    “I routinely back up my tertiary banks.”

    “That isn’t what I meant. Was Mr. Smith upset that you were injured?”

    “Reasonably so.”

    “What do you mean by reasonably?”

    I turned my eyes downward a little. If I were capable of blushing, I would be, and I believe that Hope knew that. She did not press the matter further with me. “Will you be going to the Saint’s Day Ball?”

    I looked up at her again. “How did you know?”

    “I was certain the Negotiator would receive an invitation. He rarely goes, but something told me if you asked he would take you.”

    “He asked if I would like to go. I responded truthfully.”

    “I hope you have more fun than I do.”

    “You’ll be there?”

    “My father, or so he calls himself, is required by his company to go.”

    “What has that to do with you?”

    “Everyone who attends is required to bring an escort. It’s a silly rule that was added this year.”

 

   “Roger.”

    He glances up from the items on his desk to look at me where I am dusting his hourglasses. “Yes, Dorothy?”

    “Do you have any leads?”

    “I have a feeling that whoever shot you was involved in the robbery of the statuettes, if that’s what you mean.”

    “You only have four days left to find them.”

    “I know, Dorothy,” his voice is calm and without malice, for once. His eyes seem kinder when he looks at me now. “I’m following up a few things.”

    “Roger, could I see the gun used to shoot at you?”

    “It’s down at the Military Police Headquarters.”

    “Could you not get in to see it?”

    “What good will it do you, Dorothy?”

    “I have heightened senses, Roger Smith. Perhaps there is something about the gun that I will notice that the police, and you, have not.”

    He sighs, but I can tell he is giving in. “If you insist.”

    “I do.”

    “Get your coat.”

 

   “Norman, have you seen Dorothy?”

    “Last I saw her, sir, she was in her room, looking at her portraits.”

    I hadn’t thought to look for her there, she seems to spend so little time in her own room that it slipped my mind she had one. I knock gently on the door and hear her call out that I should come in. “What’s that doing up there?” I ask as soon as I step in the door, seeing the horrid portrait of her I did a few months ago hanging on the wall.

   “I like it. So I keep it there.” She pauses. “If it bothers you, you can leave the room. Or… if you want, I can take it down.”

    “No,” I answer quickly, somehow gratified that it is there on the wall and not hidden away in the attic with other useless and imperfect things. “I think I’m… glad you have it here.”

    “Well then,” she says, leaving the end of her comment open to speculation. “Would you like to sit down?” It is more of a prompt for some action on my part than an innocent query, and I sit down on the end of her bed.

    “I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice, my eyes dropping to stare at my hands.

    “For what?”

    “Putting you in danger. I’m supposed to be protecting you, Dorothy, not getting you hurt.”

    “Hurt is an interesting word, Roger.”

    I glance up at her, and find that she is arranging some black material in her lap and her hands are moving swiftly with a needle and thread. “You cannot hurt a machine.”

    “Stop calling yourself that!” I snap, and then pause. The echo of my words in the air is almost visible in the manner it has shaken the two of us. “You aren’t a machine, Dorothy. Not…”

    There is a knock on the door.

    “What is it, Norman?” she calls, though her eyes remain locked on mine.

    “A phone call from the Military Police. Apparently word has come on the statuettes.”

    She stands and steps over to open the door, with an air of finality. “Dorothy-” I start to say, but she looks at me again, sharply, and I feel slightly weak.

    “You have a job to do,” she reminds me in a gentle voice. “I am not going anywhere.”

    I smile confidently and get to my feet, walking out the door with a sidelong glance down at her. Another sentence I love to hear out of her. I am not going anywhere.

 

   Roger leaves the room, and the lingering affect of what I am almost sure he was about to say sticks with me, and I find it necessary to sit down. After approximately twenty minutes on the phone, he knocks politely at my door and asks that I accompany him down to the Military Police Station.

    I look down at my mending and then at my clothing and say that it will take me a few moments to prepare. Shortly thereafter, I have slipped on my coat and step into the elevator, doing up the front of it.

    We get into the Gryphon and head off.

    Roger doesn’t say a word, but, for once, I do not need him too.

***

14: Interlude; Planned Betrayal | 14: Interlude; Reunion | Long Path of Recovery