Dara, Page, and the Secrets of the Multiverse

▷ 2.3

The woman disappeared around sundown, taking away the noise she brought with her and leaving Page alone as he wanted. That was a long time to wait. Page had to admire Dara's tenacity. What in the world was she doing to have an entire day to waste, hanging out in strangers' porches and demanding their audience? Did she not have a job or a suitor waiting for her hand? She was beautiful. Surely she'd have her days lined up with tons of arranged dates and meet-ups. Was bothering people inside their homes a common practice in the village that he wasn't familiar with?

Whatever the case, Page opened the backdoor and poked his head out. No sign of the woman. Not even a set of muddy footsteps to signify her pacing. She certainly paced, if the soft tmp-tmp-tmp noises ringing at the corners of his memory were to be trusted.

He trudged to the living room, clad in his sleepwear and barefoot. The early sunlight burst through the bow windows once again. With quick work, he tiptoed past the gap he made with the double doors. The easel collapsed quickly when he tucked the dried painting under his arm and gripped the hind leg. A swift glance on both sides of the porch revealed no further traces of a woman ever being there.

The doors slammed shut once again, his thumb pressing the lock as hard as he could. Whatever happened yesterday should never happen today. Besides, it was too windy out. Several dirt particles and spots of floating pollen had made some parts impure. He would do better with doing it indoors today. And possibly do some shopping. He ran out of flour a few days ago. Perhaps, he'd drop by Mrs. Allison's later to check if she still wanted to commission a painting. For now, he'd brush a few strokes and hopefully have an output by lunch.

He rearranged the easel in the middle of the living room. The couch wasn't where it was supposed to be, which was a few inches away from the wall and far from the potted plant in the corner of the room. But never mind. He propped the canvas from yesterday on the easel, expecting to find the same woman in it. What greeted him was a landscape of lilies. Nothing else.

Strange. Was his brain playing tricks on him? He was certain he painted a woman in the middle, with her hair swirling around the wind direction he intended. Summer dress. She was in a summer dress, with a floppy, wide-brimmed hat atop her luscious hair. Then, she showed up on his front door, and he panicked, locking her out of the house. Looking back, she shouldn't have done that. Maybe if he heard the woman out, they wouldn't have to play hide-and-seek around the house and the backyard.

But no use crying over soiled paint. Perhaps, that woman was back in her real life, entertaining suitors from all over, accepting marriage proposals, embroidering, or doing whatever the hell rich ladies do in their free time while in search of a husband. Or maybe she didn't have any potential suitors at all, considering how hard she tried to get Page to make it seem as if they were married.

Well, she was the least of Page's concerns. Now, he must focus on the painting.

Minutes bled into hours, the sunlight and shadows changing angles with every hour that went by. By the time the midday bell tolled from the village chapel. He wiped against the sweat dotting his forehead with his arm and regarded his project.

The woman was back in the painting, albeit the details were a little murkier. Her eyes bore no color, no spark, choosing only to stay closed as if merely feeling the wind in her world. Her wide smile was gone, replaced by a contemplative look while she inhaled the smell of lilies on her hands. Page couldn't remember what the woman looked like should she open her eyes, so he made do with what his brain could manage.

He stood up again to fetch the tube of varnish he dropped on the porch. That was when a brief swish of movement caught the corner of his vision. He sank back on the stool and watched as the woman on the painting wrenched her eyelids open. Her neck swiveled towards him even though he painted her facing west. Then, she started walking...no, marching towards him, lilies still in her hands.

His butt slid off the backless stool, tumbling to the ground with a nasty bump as the woman stepped out of the painting and dropped into real life. What in the world was happening? Who was practicing witchcraft and using him as a test subject? What would be next? Curses? Jinxes? Lord Almighty. This village might not be a good place to settle down in, after all.

"Page!" the woman said, bracing her hips when she noticed him on the floor. "It's me, Dara! Thanks for letting me in. Finally, we can talk."

He blinked. And blinked again. He urged his jaw to slam shut, pursing his lips in the process. If he let it hang even just a bit, he would start screaming. Because, holy heavens, his painting went alive in front of his eyes and was now talking to him. And what was shocking was that she was the same woman as yesterday.

And he just brought her right inside his house. He couldn't even run away this time.

Dara towered over him. Despite the spots of her skin and her face missing vibrance and some details, she braced her hips and extended a hand towards him. "Let's get you up," she said. "And perhaps, we'll have a civil conversation after."

A conversation, they would have, yes. Page wasn't sure about civility with him inches from bawling, bolting, or passing out. Possibly all three.