The Healing of Tobias Strong

by Lisa Voorhees

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

I worry that the face behind her mask is full of scrutiny, though it could just as easily be lit with tender curiosity. I am too weary to deal with either or to field any additional questions. “I’ve put away the key to the studio,” I say, “and I don’t intend to return there any time soon.”

I attempt to close the door, but Tannaz stops it with her hand. “You have great talent, Tobias,” she says. “Too much to keep hidden. I would love nothing better than to see you take refuge in what brings you the most joy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I renew my effort to close the door and Tannaz resists, a powerful force in her own right. “Promise me you will at least consider it.”

I glance at her sharply, wanting nothing more than to escape into the shadows. She grips my hand, her warm, insistent touch a stark contrast to the mask I’ve begun to grow accustomed to.

“I promise to take care of you as long as you decide to remain here,” I say in response.

Her gaze lingers on me, softening. “You have been more than gracious in accommodating me. Thank you.”

Tannaz allows me to close the door, and I leave her for the night.

I follow the line of sconces through the winding hallways to the now dwindling warmth of the sitting room fireplace, where my armchair awaits.

The night casts long shadows across the carpet, and I linger inside them, deep in thought. I admire the considerable amount of courage it must have taken Tannaz to visit. The journey is a long one and not undertaken lightly or without significant fortitude. I do not wish to minimize the physical and emotional effort it must have required of her. I would do well to improve my demeanor.

My long isolation has soured me toward welcome company. I will lighten my mood, starting tomorrow morning. Tannaz deserves no less.

* * *

The rain ceases during our breakfast, yet the skies remain a leaden gray, the clouds an ominous warning of more precipitation to come. To escape the damp chill of the mansion’s walls, I suggest a short stroll in the gardens.

Tannaz responds with more enthusiasm than I would have anticipated. She hastens away to fetch her parasol upstairs. I wait by the foot of the stairs, taking note of the sound of footsteps overhead where previously silence reigned supreme, the scent of vanilla perfuming the air in her wake.

“I would like your opinion on how best to cultivate the delphinium,” I say. With Tannaz hooked on one arm, I indicate with the other the bright blue blossoms in question. “The soil is rich, and they are exposed to at least six hours of sunshine a day when it’s not storming. Yet still they fail to thrive. What am I missing?”

Gardening is a skill Tannaz passed down to Mirrimah, and for which Mirrimah instilled in me a growing appreciation. The gardens at the mansion were her pride and joy, alongside the orchid collection in the greenhouse.

Tannaz releases my arm and presses her finger to the soil. Water squishes out beneath her touch. “This central bed needs a better route for drainage,” she says, then tilts her head in consideration of the delicate, bowed stalks, “and a small, flowering tree planted in the middle to protect them from the wind.”

The transformation in her is so subtle that at first, I question whether or not I truly have detected it: a faint glimmer of Tannaz’s real face underneath the plague doctor’s mask, the graceful upward sweep of her cheekbones, and the solid line of her expressive mouth that, when curved into a smile, is a perfect likeness of Mirrimah’s own.

We continue along the curved brickwork path, and I glean valuable tidbits, some at my prompting but most at Tannaz’s impulse, due to her keen powers of observation. The more she talks about gardening, the fainter the plague doctor’s mask becomes, revealing the familiar contours of her face.

I don’t breathe a word to her about my discovery; I’d rather witness her happy renewal myself.

A soft rain falls as we approach the greenhouse, and we step inside, immersed in the earthy scent of soil and lush foliage. Drops patter against the glass panes. Tannaz hesitates, transfixed by the rows of bright orchids lining the tables in the middle of the domed enclosure.

“These are lovely,” she breathes. Parasol lowered, she takes each orchid into account as she passes by. “It’s as if she’s still here maintaining them.” Her gaze drifts over the petals, the quality of the leaves, the strength of the roots.

“The hired gardener has done all the work.” Truthfully, I’ve hardly deviated from the darkened hallways of the main house.

A sharp gasp interrupts my thoughts.

Tannaz plucks up a pair of gardening gloves from between two empty pots and holds them in her grasp. She traces the delicate embroidered stitching at the hems, a whisper on her lips. At the corners of her eyes, silver tears emerge.

She raises her face to mine. The sudden deep, dark void of the plague doctor’s stare meets my own, and my heart seizes within me.

Tannaz melts onto the bench behind her, her freshly masked face buried between her hands. I hurry to her side and curl my arm around her. She presses her head against my shoulder and dampens my coat with her tears.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she says. “I do not want to be a burden to you.”

My deep sigh does nothing to dispel the dull ache in my chest. I cannot pretend Tannaz’s visit hasn’t stirred up emotions I would rather have left untouched, yet the woman has lived all these weeks with no outlet for her grief.

Tannaz presses the gloves to her mask’s cheek and begins to weep. Her freedom to mourn, in turn, opens a channel in me. I cry alongside her.

Storm clouds burst overhead and water flows down the sides of the greenhouse walls. Once the tempest passes, I find the strength to speak. “You could never be a burden to me,” I say, tightening my arm around her shoulder.

The sun breaks through the clouds and the first shimmering rays highlight the pale, translucent petals of a nearby white orchid. The petals rustle and Tannaz and I both sense it.

Mirrimah is here, with us, in the midst of our grief. She is in the rain as much as the sunshine, in every flower as well as the nutrient soil itself.

Tannaz holds the gloves in her lap and, despite the rigid immobility of the plague doctor’s mask, I detect the whisper of her daughter’s name on her lips. The dark stitching at the sides of the pointed beak frays, unraveling slightly, as if being pulled apart from within.

* * *

A month later, over tea in the drawing room, Tannaz confides in me. “I’m ready to return home now. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, Tobias. We must visit again.”

In the morning, her footman takes her bags to the carriage, and she lingers by the front door. With a wide smile on my face, I present her with the finest white orchid from the greenhouse.

All traces of her plague doctor’s mask have disappeared, as have my own. She graces me with a bright smile and presses her fingers against my palm.

“Thank you for the gloves,” she whispers, a liquid rim glistening on her lower eyelids.

“Come back soon,” I say, handing her off to the footman.

The carriage clatters away. In the solitude of the mansion, a silent query hangs in the air between me and the gold filigree box above the sitting room fireplace. My feet trace a familiar path to the mantel.

I stand and stare at the pearl handle on the drawer, then slowly pull it out. On a bed of padded velvet lies the key to my studio. I remove it, then proceed out the door and down the hallway I have avoided these many weeks.

The studio door opens with a dusty creak. Mirrimah’s unfinished portrait stands before me, bathed in sunlight streaming in from the arched windows along one wall. I circle the easel, my footsteps following well-worn grooves in the floorboards.

I stop in front of the painting and remember why I abandoned all hope of completing it. I could not perfect her smile, the beauty of which I’ve so recently seen reflected in her mother’s face.

My stool awaits, a fresh palette the only requirement for me to begin painting. I prepare the colors I will use for Mirrimah’s mouth: vermilion, with a touch of carmine.

The air around me feels lighter, more incandescent, alive with an unmistakable vibration. I recognize a synonymous stirring inside my own soul, and I take a deep breath.

With my palette at the ready, I reacquaint myself with my brushes once again. I apply the first stroke to the canvas and my heart swells, longing to be free.