In the compound, Alex sat on a bamboo chair in the courtyard, looking up at the star-filled night.
Without the veil of modern industry, the sky was dazzling, a deep velvet stage embedded with countless points of light, each one shining like a tiny gem.
Tonight, Lucy and Nathan were out assisting him to sell water, leaving him alone with Mr. Hartwell in the compound. The two of them drank tea and conversed quietly.
By their dialogue, Alex had a clearer idea of this world. It was not far from the ancient histories he had studied; rigid social hierarchies, a deep-seated bureaucracy, and an imperial examination system by which one ascended the ranks.
City life was bustling, with active trade, master craftsmen, and every sort of entertainments.
Prior to the famine, Ironhold though distant from the capital had been a thriving location.
The theatres and performance halls did well, and music and drama were a part of daily amusement.
Mr. Hartwell’s eyes wandered back into the past.
"Twenty years ago, I arrived in Ironhold as a young man wishing to make my fortune. I often visit the Rosehall Theatre, and it was there I met Eleanor."
She was a stage performer.
She was elegant, intelligent, and beautiful. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.
I paid out her slave contract and introduced her into my world.
She settled in comfortably, leaving the stage world behind and dedicating herself to her family.
She was a fine woman, Alex and the finest I’ve ever known. But ten years ago, she developed a fever and... never regained her health."
"I believe Mr Hartwell," Alex murmured softly, "Eleanor would be pleased, even in death, to know you remember her so."
Who would have thought it? This taciturn old man was, in essence, a romantic at heart.
Alex gathered from their conversation that traditional marriage practices here were very different from today. In his era, one man had just one wife, but here, the wealthy could have several wives and form harems.
But Mr. Hartwell had done differently he had wedded solely Eleanor, and on her death, never married again.
That, Alex believed, was true devotion.
Mr. Hartwell sighed. "My greatest regret is that I never commissioned a painter to capture her likeness. I carry every detail of our time together in my mind, but I am old now, and memories fade. Her face is starting to blur."
Alex smiled profoundly. "Mr. Hartwell, I studied painting for a few years. If you wish it, I can draw a portrait of Mrs. Hartwell from your description only.
"Really?" Mr. Hartwell’s face was at once alight with interest. He stood up from his chair, his countenance aglow with expectation.
At his age, Mr. Hartwell had three unrealized wishes.
First, to watch Nathan establish a family and a stable profession.
Second, to get a good husband for Lucy .
Third, to possess a portrait of his deceased wife.
It was this third wish that burdened him most. Artists in Ironhold were not many, usually haughty and picky, and seldom took orders from small traders like him.
Alex rolled up his sleeves and stretched lazily. "I’m serious, Mr. Hartwell. Go and find me some white paper and a stick of charcoal."
Mr. Hartwell hesitated. White paper was easy enough, but charcoal? Surely proper painters used ink?
Still, he didn’t question him. He went inside, fetched some white paper, and returned with a piece of burnt wood from the kitchen.
Alex saw the flash of uncertainty in the older man’s eyes. Nobody in this age knew what a pencil looked like, and as he was not comfortable with a brush, charcoal would have to suffice.
He set the paper on the table and clamped the charcoal between his fingers. "Describe her to me, Mr. Hartwell, and I will paint her from your words."
Mr. Hartwell blinked with amazement. Could Alex actually paint with only a burnt twig? It didn’t seem possible... and yet part of him hoped.
He started to tell Alex about Eleanor’s face — the kindness in her eyes, the shape of her smile, the bright dresses she adored. She resembled Lucy a bit, maybe seventy percent, but Eleanor had a more dominant demeanor.
Alex listened and began sketching. His hands felt a little stiff, it had been two or three years since he last painted, but with each stroke the lines grew steadier, the shapes cleaner.
When he leaned back to let Mr. Hartwell see, the old man’s hands trembled.
"Mr. Alex... you’re a genius! This is truly her.. this is truly my Eleanor!"
He had watched painters work in the traditional techniques, but never before had he seen a face captured so rapidly with so modest apparatus.
"I’m a little rusty," Alex said humbly. "If I maintained my drawing from a while ago, I could’ve done it much quicker.
Drawing had been a childhood passion of his. He used to fill pages of anything he liked in his school days — dogs, birds, cats, Iron Man, or the characters from his favorite shows.
Years went by, and his practice sketches could have filled a whole room.
Mr. Hartwell shook his head firmly. "No, Mr. Alex, you’re wrong. Your lines are simple but masterful, each one precise as if cut by a blade. To capture such a lifelike image with nothing but a piece of burnt wood... even Ironhold’s finest painters couldn’t rival you. I’ve been too blind to recognize such skill."
"Thank you," he added, his voice thick with emotion.
"This technique is known as sketching," Alex said, coughing softly and waving aside the compliments. "It’s a technique from my hometown."
Although he generally had a thick face, the older man’s sincere praise embarrassed him slightly.
Mr. Hartwell leaned in keenly. "Thanks for painting Eleanor... but, if I might, exactly where is your hometown?"
Alex hesitated for a moment before responding evasively, "A very far place."
He couldn’t really confess he had come into this world from another world.
Mr. Hartwell would believe he had come down from heaven.
Reading the young man’s hesitation, Mr. Hartwell chose not to press the issue. He was aware that each person had their own secrets, and honor for those secrets was the best etiquette.
Now his heart was full of nothing but respect. To have Alex, from only Lucy’s appearance, recapture the face of a woman in her thirties and one done so well.
Any ordinary artist could not have done that. To Mr. Hartwell, anything seemed possible to Alex.
"Mr. Hartwell, may I have a small knife?" Alex said.
He had done Mrs. Hartwell’s features a few times by now, and his hand was getting back into its old habit. He wanted to refine the lines further.
But before Mr. Hartwell could stand up from his chair, he suddenly asked, seemingly out of the blue, "Mr. Alex... are you single?"