The echoing of my footsteps stopped shortly. My destination was not to Charles but to one painting that had caught my attention. Turning my body to the canvas, it's jarring gold frame enclosed Monet's 'Impression, Sunrise'. I analysed the oil work under my gaze. A seascape, a watery blanket meeting the crepuscular horizon. Puzzling stalks rise from the water, clustered in two groups, one towards the left, the other opposite, smaller than the first and grouped more closely together. I pondered what these could be for some time, for while the stalks appeared to be masts of great sailing vessels; there were no boats beneath them. The soft colours of cobalt, saffron and ocean chartreuse green greeted my eyes and I looked at it for a long moment. Learning forward to get a better view of the beauty of this artwork, I tilted my head barely noticing the footsteps of Charles Augustus Magnussen.
"Good taste."
Magnussen's voice is gentle with contentment: this being his favourite place in the city of Paris.
"The only taste you have." He added.
"Given the fact that I am in a good mood," I responded, "I will not respond to that comment. It is a fine piece. I've always admired impressionist works."
Charles moved next to me, his hands clutched his back. I don't turn to look at him, his towering figure tells me all I need to know. I feel his smirk on my cheek despite the distance and soon my face matches his expression.
"Not being an artist at all. Have you fled or fought your accusers to become the impressionist you are at the moment?"
My silent smile increases.
"I have never cared for the opinions of others about me, since they are always wrong about what they see. But I have always done what I do best. So in your terms that would be me fighting it. Others would disagree; isolating myself appears to be an act of fleeing."
Charles turns to me. His cold and calculating eyes bore onto my face, to some it would be intimidating, but to me they made me feel the complete opposite. He knew it too.
"Something you and I have in common. Flight is not in our vocabulary."
To many people I would appear weak and fragile. Only 5ft 6 and refrained to white porcelain skin, Eyes the colour of rich soil flecked with black making my pupils seem eternally dilated. The only aspect darker than my eyes was my personality or perhaps some would argue my past. I may look like young woman making her way in the world but my hair, dark and obscure could almost have been mistaken for black. But the deep brown curls could be seen around the edges anywhere the room's invisible darkness didn't obscure. I was fighter; deep down I knew it would kill me.
"Flight is not an option" I continued, "You cannot escape anything or anyone for that matter."
Charles don't fail to catch my gaze, placing his hands in his pockets, he turns from the painting to other works of art.
"I have offered you all I have Sarah."
"I don't like this idea" I retort, snapping from the painting to look at his back, and I certainly don't trust you enough to do this... But I have no choice, do I?" I pause before adding, "bastard."
Ignoring my remark, Charles sits on a bench, his lengthy arms propping him up and his ridiculously extensive legs stretched out. It takes me a lot of inner strength not to stare at his tie crumply on the belly of his creamy grey shirt. Focusing on his face, he grins quietly.
"I'd think less of you if you declined, at least, that."
His lifeless eyes follow me as I move to sit next to him.
"Very well, I shall listen to what you have to say." I say as I lower myself beside him on the bench. Our bodies several inches apart from each other.
"Make it worth my time."
The smile of Charles Augustus Magnussen was the smile of a conqueror.