Chapter One - The Project
February 1919

Her sisters-in-law were plotting something.

Christine could tell as soon as she joined them for tea that Victorine and Andrée were hatching some sort of plan. And considering how their conversation had come to an abrupt halt as soon as Christine had stepped onto the patio, that plan involved her in some way.

She wondered if it was too late to plead a headache, if she could still retreat inside and curl up with Georges as he took his afternoon nap. Or perhaps she could sequester herself in her studio and pretend to paint. Maybe she might be fortunate and trip on her way to their table, break her leg, and be rushed to the hospital.

A worried glance passed between the pair as Christine sat down across from them. Victorine nudged a platter of biscuits in Christine's direction, an overly kind smile fixed on her face. "Have a couple, dear."

That broken leg was looking more and more appealing by the minute.

Christine obeyed without comment, taking two and transferring them onto the small plate in front of her. Her stomach churned at the thought of eating them, and she idly wondered what would happen if she tried to force them down. Perhaps she would choke to death and be spared from their machinations.

Georges, she reminded herself when the idea became a bit too alluring. Georges needs his mother. You can't forget that, not again, not for a second.

Christine sighed and took a sip of tea.

It really wasn't fair of her to be thinking like this about her sisters-in-law, anyway. She knew that she was beyond fortunate. Raoul's family had been nothing but good to her once they had adjusted to the fact that their beloved brother had married someone so far beneath his station. Philippe had even opened up his country estate to her when living in Paris had become impossible.

"It's a lovely day today, isn't it? It doesn't feel like February." Andrée's voice was pitched higher than it normally was, as if she was forcing herself to inject some cheer into her words.

Maybe Philippe was tired of her sequesting herself at his expense and had asked his sisters to evict her in as polite a manner as possible now that the war was over. The thought of returning to the flat that she and Raoul had shared far too briefly made Christine's heart clench. She couldn't go back to the memories there, the ghosts that lingered in every room. To be reminded every day that she had once been so happy and was now so empty...no, she wouldn't be able to do it.

"How is your painting coming along, Christine?" Andrée asked after a few moments of awkward silence.

"Fine." It was a lie, one of the many that had passed her lips since the armistice had been declared in November. Christine knew that she should be happy. The bloodshed was finally over, and it seemed that everyone was celebrating the war's end - everyone but her. The news of the war's conclusion had thrown her into a deep depression, one that she was still mired in months later. What did she care that the war was finished? It had taken her husband from her, and every mention of soldiers returning home was a knife in her chest, reminding her once again that for her the war would never truly be over, because Raoul would never come back.

The two sisters exchanged another look before Andrée cleared her throat delicately. "Have you started any new projects?"

Christine shook her head and focused on the napkin in her lap, her vision blurring as tears filled her eyes. Her last attempt had been an utter disaster. She'd wanted to paint Raoul coming home after the truce had been declared, but when she had started on his eyebrows, Christine had realized that she'd forgotten the exact shade of his hair. She'd ended up shredding the canvas in a fit of rage and despair, and she'd been completely uninspired since.

"We have an idea," Victorine ventured after a couple of minutes. "Well, it's Philippe's idea, but he wanted us to be the ones to broach the subject with you."

It took every bit of Christine's strength to not jump up from the table and rush into the house. "Does he want me to leave and go back to Paris? Is that it?"

"Of course not!" Victorine seemed to be offended by the mere suggestion. "We love you and Georges, and you know that you're both welcome to stay with us forever. We're just...we're worried, Christine. You haven't been yourself lately." She reached for Christine's arm, giving it a firm squeeze. "You look so sad now, even more than usual. I don't even remember the last time I saw you genuinely smile."

"We just want you to be happy." Andrée's voice was so full of empathy that Christine could hardly bear to listen to her.

"I'm fine," Christine protested feebly, even though it was another lie. Nothing will ever be fine again. Not without him here.

"You're not." Victorine's outburst was so sharp and unexpected that Christine glanced up at her, startled, a couple of hot tears sliding down the side of her face. "You're not fine, Christine. Don't bother trying to tell me otherwise, because I won't believe you. You might be able to fool Andrée because she doesn't see you as often as I do, but you won't be able to fool me."

"She's not fooling me," Andrée muttered beneath her breath. "Even I can see that you're struggling, Christine."

"You haven't stepped foot inside of your studio at all since November, not once. Don't think Philippe and I haven't noticed. That tells me all I need to know about how you're feeling." Victorine patted her on the shoulder, graciously ignoring Christine's wet cheeks. "We thought...that is, we're hoping that if you had a project that captured your interest, you might be less preoccupied with your thoughts."

And Victorine, of all people, knew just how dark those thoughts could run.

"There's a coppersmith in Rouen who is running an advertisement in the newspaper." Reaching beneath her napkin, Andrée withdrew a small clipping and smoothed it with her fingers. "He lost three of his sons in the war, and he's decided to start making masks for those who were grievously wounded on the battlefield. He just needs an artist to paint them, to bring them to life."

"And you're so good at capturing faces, Christine. I've told you that so many times. Wouldn't it bring you some joy to help those poor brave men with your skills?" Victorine leaned towards her, pushing aside the plate of cookies that separated them. "It wouldn't pay anything, but you hardly need to concern yourself with money. And it would truly do so much good for those soldiers."

Christine wanted to say no. She'd lived in the country with Philippe and Victorine for nearly three years now, six kilometers from Rouen, and yet she'd visited the city less than ten times in total. She had everything she needed here - her son, her studio, her in-laws - and when she required more art supplies, Philippe ordered whatever she asked him to buy without comment. Why did she need to venture out into the world when her world had died near Greece?

"I don't..." Christine had heard stories of men who had returned from the front with horrible wounds, whose faces had been devastated by shrapnel and bullets and poisons. Some were mangled so badly that even the finest surgeons couldn't repair them. But how could she possibly help anyone when she could barely summon the energy to get out of bed most days now? "I don't know."

It wasn't a flat out refusal, and Victorine seemed to be encouraged by her indecision. "I was just reading an article about a man who was tragically disfigured in battle. His children were terrified of him until he had a mask made by a sculptor in England. The reporter said that the poor man was sobbing as he talked about how the mask changed his life."

Christine thought of Georges then, imagining how frightened he might be in the same situation. He was her weak point, and Victorine well knew it.

But still, the idea of being around those men, wounded but alive… How could she possibly stomach it? Her mind would be overwhelmed, questioning why these soldiers had been spared when her own had not been. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair. "I'm not sure," she hedged in a trembling voice. "I'm not sure that I can do it."

"I know that you can. The only question is whether you will. You know when I first met you that I didn't want you to marry my brother. I thought you only wanted his money, that you had convinced this gullible, rather spoiled boy to fall in love with you. But no one can question how deeply you loved him, Christine. I'm sorry I doubted you for a moment." Victorine slipped out of her chair and knelt before her, taking Christine's hands in her own. "You're so talented, so smart. I can't let you throw all of that away. Raoul wouldn't want you to do that. You know he wouldn't." Tears were slipping from Victorine's eyes now, and Christine was helpless to keep her own at bay any longer.

Her sister-in-law pulled her close, rocking her like she was a small child. "I love you," Victorine whispered harshly in her ear. "I love you, and I can't watch you do this anymore. Let me help you, darling - just tell me how."

Andrée enveloped the both of them in her arms, and for several minutes, they all wept for what they had lost, for the empty place at the dinner table, for the infectious laugh they would never hear again, for the charming young man whom they had all adored. He had died too soon, far too soon, and he had taken pieces of their hearts with him into that watery tomb.

When her sisters-in-law finally released her, Christine felt strangely empty, as if her stores of grief had been depleted, at least for a while, leaving nothing at all behind. The only thing she felt now was hollow.

Once, a long time ago, her life had been filled with colors, with passions, with a full range of emotions. That was the girl whom Raoul had fallen in love with, and that was the girl who had returned his love with equal fervor. Where had she gone? Christine missed those days - not just because Raoul had been in them, but because she had been, too. Simple afternoons spent on the shore painting had filled her soul with such joy, such wonder, and now she couldn't even lift a brush to the canvas.

"Let me think about it." It was all she could offer right now, and even that felt like it might be too much.

Christine did think about it. She thought about it that evening, when she sat still and silent at the dinner table, forgetting to eat until Philippe asked her if she was feeling ill. That simple question sent Georges into near hysterics. Her little boy was always worried about her, far more than someone his age should, and Christine picked up her fork and took exactly eight bites of tasteless sawdust to appease him.

She thought about it that night, after she had read Georges a bedtime story, assured him once more that she felt fine, and tucked him into bed. He'd wept again, inconsolable until Christine had joined him and curled her body around his. Even then he had fought sleep for a good hour, turning every so often to gaze at her with wide blue eyes, as if he needed to assure himself that she was still there.

She thought about it after she retired to her own room, darkness nibbling at the edge of her mind. Was she a good mother? Christine was trying her very best, but some days she wondered if her best wasn't enough. Georges would be three years old this summer, and yet he fretted over her like an old man at times. Would he be better off without her? He was still young; he might forget her entirely if she...

No. Don't think about such things.

She thought about it as she found her slippers, wrapped a warm robe around herself, and padded downstairs. The night air had a bite to it, and the wet grass soaked through to her feet as she walked towards the stone cottage. It took her several minutes to bring herself to put the key into the door and pull it open.

She thought about it as she sat down on the dusty sofa, as she peered at all of the blank and half-painted canvases that surrounded her.

She thought about it as she stood and wandered towards the chest of drawers where she stored her brushes. They were all wrapped in newspaper, just as she had left them months ago, waiting for her to pick them up once more.

Could she?

It would be an interesting project, and it might even give her some direction and purpose to her life. At the very least, it would keep her skills sharp for when her desire to paint returned.

If it returned.

And even if it didn't….her skills might be a bit rusty, but surely she could finish some of those masks. Perhaps doing good would make her feel good. And then maybe Victorine would stop treating her as if she might break, and Philippe would stop looking at her with those grave eyes, and Georges would be less troubled over her.

She could paint the masks - and she could craft one of her own. It wouldn't be made of copper, but spun of lies. Christine could pretend to be happy, pretend to feel better now that she was putting her art to use once more, pretend to feel anything except grief. She would save her tears for her bedroom at night, muffled by a pillow. She could learn how to paste on a smile that looked genuine, to laugh and make it sound unforced.

And if this worked - well, perhaps she should have chosen to make her living on a stage.