Free Breath and Bones by Susann Cokal Page B

with bulging eyes, a gesture that worked in any language. Famke shivered as the wind grew colder.
    â€œI’ll have to have the linen resewn on board,” he muttered, tossing the loops and strips up over the frame as it slid into its slender crate.
    Up until the last moment, Famke hoped Albert would ask her to come with him. But even in their happiest time together, he had said nothing about doing so; and why should he? She was just a model, and he had important things to accomplish in London; things that required not a model but a sharp, clear head for business. She would only be a burden.
    Famke had reasoned all of this out in the last days, but even as she accepted a generous purse as a parting gift, and even as she watched the nails driven into the picture’s box, watched Albert climb with his bag onto the hearse that was the only carriage big enough to transport
Nimue
, and watched him drive off with a casual wave of his hat—well, she kept hoping.
    â€œTell me how it goes with the Academy exhibition!” she called after him, and she thought she heard him shout back in assent.
    It took a long time for Albert to disappear. The traffic was thick, and everyone wanted to get a look at the foreigner escorting the long, flat coffin. A couple of serving-girls even gave him a flirtatious titter, and he flicked his hat again in grudging pleasure. Famke pulled her shawl over her mouth. And at last the crowds and other carriages swallowed him up.
    When he was well and truly gone, Famke trudged up the stairs she’d so often flown up with a fragrant dinner or some other little token for her lover. Fru Strand’s wrath had renewed as Albert disappeared, and she dogged Famke’s steps.
    â€œGood window glass, to say nothing of the wall, and now I’m left to find workers to replace it all in dead of winter!
    â€œComing and going all hours of the day and night, and banging the doors each time . . .
    â€œYou told me he was gentry, but I never saw it . . .”
    At last they reached the studio, now open to elements that included the stiff breeze that would soon bear Albert away. They found the cheap clothes closet in fragments, Famke’s few garments scattered over the floor.
    Fru Strand crossed her arms over her beer-stained bosom. “I’ll never rent to artists again,” she said.

    Albert had meant to leave Famke enough money to get through the spring, but he hadn’t bargained on Fru Strand. She was not used to lodging single females, and though she didn’t mind the sailors’ occasional cohabitation, she very much minded the suspicion of housing a prostitute. Famke protested that she was no such thing, and that she and Albert were married; indeed, as Fru Strand grudgingly admitted, Famke never received a single visitor, man or woman. Nonetheless, guessing that Famke had some means and wasn’t going anywhere while they lasted, Fru Strand began to chip away at the girl’s modest hoard.
    â€œYour . . . husband,” she said one day, hesitating over the word just long enough to make her point, “
nå
, he didn’t leave enough for the windows.”
    It was useless for Famke to argue; there was no one to back her up, and Fru Strand could, with little trouble to herself, have had her thrown into the street. So Famke handed over the sum demanded. Of course the glass did not materialize; Famke dwelt in the darkness of boards nailed over the huge hole Albert had left, and she paid through the nose for candles.
    Another time, Fru Strand announced that Famke had fallen behind in the rent.
    â€œI’m certain Albert paid up till summer,” Famke protested.
    But Fru Strand shook her head. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” she said with crafty kindness—the girl was young, she thought, and a little sympathy goes a long way with those who have recently left their parents. “Do not think you are the first girl to have been used and