chiaroscuro

craquelure

craquelure is what happens to paintings after years and years where the paint starts to lift and crack

—————

Mr. Styles had been right when he said the monsters wouldn't return with him around. Now, a full week later, not once has she seen the fog roll in, even on rainy days. It was a relief to not be looking over her shoulder all the time, or be afraid to linger around the windows; it was a relief to feel normal again. She had made peace with the fact that he wasn't going to tell her what they were and why they wanted her; it was much easier to not dwell on why someone (something) wanted you dead.

She had gone back to her chores, mostly cleaning up after her own messes as Mr. Styles seemed to ghost around the house, never disrupting a thing. Once or twice he'd even stayed in the same area as her for longer than thirty seconds; asking her opinion on certain artworks he painted (mostly just to see her trip up on her interpretation), or he'll just take up his own space without acknowledging her before abruptly leaving. It wasn't much, but definitely an improvement of his behavior.

Mr. Styles was currently in his study, doing whatever it is that he does when he disappeared for hours. (Y/N) took the time to clean up his wing, usually avoiding it in favor of staying out of his way and on his good side. She passed over his room, instead cleaning up the decor littered in the corridor. She had loud music playing through her headphones, taking away some of her attention as she wiped a long table holding various flower arrangements. The table was flanked by two pedestals holding small, Renaissance style half body sculptures of women. Unlike the style they seemed to take after, both women were clothed and depicted in serene scenes; one held a bouquet of flowers as if walking down the aisle on her wedding day, and the other showed an older woman picking flowers from a garden. (Y/N) made a point to gently dust over them both before moving to the table between them.

Unfortunately for her, as she bopped around to her music, one of the long sleeves of her knitted cardigan caught on the sculpture of the younger woman. Before (Y/N) could even react, the statue was now in scattered pieces on the floor. The stark white shards stuck out like stars against the flooring, the loud thud and shattering noise hanging like thunder in the air. There was no way Mr. Styles hadn't heard it.

Suddenly, the man himself was right behind her. (Y/N) quickly tore her headphones from her ears, already preparing herself for the scolding she was sure to get.

"What have you done?" His voice was deceivingly calm and low, eyes trained on the floor on the remnants of the sculpture.

"Mr. Styles, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, my sleeve caugh—."

"Shut up! I do not want to hear your excuses! How dare you touch anything in this wing!" he shouted. His voice reverberated through the hall much like it had the first night they met. (Y/N) felt like her knees could buckle and she'd be down with the way his tone crushed her.

"I-I can fix it, I think. If I get all the pieces I could gl—." She barely got a chance to stutter her way through a reply before getting harshly cut off again.

"Do not touch anything! Get out! I should have let those creatures take you!"

That was it for (Y/N).

She knows the piece probably meant a lot to him, but that's no reason to say he should have let her die. Tears filled her eyes as she let out a watery fine in response. She didn't bother to spare him another glance as she sprinted from the wing. As she ran down the stairs, her hand trembled against the railing from the anger that flooded her. She didn't mean to break it, how could he say something like that to her?