The tune on his lips finally falters, silence falling as Charles steps toward the painting and stops. He turns his face up to it, gazing as intently as he’s done enough nights in a row now that it’s on the verge of becoming a ritual.

Maybe it already is. It doesn't feel like he can help it.

He's never seen another work that demands attention the way this one does, that pulls on him so insistently. It is loud somehow, haughty and colorful, exuding pride and vulnerability at once. A defiance both steely and delicate, daring him to look.

To see.

And It isn’t just the boy himself—it isn’t only the flashing look in his gemstone eyes or the flush on his cheeks, the white on his knuckles where he grips the riding crop tight, or the gracefully arcing line of his back. It is him, but it’s the painting, too. The work is extraordinary, singing out with emotion and light, and also thrumming with mystery—because there’s something else.

It’s that sense of being drawn and captivated, which is Edwin, Charles thinks—the lingering spirit exerting himself somehow, as if his very presence—

Charles shivers, sucking in his breath as goosebumps break out all over his body, an icy chill running up the back of his neck. He stands utterly still an extended, frozen moment and then slowly exhales. 

“Edwin?” he whispers into the silence, heart hammering in his chest. The cold against his back feels so distinct it’s almost solid, nothing like the passing pockets of chilly fog he’s grown accustomed to. 

“What do you think of it?” comes a voice from all around and within Charles’ mind, a low murmur and a whisper at once.

“Th-the, um—?” Charles stutters, licking his lips with a tongue suddenly sandpaper dry. 

“The portrait. Yes.”

He shudders. It feels as if the ghost is right there, an ominously icy presence close enough to touch, while the soft and measured voice drifts in from somewhere across the cavernous room, or maybe the other side of the universe. It’s an odd sensation, and Charles fights the urge to turn to look for whoever is speaking to him. 

There is another part of him equally desperate not to face whatever is there. 

“It—it’s lovely,” he says lamely, his voice rough. He feels more than hears the ghost scoff, the cold at his back shuddering, unimpressed. 

“Is that all?” 

“Well, I don’t—I mean, I—I like it,” Charles continues, his mind racing. He knows he has thoughts about this painting—he was only just thinking them, wasn’t he? But now he can’t remember anything; he’s freezing and sweating at the same time.

“It’s–it’s–”

The ghost sighs, a winter wind blowing against the back of Charles’ head, through his curls. He hunches his shoulders, cringing away from the cold.

“I am disappointed. As an artist, I hoped you might demonstrate some knowledge. Or at least a decent eye.”

Charles quirks an eyebrow up. “Who said I’m an artist?” 

The cold seems to intensify, sharp and glacial, thrumming against his body. 

“Aren’t you?” asks Edwin, his wavering voice perplexed, on the edge of annoyed.