Chapter 193. Morvian

The other paintings pulled a gasp out of me. Dreamy colors, blurry but detailed forms, expressionism, impressionism, surrealism, curious art choices for an eleven-year-old child.

The human forms in his paintings held enough details to identify the youth of the eleven-year-old boy, the coldness of his older sister, the exact shade of milky skin tone we shared, the long legs. 

But it artfully blurred the details of his facial features or any other thing that would make him recognizable in the real world. And looking at all the paintings, I had no more knowledge of what he looked like than I had when I saw that first image of him where he had his back to the camera. 

The image the maid gave me that got her killed.

I still did not know what my brother looked like. But he knew me, he got my proportions right, my skin tone, height and even the clothes I wore to events and the office where pressmen took images of me.

M knew me. My brother knew me.