Painter Of The Night Book の小説・ストーリー

The 10th manor needs to be taken care of for when Ler comes back. When the maids left, she lay on the bed and it felt like being on a cloud. Immediately, Ayla felt she could fall asleep right there and rest in a way she hadn’t done in weeks. Her gaze drifted towards the wall on her left, where a painting of moon flowers was the only decoration of the room. Knock-knock. Someone was calling at the door. She stood and went to open the door, and was surprised to see it was Nox, although perhaps she should have expected it.

Chapter Ten I lift my glass up and move it half an inch, pressing it down on the table so it leaves a water ring on the surface. I repeat the process, making a pattern with the condensation. “I never knew a glass of water could be so entertaining.” Eliza slides a cocktail in front of me and leans back, crossing her arms. Lucas is in the office at the bar tonight, and I’ve been sitting at a table in the back for the last half-hour reading. I just finished my book and am still reeling from the cliffhanger ending. The next book doesn’t come out for three months, dammit.

a 24-hour indie bookstore. My old sanctuary. Before Dominic. The store was quiet, just the rustle of pages and the low hum of the coffee machine. I found a corner in the art section and opened a book on Van Gogh. The swirling cosmos in The Starry Night felt like a scream. The burning yellows of his Sunflowers were like a soul on fire. This was who I used to be. Passionate. Real. Uncompromising. Now I was a painting that had been painted over so many times, it was unrecognizable.

But for Lilia, none of that mattered. Her eyes were fixed on the painting—the last item of the night. "Horizon’s Lament," a masterpiece by Elian Devereux, the last work from the renowned artist before his untimely death. She had spent months studying it—memorizing every brushstroke, tracing the artist's intentions in catalog prints, and immersing herself in its history. This was more than just a painting. It was her last connection to something pure, something untouchable. And tonight, she was determined to win it.

The book began to flip its pages madly like it did the first time, once Jake had placed it on top of the table in the library. He watched until the book settled down to a certain page. Jake moved closer to the book after making sure nobody else was around. No one was, except for the librarian and not more than five students in his section. At the very top of the page was a drawing. A sketch showing small reddish circle contrasting with the dark shaded background, making the entire thing look like the night sky and a red moon? Moving his eyes from the top of the page, Jake studied the inscriptions below it, all of which were in English.

Tabitha's POV Upon hearing Noah's words, I followed his gaze and looked over. When I saw the painting hanging on the wall, I was stunned. Noah's excited voice still echoed in my ears: "Tabitha, do you know who painted this? The painter must have a broad vision and a beautiful mind." I looked at the painting, which presented a profound forest night scene with a full moon hanging in the night sky. The silver moonlight poured down, penetrating through layers of overlapping leaves, bringing a touch of mysterious brightness to the dark forest.

She placed both hands on her face as she closed her eyes for some time. She had just had a one-night stand. But why does it feel so different? Wasn't it supposed to be simple? Why did she still feel that attraction towards this person? It felt as though he should come back and have her all to himself. She still wanted him. Badly! She tried to get off the bed but immediately her feet touched the room floor, she felt something beneath her feet so she took her feet up to see and then spotted a small size of paper. She picked it up and froze.

I was about to leave when I caught sight of something. A sketchbook. What’s a dude like Croix doing with pencils? What kind of things does he draw? Of course he’s a tattoo artist but what things does he draw? I go to the desk and take the sketchbook in my hands. I turned the pages of the book admiring the cartoon figure, the houses, and the streets, among other things but at the last page of the sketchbook is a drawing of me...sleeping. My fingers brushed over the drawing, the naked collarbone and the bare thighs. Faint lead coated my fingertips. It was a recent drawing.

Beatrice’s POV The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Giraffe Nr. 13, casting golden streaks across the living room floor where Linda and I knelt beside Die Wölfe der Nacht. The painting’s wolves stared back at us, their eyes glinting with a haunting intensity under the Prussian moonlight Franziska von Lichtenstein had captured centuries ago. My heart thudded with a blend of nerves and excitement as I adjusted the canvas on the beautiful 20-century coffee table Amands bought me that we’d dragged over.

Its walls were adorned with paintings of various sizes, depicting ancient battles, portraits, moon rituals, abstract beauty, natural scenery and mysterious forest landscapes. At the centre of the room stood a large, recently installed canvas. It became Lennon’s focus the moment he entered. He stepped forward and approached the painting. He stopped directly in front of it and studied it slowly and intensely. The painting depicted a pack of wolves in half-shadowed forms standing beneath a dense night sky. Only a faint light was visible, slipping through the clouds, revealing eyes that glowed calmly yet alertly. Lennon raised one hand as if to touch the painting, but stopped a centimetre from t