The Deliverer: A Novel of Murder and Madness in Gilded Age New York

FROM THE BOOK:

The artist sometimes worked in oils, sometimes acrylics. On this long evening he chose oils. These he believed to comprise the perfect medium for capturing elemental shadow. The shadow circled a brief burst of white flesh highlighted with red nipples and lips, and a hint of yellow hair. The entire image was nothing more than a boxed splash of vanilla spread languidly down the length of the black canvas.

The studio stood illuminated by just a few candles plus the glow of the fireplace: the artist's preferred quality of light. The candles created the impression of a space vaguely medieval, perhaps even sacred. Two very large pillars of wax (four inches in diameter and several feet high) burned sacramentally at the head and feet of his nude, comatose model. The child lay groggily in an open coffin, just as he'd positioned her nearly an hour before: on her back, one arm propped behind her head, the other laid across her stomach. One leg was raised at the knee. Her eyes were closed. Two other candles, small and more utilitarian, burned in holders attached to either side of the artist's easel. Between all, he had just enough visibility for the work at hand, and no more. ...