Read Pentimento: a dystopian Beauty and the Beast for Free Online Page B

books just because no one liked them. Paper notebooks and pencils were still sold in auctions, as they were considered antiques. Painters used them mostly as part of their artistic endeavors, which were too expensive for them and made art a rare practice.
    Painter! Iris thought. Her father must have been a painter of some sort. But why was he secretive about it?
    Iris snuck closer to see what her father was doing. He was wearing his thick glasses while bowing over a painting she’d never seen before. It was of a woman with an unusual smile. A very serene smile, Iris thought. The woman in the painting wore a black veil, and the painting was mostly of dark and yellowed colors. Iris’s father had tapped a sticker on its upper right. It was labeled, “Renaissance.” Iris had no idea what that meant.
    It didn't matter though. What Iris was interested in was the woman's amazing smile. She noticed that however she changed her angle looking at the smiling woman, the woman still smiled back at her, as if standing right in front of her.
    Charles also had a stack of different oils and brushes next to him, a small and round magnifier, and what seemed like a metallic torch, like the one she later kept in her locker at school. Charles wasn’t painting, but rather scratching the surface of the painting. Slightly. Carefully. Tentatively. And with love.
    The painting seemed to be worth something that money couldn’t buy, an expression she had heard her father say to describe her when he was in a good mood, smoking his cigar and rocking on his favorite chair.
    Iris took a step closer and craned her head to take a better look. Her father was pouring a few drops of a strange green liquid from a thin bottle on the painting, before scratching again. He waited for a moment, then breathed onto the painting’s surface, as if cooling it. Lastly, he used the magnifier to inspect the drawing.
    Iris watched him let out a defeated sigh. He wasn’t impressed with the results—with whatever it was that he’d expected to happen to the painting after pouring the liquid on it. He took his glass off and leaned back, then stretched his neck. Iris had no time to retreat. As he craned his neck, Charles caught a glimpse of her.
    “Iris?” he said with a welcoming tone.
    “I-I’m sorry,” she took a step back. “I found the door open.”
    “You aren't supposed to climb down here,” his face knotted, as he looked over her shoulder and back to her again. “How did you come down here? Where's your mother?” he whispered.
    Iris’s eyes widened, trying to match her father’s conspiracy-minded mood. “She’s on the phone,” she whispered like Charles, not a pitch higher or lower. In fact, she tried to sound like him, which was too hard for her because he smoked, and his chest was full of garbage, like her mother used to say. Garbage in the chest thickened the voice.
    “Do you think she will finish her call soon?” Charles raised an eyebrow, still worried her mother would come down and turn this into a dramatic soap opera.
    “No,” Iris giggled. “She’s talking to auntie, so the conversation might take until dinner.”
    “Good,” Charles nodded. “Come closer. Let me show you my secret.”
    “Really?” Iris jumped in place.
    “Shhh,” Charles flung a warning finger. “Don’t raise your voice, and no matter what I show you, you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
    Iris nodded with a serious face.
    “Not anyone,” he insisted. “Now come here.”
    Iris approached the painting. The woman’s smile was still marvelous when she got closer. “Who is she, daddy?”
    “No one really knows,” Charles sat Iris on his knees as he stared at the painting. “The painting is called the Mona Lisa though.”
    “What a beautiful name,” Iris considered. "Can I have a name like that?"
    Charles laughed. "You already have a better name. Iris." He looked into her eyes. Iris knew what her name meant. She'd always thought she was special