Dragon Rose(19)

“What in the world are you doing, my lady?”

Sar’s astonished tones made me draw back from my mad scrabble through the spent ashes. I stood and turned away from the hearth. Without thinking, I reached down to smooth out the skirt of my nightgown. A large black smudge appeared at once, and I let go of the fabric immediately, although the damage was done.

She was too well-trained to chide me for my heedlessness, but I saw a pucker appear between her eyebrows as she took in the results of my carelessness.

“I was looking for a piece of charcoal,” I said.

“Whatever for, my lady?”

“So I could draw the—” I broke off then, for I knew if I tried to explain I wanted the charcoal to draw a picture of a man I had seen in my dreams, she would have thought me completely mad.

“His lordship said you were an artist.” She didn’t precisely sniff, but I could tell she was less than impressed with my avocation. “He said you had need of supplies, but I hadn’t realized your need was so desperate that you’d be digging in the ashes.”

“I—that is, I saw the sunrise and thought it might make a fine sketch.”

Another lift of the eyebrows. “Well, I’ll see that we bring you a pen and ink and some paper to start. No need for dirtying yourself, my lady.”

“Of course not. I am sorry.” I knew then that even the charcoal would have done me no good. The image was gone. I couldn’t even remember whether the man’s eyes had been blue or green. Besides, it would have been silly to waste my time on such a thing. Lindell had always told me the best paintings were those done from life, and not from the artist’s mind. Too much chance of embellishing, of drawing that which was not there, if one did not have the real person or object in front of them.

“No need for apologies, my lady, but I think I had better send for another bath. I had thought this morning we could go over your wardrobe, to see which gowns would suit you best. I’ll then store the rest.”

I nodded, and let her sweep me away into a series of commonplaces that managed to consume most of my morning. Better that way, really. Concentrating on the fit of a gown helped to dispel some of the odd ache that had lodged somewhere in my breast, like the gnawing pain of a hunger which couldn’t be satisfied. Where it had come from, I couldn’t say, but it seemed to follow me throughout most of the day, akin to the persistent dull nag of a toothache. I told myself it was homesickness, or unease in my new surroundings.

Somehow, though, I knew it was much more than that.





Chapter Five





The lord of Black’s Keep was as good as his word. As soon as I had given the list of my required supplies to Sar, Theran dispatched a man named Mat and a wagon to Lystare to bring back everything I needed. In the meantime, I was provided with a quantity of paper and enough ink and pens for a small army of sketchers.

No one seemed to raise an eyebrow at my pastime, or at least they did so out of my presence. The castle was mine to roam in as I pleased, save for the north tower, where his lordship kept his suite. As he had said, there was a very fine rose garden clustered at the base of the tower, and though the tower itself was off-limits, the garden was not. True, oils or watercolors would have suited their vibrant late-summer colors better than pen and ink, but it was still something to be able to sit there for hours, exploring the differences in their branches and blooms, and finding the delicate nuances that perhaps the broader strokes of a paintbrush might not have revealed.

This was a luxury I had not looked for. When I had spoken out in the town square, I had thought only of saving my friend. I hadn’t realized that offering myself as the Dragon’s Bride bought me the time I had always craved for my work. No one disturbed me, save to call me in to meals. And every night I sat down with my husband.

Husband. It seems an odd word for the man who dwelt in the castle with me, for certainly we were not husband and wife in any commonly accepted sense of the phrase. I saw him only after sunset. What he did with his days, I could not say, although there were times I thought I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, as if someone or something moved in the highest chambers of the tower that overlooked the rose garden. Whenever I turned to discover the source of that movement, however, I saw nothing.

Whether he watched me in secret, I did not know, and of course I had not the courage to ask him such a thing. Instead, when we sat at dinner, he would inquire about my drawings, or the weather, or my rooms, such commonplaces as a stranger might feel safe to discuss. I wished I had the courage to make the conversation somehow more personal, but I could never find a way to do so without sounding either abrupt or downright rude, and so I rattled on as best I could, sharing shallow intimacies with someone who apparently intended to always hold me at arm’s length.

The dream did not return.





Some ten days after my arrival at Black’s Peak, Mat returned with my wished-for supplies. Truly, although I had been careful when composing my list, I hadn’t realized what an impressive collection all those items would make when assembled in one place. I had to do some rearranging of the sitting area in my suite, and called for another table so I could properly set out all the jars of my pigments, along with the collection of fine brushes of squirrel and mink. The alcove that faced southward seemed the perfect place for my new easel, and I set it up there, intending to make the valley of Lirinsholme my first painting.