Dragon Rose(25)

It was a good day’s work; I found myself satisfied enough with the shading of the flowers, the velvety texture of each petal. Perhaps I could see if Mat might build me a suitable frame for it, something simple but elegant. I thought I had seen some carved molding tucked away in a corner of the workshop, left over perhaps from an earlier refurbishment in the castle. It might suit, as it had only a simple carved beaded border, nothing too heavy.

Mind humming, I packed up my things and returned to my tower room. Little enough time remained before dinner, only enough for me to take off the smock I’d had Sar make for me, and to pull away the ribbon that held back my hair and arrange my wavy locks in a more or less becoming pattern over my shoulders.

I paused then in my primping, one hand still resting on my hair, the paint stains on my fingers somehow incongruous against the blue silk of my gown as it gleamed beneath the dark strands. My reflection stared back at me, one eyebrow lifted slightly.

All this, to meet a man who is not even a man? What should you care what he thinks of your appearance?

I turned away from the mirror and flung my hair back over my shoulders. Common courtesy, I told myself. No, my family was not fine enough to dress for dinner, but woe betide any of the Menyon daughters if she should arrive at the table without her hair brushed and her face and hands clean. Gods only knew what my mother would have said about the paint stains on my fingers. I had been careless lately, and the oil paints were far messier than the glazes I used for my father’s pottery.

Yes, it was common courtesy. Simple enough.

I wouldn’t let myself think it was anything else.





A few days after that, my rose painting was ready, the frame kindly put together by Mat, as my rough carpentry skills, while barely up to the task of building a canvas, certainly did not lend themselves to putting together a picture frame that was serviceable, let alone handsome.

Theran took it from me at dinner and turned it over in his hands. By this time, he had allowed somewhat more adequate lighting in the dining hall, and so at least I was assured that he could actually see some of the details of the painting. Then again, the lit sconces on the wall and the large candelabra in the center of the table might had been put there solely for my benefit. Perhaps his enchanted dragon eyes could see perfectly well in the dark.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, one gloved finger touching the glowing petal of a flower briefly. “I shall treasure it always.”

“It’s just a trifle, but I thought it might help you to remember the rose garden when the snows of winter come.”

“It is far more than a trifle, but yes, it will help to keep a bit of summer alive. I fear you will find the castle…rather gloomy in the wintertime.”

“I always rather liked winter,” I said. “Especially after a first snowfall. Everything always looks so white and clean.”

He did not reply at once, but instead stared down at the painting for a long moment, as if trying to commit the colors and shapes contained therein to memory. Then he said, his tone rough along the edges, as if touched by some previous pain, “You may find that winter here is not quite as much to your liking.”

What on earth was I to say to that? I fumbled for a reply that would be both noncommittal and yet breezy, to show that his words had not troubled me. But that would be a lie, because of course they had. What lay ahead for me, here in Black’s Keep? So far everyone had been most accommodating, and I’d found my tenure in the castle much more comfortable than I had any right to expect. What was to be the fly in this honey pot? I didn’t dare ask.

“Oh, I daresay it might be confining when the heavy snows come, but as long as I have my paints and my easel, I assure you that I shall be able to keep myself amused.”

He nodded then, and turned the conversation to other things. And although he sounded pleasant enough, I knew he was troubled. I also knew I dared not inquire as to the cause.

There were so many things I could not ask…





The dream came to me once more that night. This time I was better suited to meet it.

As soon as my eyes opened the next morning, I pushed myself out of bed and went to my easel, stumbling a little in the dim light before dawn. Setting aside my half-finished painting of the valley of Lirinsholme, I grasped another canvas of roughly the same size and set it in place. A pencil, then, to work out the rough lines of his features, the high brow, the mouth with lips thin but also beautifully shaped. I worked feverishly, desperate to get down every detail before they fled my traitor mind as they had done twice before.

The sun had just begun to peek over the hills to the east when I stopped, knowing that I would get no more from this sitting. Still, I had accomplished far more than I had previously, as the face of a man stared back at me from the canvas. Rough, of course, with far more detail that still needed to be filled in…if my chancy dreams would allow it. But now I had something to work with.

Driven by the same need for secrecy that had made me hide the first sketch I had made of him, I pulled the canvas from the easel and set it back behind several blank ones that had not yet been pressed into service. The valley of Lirinsholme returned to its previous position of honor, although I must admit my appetite for painting it had waned considerably.

Although his face was now hidden from view, this time his features seemed to haunt me, as if my putting their entirety in physical form had given them some sort of anchor in my mind. And even though I was nowhere near the stage where I would begin to apply paint to canvas, I found myself contemplating the mixture of azure and viridian I would need to compound to match their elusive sea-colored depths.