Dragon Rose(3)

Making it a little more than two months from now. Some might still think that too short an interval, but I was sure it felt like an eternity to Lilianth. “And your gown?”

“Oh, well, I don’t want anything too grand…”

And she was off on a spirited discourse on the fabrics she was contemplating, and whether or not to make the sleeves slashed in the new fashion that had come all the way from Sirlende, and whether I should wear blue or green. All of this I listened to with only half an ear, my gaze caught instead by the mountains that surrounded us on all sides. The bright midsummer sun brought out all sorts of shades of purple and indigo on their heights, and my fingers itched for a paintbrush, even if all I could afford were some watercolors and not the far more expensive pigments used for oils.

We had one true painter in town, a man called Lindell—he used no other name—who had come to us after a stint in Lystare, the capital city of our kingdom of Farendon. Apparently Lindell had made the mistake of painting an unflattering portrait of the Duke of Tralion, and had to make himself scarce. Why Lindell escaped to Lirinsholme, and not some other better-situated location, he would not say, although I suppose the town had the advantage of remoteness. At any rate, it was he who showed me how to mix the pigments he had brought with him from the capital, and how to stretch a canvas, and how to work the heavy paints with a palette knife as well as a brush.

All this was done in brief stolen bursts, for of course that sort of painting was not considered proper for a young lady. I’d heard that accomplished young women of noble families lately had been allowed to create pencil sketches and watercolors, but even those would have earned me some sidelong looks here in Lirinsholme, had anyone else known of my obsession. Lindell tutored me in those techniques as well, and I enjoyed using them, but there was something about the strength and nuances of the oils that spoke to me. I knew better than to broach the subject at home, for even if my mother would have allowed such a thing…which I very much doubted…we could not have managed the cost of the supplies.

At any rate, I knew there would be no time for watercolors when I got home. It would be back to my father’s workshop, and yet another in a long series of trailing vines painted on the edge of a plate, or scrolled ribbon shapes winding themselves around the neck of a pitcher.

Lilianth and I chatted a bit more, finished our purchases, and went our respective ways. I guessed her afternoon would be more enjoyable than mine, since fittings for her wedding gown were to commence as soon as she returned home. I, on the other hand, had to get back to the seemingly endless dish set that Elder Macon had ordered.

Ah, well, at least it helped to put food on our table.





My mother was ominously silent on the subject of Liat Marenson for the next few days, which meant she had to be plotting something. What, I wasn’t quite sure, as the days when daughters were dragged kicking and screaming to the altar were mercifully behind us—unless one counted the unfortunate few who ended up as the Dragon’s Bride. But I had the impression that she was planning something, using that sharp mind of hers to try to convince me that marrying the portly merchant was the only right thing to do.

Whatever her plan exactly was, I never discovered it. Disaster struck before then.

I did know that she had invited him for dinner, at which revelation I groaned inwardly but kept my silence. But still, with both my parents present and my three sisters to act as something of a buffer, I thought I could survive the evening without too much trouble. It seemed a poor use of the household’s resources, when I had no intention of accepting Master Marenson’s suit, but so be it.

That afternoon she had me dress far sooner than was strictly necessary, and I protested, for I had a mind to finish up the rest of Elder Macon’s dish set. Only a few pieces remained.

“Oh, tut,” my mother said, pulling the full sleeve of my chemise out slightly so it puffed between the shoulder of my gown and the lace-on sleeves that went with it. “Just wear one of your aprons, and be careful. And make sure you put everything away by half-past five, for Master Marenson is due to arrive at six.”

I nodded, only listening with half an ear. It wouldn’t be the first time I had painted in one of my better gowns. I knew her careful fussing with my sleeves was wasted effort, however, since I’d take off the lace-on bits and roll up my chemise sleeves to give myself adequate room to work. No use in mentioning it, though. I’d just have to readjust as best I could when the fated hour drew near.

My father was not in his workroom when I descended the stairs and took up my normal spot at the table by the window. I needed the light for my work, while he claimed that much of what he did was purely by feel. That I could believe, for many times I had seen him bending over his potter’s wheel, grey-streaked dark hair falling into his face, his eyes shut as his hands found the shapes hidden within the fluid clay.

Where he had gone, I didn’t know. What I did know was that the more bustle my mother created in the house—and there was much bustling in advance of Master Marenson’s visit—the more reason my father found to go elsewhere. He liked to gather his own clay, from secret spots only he knew along the banks of the River Theer, and it seemed he discovered a pressing need for fresh supplies whenever things got too chaotic at home.

So I took little note of his absence, save for a wistful desire to be out with the wind and the sky instead of cooped up in the workshop, which always seemed stuffy and over-warm. And since we were at the peak of the summer’s heat, it seemed sultrier than ever. I grimly rolled up my sleeves and pulled a set of bone hairpins from my pocket, fixing my hair in a messy knot at the back of my head and no doubt ruining the careful curls that had been achieved by means of sleeping with my hair up in rags the night before.