Dragon Rose(40)

Shaking, I set down the brush on the easel. A drop of paint had fallen before I did so, and it gleamed like a tear on the young man’s cheek. Without thinking, I lifted a piece of gauze from among the oddments on the table and blotted the errant drip away before it could do any further harm. It still left behind the palest of smudges, but I knew I could fix that.

And I realized then I could never destroy the portrait. What it meant, I did not know, but I had already poured too much of my soul into it. Perhaps it would never be finished—perhaps it would stand as mute testimony to my obsession when I was gone from this place. But stand it would.

With a sigh I turned and plucked my apron off its hook, then pushed up my sleeves. No point in dripping paint on my fine gown of green wool. I had not thought I would have any set occupation that morning, but obviously the portrait had other ideas.

I hadn’t dreamed of him, and yet my brush moved with an alacrity I’d only seen before on those mornings when his face was still fresh in my mind. His hair filled in under its quick flashing strokes, painting in what had only been a sketch before, bringing to life the heavy dark waves as they flowed back from his high brow. Not black, but the deep, rich hue of earth new-turned in the spring, unlike my own hair, which gleamed with shades of mahogany in the sunlight. From there I moved on to his dark, straight brows, the lines of lashes that framed the gleaming blue-green eyes.

Another brush, another tint, and this time I traced the light shadows under the high cheekbones, along the jaw line and the slightly pointed chin. I dipped my brush back into the paint, frowning as I studied my handiwork and tried to determine whether I had made those shadows too pronounced, whether I should go back and lighten them ever so slightly—

“My lady?” came Sar’s voice from the outer room.

I started and nearly dropped my paintbrush, but luckily none of the paint spattered. “I’m working,” I called out, even as I laid aside my brush and gathered up the portrait so she could not catch a glimpse of what I was doing. The canvas was far too wet for me to slide it between two other paintings, and so I had to settle for slipping it under the table. I could only hope Sar would not look too closely; she tended to avoid the alcove, as she still could not seem to abide the smell of the linseed oil.

Perhaps that was why she did not come in immediately, but remained in the sitting chamber as she replied, “It’s past noon, my lady. I’ve brought you a tray.”

“Oh,” I said vaguely, my gaze straying to the windows. The rain still beat down, so there was no sun to give an indication as to the passage of time. Had I really been consumed in my work for almost four hours?

It came upon me like that sometimes, only not usually for quite so long. I wondered what had possessed me then. Perhaps I had only needed that moment of indecision, that brief space where I thought I would destroy the portrait, to rouse my passion and invest myself fully. Odd, because I had tossed aside sketches with impunity in the past. Perhaps it was only the value of the canvas that troubled me, although Lindell had told me he often painted over works he wasn’t pleased with, not exactly being overburdened with wealth himself.

I didn’t have time to puzzle over the conundrum any longer, however, for I knew if I lingered much longer, Sar would be sure to come into my sleeping chamber, linseed smell or no. Better not to risk her sharp eyes seeing the portrait in its not-so-secret hiding place under my worktable. So I wiped my hands on the rag I kept for that purpose, then untied my apron before setting it aside and going out to meet her in the outer room.

Sure enough, a tray with a large bowl of soup and a small loaf of bread waited for me there, accompanied by a flagon of cider. Usually it was Melynne who brought my luncheon, but perhaps she was occupied elsewhere.

“Thank you, Sar.”

Her dark eyes looked sharper than usual this morning, but perhaps that was just my guilty conscience. Why precisely I should feel so guilty, I couldn’t quite say. For some reason, the portrait felt so secret…so illicit, somehow…that I knew I would stumble over my words like an adulterer admitting a transgression if I ever had to explain its presence.

“You can paint well enough, in this sort of light?” she inquired, with a lift of her shoulder toward the charcoal-colored skies outside.

“Oh, yes,” I replied, grateful that she had broached a more or less neutral subject. The finer points of technique were always something I liked to discuss—and if she were inquiring about that, less likely that she would ask to see what precisely I had been working on. “Sometimes it’s almost better, you know…no glare to contend with, no harsh shadows.”

“Hmph.”

By this time I knew her well enough that I understood her non-reply as her way of saying she wouldn’t presume to contradict me, but that she also didn’t quite believe my statement. Well enough; I wasn’t going to bother explaining myself to her. I thought she liked me but also thought I might be a trifle touched in the head, at least when it came to my painting. I guessed none of my predecessors had quite the same all-consuming passion for any of their avocations…at least, mine were the only Bride-painted works hanging about the castle, unless Theran took them down whenever a new wife arrived.

Deciding a new tack was probably wise, I asked, “Is that beef and barley soup? It smells wonderful.”

No doubt she noticed the deflection, but she only nodded. “Cook made up a new batch this morning. Thought it might be a warming antidote to a gloomy day.”