TVisTV Book 4: Chapter 12 (RAW) (Patreon)

Chapter 12 - The Art of an Artist

“It is through art, and through art only, that we can realize our perfection.”

- Oscar Wilde

The rose-fingered morning stained the sky as light filtered through the curtains, slowly waking the girl. She allowed herself a yawn, and for half a second felt a flicker of confusion as to where, exactly, she was. Then memory returned in its totality. She was here in the North, within the domain of her paternal grandmother.

Well, as safe as one could be in a medieval-esque cum pre-renaissance world filled with assassins, monsters, dragons, and scheming lords and ladies who often made the first three seem positively amicable. 

Stretching to her full height, she slipped her feet into a pair of soft slippers and went to inspect herself in the mirror. A youthful blush had come into her features. She had grown taller, and her figure was filling out at a rapid rate, all curves, promises and enticement. In reflection, she was feeling distinctly cranky since Desdemona had informed her of the portrait session, no doubt because her period, slightly delayed by recent stress, had begun again.

Without sanitary pads, it threatened to be annoying, but manageable. She was moneyed enough to afford specially made undergarments lined with a sort of sea sponge. Such things were, of course, exorbitantly expensive. For a moment, she wondered how poorer women handled such matters in this world.

Yawning again, she wondered whether Miriam would remember to bring the several items she had requested through their correspondence. One of them was something of a tall order, but still well within her resources to acquire with a little luck. More important, however, were the human resources. Hopefully, by hook or by crook, she would be able to drag Haze Finleigh, her Bard, back with her. Seraphina was growing awfully bored by the lack of distractions, and she could do with more music that was not her own echo in the bathing room.

As for her lady-in-waiting, Eloise, though her company would be most welcome, Seraphina did not feel right uprooting her from her education at the Academy merely to satisfy her own selfish whims. No, that would not do. One of the promises she had made was that Eloise would indeed attend the prestigious Meridian Academy.

Seraphina only hoped the doll-like girl would not waste away from loneliness without her company.

The young noblewoman rang a bell, and her body servants entered immediately. They helped her dress in the garb of the Empire. Her tutor had instructed both her and Desdemona to wear the garments every day until they “became her.” This she had agreed to, but only until learning how to put them on herself. Dressing herself in the beautiful clothes of the imperial court had been vaguely interesting at first, but once mastered, the young girl had decided to spare herself the mundanity of going through the motions herself.

A young servant, a vaguely pretty thing just entering puberty and still full of the ungainly motions of adolescence, poured her a cup of fragrant tea and set it upon the vanity. The servant girl focused on her task with desperate concentration, studiously avoiding all eye contact, as if she might become invisible through sheer force of will.

Once that was done, Seraphina went to the whitewood vanity, sparing a glance at herself in the mirror to confirm her beauty before turning her attention to the latest reports from her informants within the kingdom.

The prices of grain and general foodstuffs had stabilized, thanks to a good harvest. Her father’s duchy had also recently begun its first exports of the godmetal Mithril, owing to the industry of the Dwarves. Sure enough, this would soon lead to even greater resentment from the Crown and the other royalists. What worried her, however, was the lack of action from her mother, Duchess Anaselena. According to the reports, she had made no major moves.

Bottleworth’s Confectionaries continued to grow at a near exponential rate, becoming a household name among commoners and nobility alike. The profits were, of course, phenomenal, filling both her coffers and those of Lehman’s Bank.

At this rate, in a few more months, Seraphina could possibly hire every mercenary company on the continent for years.

Skimming across several more sheets, her eyes were drawn to another piece of news. It seemed a Goblin horde was forming, according to reports from woodsmen and rangers. This was a perennial problem that civilization always had to deal with, and she was quite certain the Adventurer’s Guild, along with a few peasant levies lead by some of the minor nobility, would be more than capable of handling it. Of that, she was quite sure.

At worst, such things usually meant a few villages burned to the ground, creating some inconvenience for the peasantry.

Miriam, who shared a name with Seraphina’s own personal maid and yet resembled her in no particular whatsoever, coughed politely from the doorway.

“The Duchess asks that you join her for breakfast, if it pleases you, Your Grace,” she said, fingers clutching the front of her apron as if the linen might anchor her in place.

Seraphina turned from the vanity, letting the report settle beneath her hand. The girl’s eyes flicked once toward the papers and then immediately down to the floorboards.

“Tell my grandmother that it will be a pleasure,” Seraphina answered with a somewhat forced smile.

***

Breakfast was a decidedly jovial affair, at least by the standards of the nobility.

The morning room looked east over the inner gardens, where snow covered the hedges and the narrow black branches of the fruit trees scratched at the pale sky. Sunlight poured through tall windows, weak but clean, catching on polished silver, porcelain cups, and the faint steam rising from the dishes set along the table for their morning fast.

At the center of it all sat a platter of purple Galebush Berry pancakes, sourced that very morning from the local markets. They were thick, soft things and a small pot of cream sat beside them, along with some dark syrup. Someone had even dusted the top with powdered sugar in the shape of little stars in a flight of delightful whimsy. Despite herself, she approved. It looked cute.

After a servant placed two cakes upon her plate and cut into them. The scent was tart and sweet, sharp enough to make her mouth water despite herself.

Once she had learned to work around the long sleeves of her Imperial garments, a certain grace had come to her movements. She lifted one sleeve with the back of her wrist, caught a bite neatly between her chopsticks, and brought it to her mouth without so much as brushing the fabric against the sauce like in her earlier endeavors.

Using chopsticks, of course, came easily due to the memories of her other life. They were slightly shorter than what she was used to, and carved of dark wood instead of metal and little inlaid flowers along the handles, but they were essentially the same. Even Desdemona could use them now, albeit with considerably less skill.

Across from her, the brunette pinched a piece of pancake too hard. It slipped, wobbled, and landed back on her plate with a soft, undignified plop.

Seraphina’s lips curved faintly as Desdemona’s eyes narrowed.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?” Seraphina asked lightly, placing her own bite delicately upon her tongue.

“That look.”

“What look?” she replied innocently.

Her grandmother, seated at the head of the table, made a faint sound into her teacup, a sound somewhere between disapproval and amusement. With all of the recent events, the two often came hand in hand for Duchess Adelaide.

The de Savant girl lifted her chin and tried again with the chopsticks. This time she managed to secure a piece of pancake, though it trembled dangerously in her grip.

“I will have you know,” Desdemona said, concentrating fiercely, “that I am improving.”

Seraphina dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I am more impressed than amused. Lesser women would have surrendered and taken up the fork.”

Her rival and friend frowned slightly, but looked for the better part mostly mollified. Seraphina was getting rather good at manipulating the levers that moved her.

The conversation drifted after that, softening into safer territories as servants moved quietly around them. Desdemona spoke of the gardens of her home, declaring with no small amount of pride that they produced some of the finest roses in the kingdom. She even boasted that, one day, she would see to it that they were the first to cultivate a true blue rose.

At this, Duchess Adelaide corrected her by noting that Seraphina had already cracked that particular nut years ago, albeit by cheating. Namely, by spilling a copious amount of blue dye into her white rose bed when she was younger and then declaring the matter solved which caused Desdemona to snigger.

For a while, they spoke of other things. The recent bumper export of Cronir meat had gone down rather well with the southern nobility. This sudden new demand however, her grandmother complained, would be a devil to meet the next year. The northern markets were fuller than expected. A merchant from the coast had apparently arrived with a shipment of glass beads, pearl buttons, and several bolts of fabric dyed a blue so pale it was nearly silver. Desdemona was of the opinion that Seraphina should purchase some of it.

“It would suit your eyes,” she commented.

“Really, I would beg to disagree. I am not, to put it lightly, much enamored of the color silver,” replied Seraphina, remembering another would-be rival.

“Well, there is only one way to find out!” continued de Savant.

“I do not think my grandmother’s purse could quite handle that weight of that frivolous luxury…”

“Now, now, Seraphina. I am sure we will find a way if you are willing to try the clothes and maybe mention our tailor in your little paper news that you and that dark girl of that banking family… yes the de Lehmans,” interjected smoothly.

Seraphina took another bite of pancake to avoid answering. The sauce went perfectly with the pancakes, which was also deeply, irritatingly delicious. It truly seemed that her grandmother was not entirely isolated news wise this far to the north.

Her grandmother watched them both over the rim of her cup, the corners of her mouth barely touched by a smile. The older woman appeared perfectly at ease, but Seraphina noticed the slight tension around her eyes and shoulders.

The Duchess put aside her knife and fork, not deigning, as ever, to use chopsticks. The quiet sound of silver touching porcelain drew more attention than a bell.

“You are, of course, excused from your training with Mistress Vey this morning,” Adelaide said.

Seraphina paused with her teacup halfway to her lips.

“But I hope you will use that time to work on your needlework,” her grandmother continued. “And, my darling, I also hope you will behave yourself this afternoon.”

Desdemona’s expression brightened with an almost indecent amount of anticipation.

Seraphina set her cup down. “I always behave myself.”

Duchess Adelaide  pointedly looked at her as one of the servants, carrying a fresh pot of tea near the sideboard, made the mistake of hesitating for half a breath.

Seraphina did not let irritation cloud her features. “I behave according to the demands of the situation and propriety."

Her grandmother snorted. “The artist is a young man, but apparently talented to quite some degree. He is also the son of one of the local guildmasters. You will not be overly harsh or critical of him. This portrait will be the piece that will be presented to the imperial court. Do I make myself clear, Sera?”

Desdemona held up one sleeve to cover the lower half of her face and gave a dainty laugh. “Oh, you mustn’t forbid that. You are stopping her from being herself. I was quite looking forward to seeing Sera throw the easel at him. And perhaps, some paint and brushes for good measure.”

“I would never do such a thing,” Seraphina retorted, shooting a sidelong glance at her so-called friend.

If her foot could have reached Desdemona beneath the table, she would have kicked her. Gently, perhaps. Or at least in a way that left no permanent damage.

Desdemona’s eyes gleamed over the edge of her sleeve. “No, of course not. You would probably have someone else throw it.”

“Ladies,” her grandmother warned, seeing the fire in her granddaughter’s eyes.

Seraphina folded her hands in her lap, the very image of noble restraint. “I will, of course, be the epitome of grace and civility.”

“Yes, you will,” commanded the Duchess Adelaide firmly, though there was a traitorous curve to her mouth. “You will sit for the portrait. You will not insult the artist, his father, his tools, or his craft, or the shape of his nose.”

Seraphina blinked. “What if his nose is truly unfortunate?”

Her grandmother held her head in her hands. “Then you will suffer nobly.”

Seraphina’s fingers tightened around the folded napkin in her lap. “Grandmother, you ask too much.”

“No,” Adelaide said flatly. “No, I do not. Because I highly doubt you will get away with offering your hand again as a way of smoothing over another incident.”

Seraphina drew herself up, every inch the noble daughter of a ducal house. “Very well. I shall sit, I shall smile if required, and I shall be gracious. I shall permit this young man to commit whatever crimes against art he deems necessary, and I shall not say a single word about them.”

***

They spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon bent over their embroidery projects.

Seraphina continued her copy of Monet’s Water Lilies on cloth, lifting the image directly from her memories of the famous piece. Getting the colors just right was proving somewhat difficult, but a little artistic licence was always allowed when committing plagiarism.

The artist, Master Vlan di Panoli, had set up shop in one of the drawing rooms. He introduced himself as the son of the guildmaster of the Artisan’s Guild here in Carcaronne, though his family was originally from Qis. He gave a florid bow, kissed the air just above both their hands, and declared it an honor beyond words to attempt to capture their likenesses.

The painter was blessed with the sort of the youth that would soon wither. He was short of stature, with lank brown-blond hair, a weak chin, slightly vapid eyes, and a rather indefensibly large nose. As per her grandmother’s instructions, however, Seraphina refrained from criticizing his appearance. Flowers, after all, grew out of dirt.

First, Seraphina sat in a chair, her back ramrod straight, the fire burning merrily behind her while Vlan began to sketch her basic likeness onto the canvas with a stick of charcoal. Desdemona stood behind him with an appraising eye, her hands folded before her and an expectant smile brightening her face as the long minutes passed.

“I do say, he is doing quite an admirable job!” Desdemona exclaimed.

“Argh! Admirable?” Vlan cried in a fit of pique, springing to his feet so suddenly that Desdemona flinched and took two quick steps back. “No, no, no. It is not perfection. I have not captured the is of Lady Seraphina. There is more. There must be more!”

He seized the canvas and began tearing at it.

Seraphina looked at him archly, one eyebrow rising despite herself. It was usually her role to explode in a bout of temper, and she felt rather as if he had stolen a march from her.

“Well,” Desdemona said, looking rather put out, “I only meant to say that you had captured Sera’s likeness rather finely.”

Seraphina clicked her fingers. “Show me.”

The serving staff moved to retrieve the torn canvas despite the artist’s protestations. They handed it to her with a quick, murmured, “Milady.”

The young girl’s eyes roved over the piece.

It had captured her remarkably well in a technical sense. The foreshortening was correct, the lines clean, every stroke showing the proper symmetry of her face. Beautiful symmetry, naturally. Yet Vlan had not been entirely wrong. There was something missing. A distinct lack of soul. The most exacting of art critics might have called it a very pretty corpse of a portrait. 

“Well,” Seraphina said after a moment, “I am sure our artist can try again. We do have the afternoon, after all. But first, perhaps some tea to settle Master di Panoli’s nerves.”

She clapped her hands, and the servants went to do as she commanded. They returned soon after with a steaming pot of tea, chamomile if she was not mistaken, and poured it into three delicate sea-grey cups for her and her guests.

They sipped in strained silence.

“My apologies for the outburst, Your Grace,” Vlan muttered, half into his cup. “I fear this may be beyond me. A portrait fit for the imperial court must be more than you. It must be the essence of you.”

Desdemona looked as if she were repressing a snort and settled instead for arranging her mouth into a delicate moue.

“Well then,” Seraphina said sweetly, “perhaps a break is in order. After tea, you are excused until inspiration returns to you.”

The words were gentle, but the command beneath was not.

“Of course, Your Grace. Of course,” he agreed weakly, finishing off his cup of tea. “You will then, of course, excuse me.”

Vlan di Panoli made a swift but polite retreat, closing the wooden doors of the drawing room gently behind him.

“I do say, that was rather kind,” Desdemona commented airily. “Well, at least for you, Sera.”

Seraphina took up her embroidery hoop once more, her eyes moving over the unfinished pattern, noting what still needed to be done to bring it closer to perfection. Desdemona’s own piece, a moon hanging in a starlit sky, was original enough, but lacked the elegance of Seraphina’s work.

The blonde girl sat by the window and continued, Desdemona opposite her, their needles flashing in and out of the cloth as the afternoon settled around them. The fire crackled softly. Beyond the glass, snow clung to the garden hedges in white ridges, and the pale northern light turned everything beyond the window into a study of grey, silver, and bone.

Seraphina’s needle found the next place color was needed. A touch more green here. A softer line there. A thread of blue, just enough to suggest shadow upon water. Minutes slipped by as they when one is lost in making the world more beautiful.

In her work, the young girl fell into that quiet, meditative trance that came with the creation of beauty. The world narrowed to fabric, thread, color, and the patient movement of her hands. It was in those empty spaces that thoughts of the past entered her life, slipping in softly through the cracks.

Ibn. Gravens. And yes, even what could have been with Crown Prince Velens.

Her needle paused for half a breath. Then, the sorrow came quietly, as it always did when she was foolish enough to give it room. Not as a blade, not anymore, but as a bruise pressed by careless fingers. Regret. Irritation. Pride. The lingering ache of things that had been lost, things she had ruined, and things that had never truly belonged to her in the first place.

Yet even in the sorrow, a spark of proud joy remained as the world itself tried to show her.

You have gained 1 Dexterity.

You have gained 1 Charisma.

There it was, and Seraphina smiled. 

Not the forced smile made for an artist’s sketch. Not the polished smile of a young noblewoman pretending to be gracious while considering whether murder would be socially inconvenient.

This was something softer. Stranger, and more powerful for it.

A smile filled with sorrow, joy, and just a little mystery. The smile of a girl and a woman both, caught between who she had been and who she intended to become. It was an expression that would take a genius to capture.

It was the expression of a muse.

“Yes!” shrieked a somewhat familiar voice. “Perfect!”

Desdemona jumped, her needle flashing dangerously close to her own thumb, a growl rumbling at the back of her throat.

Seraphina looked up slowly, returning from the past piece by piece, until her eyes finally registered Vlan’s presence near the doorway. The diminutive man stood there as if struck by lightning, his vapid eyes suddenly blazing with an almost religious fever.

He darted forward, seized a piece of charcoal, and began to work.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” Vlan breathed, his hand moving smoothly across the fresh canvas, powered by fresh inspiration. “That is it. Yes. That is it!”

Seraphina watched him for a moment. Well, she thought, he is a strange little man, isn’t he?

Still, perhaps it would not be entirely remiss to see what fruit this little bit of madness might bear.