The Painter's Apprentice

Chapter 1

I capture the city before anyone is awake. The sun rises at my back, a warm kiss on the bare skin of my neck, and I document this Parisian morning with oils and canvas. I hurry to catch the dramatic shadows and swaths of gold that sprawl across the rooftops of the Île-de-France before the sun gets too high or the master painter returns. I have already finished the sketches Edmond Morel left for me and he hasn't returned from the palace in weeks.

He doesn't like it when I paint these jagged, ugly rooftops, but they're not as hideous as he claims. Still, I miss his presence in the studio when he goes away. Energetic and overwhelming and enchanting at once, I worry my art suffers when he isn't here to place his hand over mine and change the stroke of my brush. There isn't the same pressure when he is at the palace, but I imagine the heat of the orpiment yellow sun is Morel when his chest hovers inches from my back as he leans in close to watch over my shoulder.

The cool morning air is disturbed by the distinct rattle of wheels and the rhythmic clop of horses as a carriage pulls to a stop below, on the cobblestone street of Rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine. I put my palette aside and lean over the railing to see who has arrived. I freeze at the sight of a carriage with the fleur de lis.

A royal carriage.

It's not fine enough to be carrying around a person of consequence, but it could only have come from the palace.

Heart racing, I expect to see Morel alight from the coach, but men, soldiers in royal blue coats dotted with shiny brass buttons, descend from the carriage. Morel isn't with them.

They enter the building and the sound of their boots echoes on the stairs, rhythmic like drum tattoo. What does this mean? Are they here for me? Madame Poulin's terrier starts up a horrible racket that will wake the entire neighborhood.

I don't have time to think. I close the floor-length windows to the balcony and wipe my dirty hands on my apron. It takes only seconds to swap it for a clean one and knot a sheer, white fichu over my shoulders.

The officers who knock on my door tell me not to bother with my belongings; I'm needed at Versailles.

My invitation to court has finally arrived.

I have wanted this for so long that I don't even pause to say goodbye to the four dingy walls of the garret before they escort me down to the carriage to whisk me away.

My heart thunders in my ears as excitement turns my stomach into knots. Morel is always at the palace to work on his commissions, but he has never taken me along with him. He says the court of Louis XVI is fickle and dangerous — but so is Paris. He doesn't tell me that my art isn't ready, he says my tongue will get me killed. But why has he decided to bring me to court now?

When he is away at court, he always seems so far away, but the journey to Versailles is shorter than I expect. The village outside the château is quiet compared to the overcrowded streets of Paris. I admire the charming uniformity of the buildings until a great palace of creamy white stone, red bricks, and blue-tiled roofs rises above the road.

Château de Versailles.

I have passed the Louvre and Tuileries palaces in Paris many times, but nothing can compare to the scale of Versailles. We pull through gilded gates, and the coach comes to a stop. No one is allowed into Versailles without the proper uniform, and my stained skirts and Caraco jacket certainly won't do.

I am whisked away to a room in the Grand Stables where I'm bathed in freezing water. The maid puts me into an elaborate chemise with dangerously ruffled sleeves that extend to my elbows, but that's only the start. She laces me into new stays and ties a simple set of modest panniers around my waist. The maid's eyes, pewter in color, linger on my indigo stained fingers. They can take the rags I called a dress when I arrived at the palace, but it will take a vigorous scrubbing and turpentine to remove the Vermillion that has burrowed into my skin and made a home in the beds of my nails.