The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 3. The Smudge

The murder knife lay on the ground next to the curled fingers of the dead prince, as if the Dmitrii was reaching for it to play one more game. His blood stained the blade with a myriad of shades of red.

Uncle Vasilii ignored the knife. He traced the prince's clothes on the painting with his thumb. "Was this how blood spattered on Dmitrii's chest?"

"Yes," Besson said.

"This dark stuff..." Uncle Vasilii's nail dug into a maroon pool under the body, then followed the splatter pattern through the grass. "That's also his blood?"

"Yes."

Uncle Vasilii's attention remained on the canvas, not his woozy nephew. He kept digging with his nails whenever he wanted to study a detail.

Besson fixated on the paint lodging underneath his uncle's nails. It was the color of dry blood. The last hints of pink drained from his cheeks, leaving him ashen.

Oblivious, Uncle Vasilii nearly scratched a hole in one corner of the painted courtyard. "What's this?"

"A ladder, Uncle. Sire. The repairs are being made to the kremlin's wall."

"On whose orders? Do you know?"

"I don't know, Uncle."

Because I am a wretched fool! His stomach churned with guilt and frustration over a long list of his imaginary shortcomings. It nearly swept me under—my dad made me feel useless all the time.

It's absurd! You are not some foreman. You're... whatever you are. Hello! Earth to Besson!

Uncle Vasilii's next clipped question was far more successful in snapping Besson out of it than me. "What's this?"

Besson leaned over to see what his uncle was picking at.

The prince's cap rolled away, exiting the shadow of the wall. Sunlight shone upon it, creating a burst of fabric color, fur trim and jewels. Fresh paint, ground from costly minerals, glowed, sparkled, popped off the canvas. What's not to love?

"This is sunlight, Uncle. It reflects off the grass and... and..." The color returned to Besson's cheeks in a flush, as well as overtaking his ears and neck. He was his uncle's nephew in that regard.

The interplay of light and color made me think of Monet's airy landscapes. Way ahead of your time, dude. But, high five for trying! Monet must have bled to Besson via our bond and made an impression, because his mouth hung open.

"Close your mouth, you walking misfortune." Uncle Vasilii heaved a sigh. He didn't look to check if Besson snapped his jaws as commanded, but kept squinting. The sausages of his fingers with dirty nails moved the painting farther and farther away from his eyes, as if he were nearsighted.

"Sunlight, he says... reflections... Hmm."

That's what he is, nearsighted, I thought vindictively on Besson's behalf.

"Hmm. Hmm. Something is there, but it's too smudged to make out the shape of it. The icons and manuscript illustrations show things in finer detail."

"This is what I saw," Besson mumbled.

Louder! For those in the back! You tell them!

My timid sixteenth century friend didn't perk up, let alone raise his voice. "Nobody had properly instructed me in the craft, uncle."

If I still had my head, I'd bang it on the wall, but Besson cleared his throat like it wasn't just grovelling.

"However, there is an icon painting shop here at the monastery."