The Painter's Apprentice

Chapter 22

I can't get Destan's words out of my mind. With nothing to do to help The Order but paint, I am left alone with my thoughts for too many hours of the day.

Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

The word echos in my head. A reminder of everything I hoped painting would bring me. I'm not free. Not yet. Before his death, Morel was grooming me to become a great painter in my own right. But he is gone too soon, and I am left to fight for my freedom on my own.

When I can't bear to think anymore, I tear open the remainder of Morel's final paintings and prop them up around my bedchamber. I sit on the floor before them and examine them for any hint at what Morel was up to in his final days. They are all strange, a muddle of blues and greens and golds. One painting is dotted with more gold than the others, and it draws my interest. The brightness dances across waves of black and blue...

Like light on the water.

My gaze flits between the other canvases. Are they all studies of water?

The paintings are so unlike Morel's that I don't know how to test my theory. Furthermore, did they have any connection to his desire to find the Fae? I wonder if there is perhaps a message left in the paintings for me. The more I look for something in his work, the more I feel like I'm trying to piece together the broken mind of a madman.

"Florette!"

My name makes me almost jump out of my skin.

Lavernia stands in my doorway, her face pinched with concern. "I didn't mean to scare you. I called your name three times."

I stand and brush the folds from my skirt. "D'ésolé. I was trying to aid your search for the gate. I wondered if Morel left any clues in his work."

Lavernia gives the paintings a wary glance. "Thank you for trying, but I don't know what you thought you could make of these."

"You're right," I say with a dry laugh. "I don't know what I thought,"

"You know who would love to try to analyze these?"

My pulse races. "Don't say it—"

"Destan." Lavernia cackles wickedly.

I threaten her with a glare. "Don't start."

She raises her hands in surrender. "Oh, if I had the time. But you're supposed to be dressed by now." She tosses something small and dark at me. I catch a sheer, black lace mask with green satin ties — a perfect match to my olive green ensemble for the Autumn Equinox masquerade. "Hurry, or we will miss our chance to get a partner for the first dance."

#

The air in the Hall of Mirrors is suffocating. The heat of so many bodies crushed into the space along with the cloying scent of fresh flowers and courtiers' heavy-handed perfumes and colognes makes my head swim. Instantly, my face begins to sweat beneath my mask. Even on Lavernia's arm, I only draw a few glances as we make our way towards the crowd of dancers. A gentleman with a towering white wig and peacock mask is quick to solicit Lavernia's hand for the dance. They head off to find their set and I am left on the periphery of the dance floor with a restless pack of women without partners. Instead of glances of consideration, I get glares.

I don't feel like preening for the attention of the remaining men, so I make my way towards the inviting coolness of an open window. It's tough to move through the crush in voluminous skirts exaggerated by panniers. The ball-goers seem more interested in the passing trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres and their conversations than a masked girl trying to get by.