Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4)

by Annette K. Larsen

  “What do you think?” Ingrid asked from behind me.

  I turned to see her looking anxious for my response and gave her a genuine smile. “You clearly excel at portraiture. This is incredible.”

  She beamed and showed me the few other paintings sitting out, then insisted she be allowed to view my work. I obliged, though it made me oddly nervous to show my paintings to this girl I had just met—this girl who didn’t seem awed or intimidated by me. I only had two of my paintings here at the studio. I had brought them a few days ago, hoping I would get the chance to show them to Dante and perhaps even the master. They had remained rolled up in their tubes, waiting, and I was excited to have someone to pull them out for.

  She looked over my work, studying each with a critical eye. “Your technique is quite advanced,” she finally said.

  “Thank you,” I replied. Then, in a rare moment of blunt honesty, I added, “But I fear they lack emotion.”

  She stepped back, looking at them again and nodding. “They are pleasant, but I don’t feel anything deeper.”

  My chest tightened, disappointed that she had agreed but knowing she was right. My thoughts went to my other paintings, the ones I kept hidden away, the ones that I knew held more emotion but lacked all the discipline for which I had worked so hard.

  There had to be a middle ground, and I needed to find it.

  Chapter Six

  AFTER TWO DAYS, my hands had recovered enough that Dante pulled out the blue stones he had purchased at the apothecary and instructed me on how to grind them. As it happened, he had chosen the lapis lazuli stones which we mixed into my favorite color, ultramarine. With my affinity for painting water, I used it often, so while I wanted to resent the manual labor necessary, I actually enjoyed being able to create the color myself.

  Mixing other pigments was not quite so enjoyable. We made yellow from the resin of a tree that was frustrating and difficult to work with, and I hated the smell of the burned bones that we used for ivory black. However, I kept most of my opinions to myself and ended up learning a great deal, for which I was grudgingly grateful.

  A week later, I was finally rewarded for my persistence.

  “All right,” Dante said without preamble. “Set up your workspace. Let’s see what you can do.”

  “You’re actually going to let me paint?”

  He nodded. “I need to know what I’m going to be working with.” His face was apathetic. Clearly, he expected nothing from me. I looked forward to proving him wrong.

  I set about arranging my space, finally able to take out one of the many canvases I had prepared and put it on an easel. Dante surprised me by helping me to arrange my paints and brushes, even reminding me to don a smock before I started.

  I decided to stay with my strength and sketched out the view that I saw from the windows before me, roughing in the horizon and the position of the trees, with the river sweeping from the horizon and running off the bottom of the canvas. When I was happy with the sketch, I reached for a brush and dipped into my chosen sky color.

  “You won’t be dead-coloring?”

  I jerked my brush back, having nearly forgotten that he was behind me, watching everything I did. “What?”

  “Dead-coloring.”

  I merely stared.

  He sighed. “The underpainting one does to fix the composition to the canvas before employing color.”

  “I was taught that once I had the sketch in place, I should proceed with the color.” I stated it, trying to leave out my emotion.

  “Well then, you will have to relearn a few things. Dead-coloring is not complicated. You will simply be going over your sketch with a neutral color. You’ll choose shades that will be appropriate for the shadows you wish to come out, because in addition to doing the outlining, you will be filling in the shading, setting the tone for what will go over it, fixing the image to the canvas.”

  “I could just as easily do the shadows as I go,” I argued. “You want me to show you what I can do, so why not let me do it the way that I know how?”

  “Because it would be a waste of time.” His voice was level, quiet, but I could see the challenge in his eyes.

  “I disagree.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Will you please allow me to paint?” I asked. I was tired of arguing, tired of him questioning me when he had yet to let me paint anything—had yet to even look at the paintings I had brought.

  He stared at my eyes, his own unblinking as he considered me. Then he stood. “Very well. I shall leave you to do it your own way. When you are finished, you may leave. We will discuss what you have been able to do tomorrow morning when you arrive.”

  That was it. He strode away, leaving me to do as I pleased. Part of me felt triumphant. I had gotten my way. Another part of me wondered if I had just proven myself to be the spoiled princess I had hoped not to be.

  It was too late to wonder if I had made a mistake. I turned back to the canvas and began working, aware that he was only giving me this one day to do an entire painting, and hopefully impress him. I would have to be more careful, more deliberate than usual if I was going to have something finished by the end of the day.

  My mood swung like a pendulum throughout the day—one moment happy with my progress, the next cursing my lack of time, Dante’s conceit, and my own need to argue.

  My fellow students left at midday, replaced some time later by another set of pupils whom I hadn’t met before. Not that I was able to meet them; I was too worried and focused on completing what I hoped would be a picturesque scene. I labored over the shadows, knowing that he would be critical of them after his discussion of dead-coloring.

  A hand touched my shoulder and I looked up to see West hovering over me.

  “The afternoon is half gone. You need to eat.” He held out a plate but I waved him off.

  “I’m nearly finished.” I tried to go back to work but his hand gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “You’re not nearly finished, and if I don’t make you, you won’t eat for several more hours. Just take a moment so that I can stop badgering you.”

  I heaved a sigh and stalked over to the wash basin to scrub my hands before returning to West and pulling the plate from him. I wanted to be put out by his insistence, but I couldn’t help the gratitude I felt. “You’re worse than a mother hen,” I grumbled, trying not to let him see the way his attention affected me.

  “You’re welcome,” was his only reply.

  I chewed through the roll and cold meats as quickly as I could while maintaining my decorum. I still ended up nearly choking and gratefully reached for the cup of water he offered. The moment the plate and cup were empty, he took them from my hands and left me to my work.

  It was nearing dinnertime when I stopped. It wasn’t as good as I wished, but without time to allow the different layers to dry, it was the best that could be expected.

  When I stood to leave, West informed me that he had sent for a carriage to return us to the Brooks’ home. I gave him a tired smile and happily climbed in when it arrived. Lady Brook was waiting for me in the sitting room when I returned.

  The moment she saw me, she rang for her maid, who bustled in a moment later. “Margaret, we need tea and something for Her Highness to eat.”

  She pulled me to the couch and had me sit. “You look worn to the bone. Did they keep you there all this time? I thought you were only to be there in the mornings.”

  “I’m sorry I did not send word.”

  “I sent Stephen to check on you this afternoon and he reported that you were well and safe at the villa, but it seems so odd that they would keep you.”

  I took her hand in the hopes of calming her. “They did not keep me. I had an assignment I was determined to finish. I can become rather distracted when I am working.”

  She studied my face and I tried to reassure her with a smile. Finally, she let out a sigh. “So long as you do not feel you are being mistreated. Remember, it is my responsibility
to look out for you. I know Master Sterrino can be unrealistically demanding at times, so I want you to be sure to let me know if he is being unfair.” Her stern gaze looked almost comical on her sweet face.

  “Don’t worry about me. I believe I can handle myself, and my guards are always looking out for me.”

  She nodded, seeming a bit more at ease, and by the time tea had arrived, she was telling me about her plans to host a musical evening. I listened politely and excused myself the moment I thought it would be acceptable. She patted my hand with understanding and sent me off to bed.

  After climbing into bed, I brooded for only a few moments before falling into a deep sleep.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  I arrived at the villa early, climbing the stairs to the painting gallery and settling in front of my work without seeing Dante. I took up a brush and began some little corrections in the still-wet paint.

  I jumped as the canvas was pulled from beneath my brush. Dante held it out in front of him, scrutinizing the work with a frown before setting it aside. “Good, you have some talent,” he said in a monotone as he placed a new canvas in front of me. “Now do it again.”

  I hadn’t even heard him approach. “Are you always so quiet?” I asked with clenched teeth.

  “You wish me to stomp about and yell?” The boredom in his voice grated on my nerves.

  “Yes. At least then I would be able to guess your moods.”

  “Perhaps that’s the problem. If you can’t appropriately appreciate the silence, then how do you expect to hear your own thoughts and feelings enough to paint them?”

  My reply was quiet but firm. “Don’t presume to know anything about my feelings.”

  “And I would advise you not to presume to know more than the rest of us.” He gave me a hard look, but I held his gaze. “You could be brilliant, but only if you start to listen.” He tipped his head toward my canvas. “Now, do it again. And this time, do it my way.”

  I bit down on my anger as he pulled up a stool beside mine and explained again the process of dead-coloring. I didn’t speak, only nodded occasionally. My focus kept wandering as I argued with him in my head, telling him how arrogant and conceited he was, demanding that he at least speak politely to me. Then, of course, I had to remind myself that this was what I wanted. He had told me the very first day that I would be treated as everyone else, that social rules were often ignored. Perhaps a lack of manners was the norm in the studio. Or perhaps he was trying to imitate the crass manners of the master—the master who just happened to be strolling along the other end of the room, observing the work of other students, giving a comment or critique. Would I ever get a chance to learn from him? Did I want to?

  A sharp crack pulled me from my thoughts. Dante had clapped his hands right in front of my face. “You could at least pretend to listen,” he said in his quiet way.

  “I was listening,” I defended and immediately felt ridiculous for the outright lie.

  His brow jumped. “Were you? Well, then, I will leave you to it.” He brandished a brush at me, his eyes fixed on mine until I took the brush from his hands. He walked away, likely knowing full well that I would fail. I should call him back, admit I had been letting my mind wander. But he seemed determined to provoke me, to prove that I was unworthy, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to ask for his help after such a dismissal.

  So I turned to the canvas, trying to remember what he’d been saying as I warred with him in my head. Dead-coloring helped with shadows later, and I thought he’d said that the entire image needed to be outlined.

  I stared at the view out the window, looking for the shadows, trying to figure out how to outline and shadow without the main image to work with. This was going to be a disaster.

  When noon rolled around, I was staring at the canvas that I had attempted to dead-color. I had no idea if my technique was anything close to what Dante had tried to teach me. He had never come back and I was in no mood to wait around for him, so I cleared my space.

  I slipped away, quiet during the walk home as I worried about what Dante would say about my feeble attempts.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  The next day was Sunday, the one day that I didn’t go to the studio. Instead, I took the chance to sit out in the courtyard and try different techniques of dead-coloring, trying to figure out what Dante had been trying to explain. I was keeping it simple, working on flowers, leaves and rocks.

  West had wandered out some time ago, whether to enjoy the weather or to watch me paint, I didn’t know.

  He leaned over my shoulder, but I ignored him until he spoke. “Why are you painting that stem crooked?”

  “Because that’s how the flower is.”

  “But wouldn’t it look better if you straightened it out?”

  “Perhaps.” I kept my eyes on my work, my hand steady. “But one of the first great lessons Joseph taught me was ‘paint what you see, not what you think you should see.’ If I were to straighten the stem, then I might be tempted to even out the petals, or leave out the nick that’s in the leaf. If I start making adjustments to everything I see—trying to make them more like what I imagine they should look like instead of what they do look like—it wouldn’t look real. The inconsistencies and imperfections are what make things beautiful. Perfection tends to be boring.”

  “Hmm.”

  I looked over at him, surprised by just how curious that noise made me. “Hmm, what? What does that sound mean?”

  “I’ve spent quite a few years watching you strive for perfection.”

  My brush hand dropped to my lap as I stared at the canvas, my eyes unfocusing. He was right, of course. I had striven for perfection, thinking it was possible.

  “I’m sorry. That’s not really my business.” West’s words pulled me from my thoughts.

  I turned away from my work so that I could see him, resting my hand on the bench. “Could you tell?”

  He looked up at me.

  “Back then, before…before Tobias, you knew I was trying to be perfect. Could you see how miserable I was as well?”

  He thought on that a moment, his eyes never leaving mine, and I held my breath, wondering what he had seen in me. “You weren’t always miserable.”

  My face crumpled and I pressed my lips, trying to push back the sadness that his words brought. “Just most of the time?”

  He raised his empty hands, at a loss. “I can only tell you what I thought. You know what you felt.”

  I turned back to the canvas. “I was miserable,” I muttered.

  I heard the rocks crunching under West’s feet as he approached and sat beside me with a sigh. “You’re not miserable now, are you?”

  “No, not miserable. But…ill at ease.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I chuckled to myself. The fact that I was sitting out in a garden having this conversation with my guard was a testament to just how much I had changed. A year ago I would have sent him away or reminded him of his station. Now it felt almost natural to answer him. “There was a comfort in knowing exactly what I was striving for, exactly what I expected of myself. But my opinions, even the way that I see things, have shifted so much. Sometimes it makes me feel as if I’ve lost my footing.”

  “How so?”

  “If I don’t have expectations for myself, then how can I know if I’m succeeding?”

  He studied my little flower again. “What did you say the lesson was that Joseph taught you? Paint what you see?”

  “Not what you think you should see,” I finished.

  “Perhaps you could apply that to yourself.” He gave a little shrug.

  I turned to him, confused. “You mean, a self-portrait?”

  He smiled, but tried to hide it. “No, though I would enjoy seeing that.” His eyes danced as he continued. “Couldn’t you practice accepting your own efforts and not trying to correct your perceived flaws?”

  “But then, how would I improve?”

  He rubbed his fingers along his forehead. “Perhaps I s
hould stop philosophizing.”

  “No, please, go on.” I turned toward him, anxious to hear what he would say.

  His brow was furrowed in thought as he turned to face me. “Do you think there will ever be a time when you don’t give it your best effort?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps you can accept your effort for the day and know that your next attempt will be a step in the right direction. You’re here to learn, and that will inevitably take time.”

  “I’m not good at being patient.”

  “Then I officially give you permission to take the time necessary to learn.” He stood.

  “Is that an official guard’s decree?”

  He straightened his back and tugged at the bottom of his coat. “As official as they come,” he replied with a lift of his chin before spinning on his heel and marching away. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Chapter Seven

  ON TO THE next confrontation.

  It was worse than I expected. Dante had my painting already in hand when I arrived, looking at it with disgust. “What is this?” he demanded in his calm, cold voice.

  “It was only my first attempt—”

  “Did you hear any of my instruction? Any of it at all?” His eyes were narrowed to slits.

  I couldn’t answer directly. “If I did it the wrong way, then simply tell me what—”

  “I gave you extensive instruction, the most important of which—” He ran his fingers across the canvas, smearing the paint. “—was that you do not use oil for dead-coloring.” The intensity of his quiet voice was unnerving. “If you couldn’t be bothered to listen to it then, why should I believe you won’t waste my time again?”