Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4)

by Annette K. Larsen

I consciously reeled myself back, knowing I was at fault, but so taken aback by his harsh words that my chest hurt. “You don’t need to be so cross.”

  He stepped forward. “You haven’t seen me cross.” Though his voice was even, there was no mistaking the anger rolling off of him. “You are excused for the day. Perhaps tomorrow you will have found enough humility to be worth my time.”

  He walked away, taking my tools with him. I pinched my eyes shut, fighting down a scream of frustration. I had never in my life been treated with such blatant disrespect. He had practically called me worthless. He’d ordered me to leave, unwilling to give me another chance. Couldn’t he see I was struggling? Did he have no concept of the adjustment that this life was for me? Each day I had cleaned up after myself, leaving my workspace pristine. I had rubbed my hands raw preparing canvases. I had allowed him to speak down to me time and time again. I had let my mind wander once. And now he refused to teach me.

  I left without a backward glance. My back was so straight that my shoulders ached, as did my jaw from clenching it so tightly. My feet covered the distance from the villa to the Brooks’ home in half the time it usually took. When I entered the house, there was still too much frustration racing through me to allow me to sit at tea as was my habit, so instead I kept my cloak on and walked through the house to the back door. I had returned so much earlier than usual that Lady Brook was likely still out and about visiting her friends.

  I stepped down into the gardens, my mind racing as I argued with Dante in my head. I listed all the reasons that this endeavor of mine was being ruined by the arrogance of an apprentice. It would be one thing if I were being criticized and berated by a true master, but to take such abuse from Dante was nearly unbearable.

  It took me a while before I realized that West was still trailing me. I waved him off, but didn’t slow. “I don’t need a guard right now.”

  “I know.”

  Despite his response, he continued to follow me and I quickened my step, hoping that he would realize he was unwanted and leave me be. I didn’t want him to see me falling apart, hurt by the criticism I had claimed to want.

  He didn’t leave; instead he kept pace with me, distracting me from my mental rant and raising my hackles even more. Finally, I turned on him, my anger simmering just under the surface. “What are you doing?”

  “Walking with you.”

  “I told you, I do not need a guard at this moment.”

  He gave a little shake of his head, his eyes warm with understanding. “I’m not walking with you because I am your guard.”

  “Then why are you? This is an enclosed garden of a respectable home. There is no need for you to be right here with me.”

  “You seemed upset.”

  “I am upset! You saw the way that man treated me. I made a mistake and he won’t even give me a chance to make it right.”

  He took a deep breath, hesitating before asking, “Do you think perhaps it’s difficult for him to have you second guessing him?”

  “I don’t—” I stopped, thinking through my interaction with Dante. “Do I?”

  He gave a little nod, looking sorry as he did so. “When he first tried to teach you dead-coloring, you insisted on showing him your way first.”

  “But—” There was no excuse. I’d done exactly that.

  “You’re a pupil here. He wants to teach you.”

  I sucked in a breath, hurt by the implication. “You think I refuse to be taught?” I folded my arms, biting my lip. “Was I not a good student when I studied with Joseph for all those years?”

  “Joseph never pushed you the way Dante does.” He held up his hands in surrender as he admitted, “I’m no artist, but even I can see the difference in the way they teach.”

  I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to look at things objectively, but I shook my head. “He’s rude. For no good reason.”

  “You’re right. But might he still be a good teacher?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” I muttered.

  He smiled in that way that made it difficult for me not to smile as well. “Perhaps a second chance could be given?”

  I could see what he meant. I couldn’t very well complain about not being given a second chance if I wasn’t willing to give them myself.

  I blew out a breath and shook my hands out. “I am at a loss, West. I don’t know how to deal with him. He’s arrogant, and it would be so easy to be arrogant right back.”

  He smiled at my pathetic ferocity. “Luckily we both know you’re better than that.”

  “Do you?” I wanted him to think highly of me. His opinion mattered to me in a way that few did.

  He tilted his head, studying me. “How long have I served you?” he asked.

  I blinked, taken aback by the change of topic. “I don’t know. Five years.”

  “Seven,” he corrected. “Since you were fifteen. And you have spoken to me more in the past year than in the previous six combined.”

  I was taken aback. Did he mind my newfound talkativeness? “If my chattering is bothersome, then I—”

  “I like hearing you talk, Princess. And I’ve especially enjoyed having you talk to me.”

  I clutched my hands together, rubbing my thumb up and down the length of my pointer finger. “I suppose I didn’t talk to you much before, did I?”

  He gave a sad smile. “No. But that was all right. I wasn’t offended by it. I knew how much you valued adherence to social status, but I will admit, it’s been a pleasure being able to speak with you over this last year.” The way he looked at me was not like the looks I was used to receiving from my guards. I looked away, trying to hide the flush climbing my neck. “So to answer your question, yes, I do know you’re better than that. You don’t need to match his arrogance. Perhaps you’ll merely need to swallow his.”

  “I’ll do my best. I suppose he’s probably earned the right to be a bit arrogant.” I commenced walking and he fell into step beside me. “Thank you,” I said after several moments of quiet.

  “For what?”

  “For coming after me. I needed that.”

  “My pleasure,” was his hushed reply. Then he cleared his throat and added, “Besides, if it doesn’t work out, I’d be more than happy to challenge him to a sparring match.” He flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders as if readying for a physical confrontation.

  I stifled a laugh. The picture that his suggestion brought to mind was laughable; I couldn’t imagine Dante participating in such a thing.

  I breathed deep, able to release some of my stress with the laughter, and we returned to the house in silence.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  The following day, I entered the upper gallery braced for Dante’s wrath. I would swallow whatever criticism he had for me and I would be grateful for it.

  However, he was working with another student and I was able to set up my workspace without his overbearing presence. I was just tying an apron at my back when Ingrid walked over.

  “I need your help,” she said without preamble, and towed me over to her workspace.

  “Help with what?” I asked as I retied the knot she had interrupted.

  “I need a model.”

  “Oh, no, no. I work behind the canvas, not in front of it.”

  “It’s not going to be some grand portrait of you. Here, come look.” She pulled me around to see her canvas. The scene portrayed a lavish ballroom, several couples sketched in motion on the dance floor while a few spectators stood at the periphery. Ingrid pointed to an elegant, draped window in the center of the background. “I need you to stand with your back toward me, as if you were standing at that window, looking out and waiting for someone.”

  “I’m hardly dressed for a ball,” I pointed out.

  “I can add the frills later; it’s the stance of the figure I can’t get right. Simply stand there, and I’ll do a few sketches of you in different positions.” She proceeded to move me into position, shaping my arms and tilting my head.

  “B
ut, I don’t want to be a model, and I don’t think that Dante will approve of me doing anything other than slaving away at the technique he is trying to teach me.”

  She waved my protest away. “It’s the least you can do after receiving such preferential treatment from Dante. Now stay put.” She sat down and picked up her pencils.

  “Preferential?” I tried not to snort, but remained still. “He made it clear on my first day that he was going to ignore my title. And believe me, he’s done a good job of it.”

  Her face was swathed in disbelief. “He may have said that, but I don’t believe for a moment that he believes it. You have received more one-on-one instruction than anyone else who has been here.”

  “That can’t be true. He walks away from at least half of our sessions because he gets frustrated with me. Yesterday he told me quite clearly that I was not worth his time.” I lowered my voice, though I held the pose she had insisted on. “I just hope that he changes his mind and is willing to teach me. Perhaps he’ll kick me out altogether.”

  “Unlikely. Dante doesn’t make those decisions. If the master has asked him to teach you, he will.”

  “And when will I get a chance to work with the master?”

  “It depends. Several of the gents told me that he looked at their work after three or four weeks. I’ve been here for more than six, and he hasn’t taken me on.”

  “He really does not like women, does he?”

  “It’s not that. I think it has more to do with Dante taking longer to make the recommendation. Because Dante does like women.”

  I broke my pose to look at her. “What do you mean by that? Are you saying he is a philanderer?”

  “Not at all.” She walked over and repositioned me, this time leaning against a column. “Being apprenticed to Master Sterrino doesn’t give him much free time to socialize. I think he enjoys the novelty of associating with us.”

  “He certainly does not enjoy associating with me.”

  A smile bloomed on her lips that clearly said she knew more than I did. “We shall see,” was her too sweet reply.

  The conversation left me so baffled that I let her draw me in two more positions before I escaped my thoughts enough to protest. “One of those will have to be good enough. I really do have to work.”

  She gave me a wave of thanks and began flipping through the drawings.

  I rocked back when I got to my space and found Dante sitting on my stool.

  “I suppose you think you don’t need my guidance?” He said without turning toward me.

  “I—”

  He stood, cutting me off. “Otherwise, I would expect to find you working instead of gossiping with the other ladies. So, Princess, if that is the case, then I am certain you will have no trouble painting a simple landscape to demonstrate aerial perspective.” He gestured in an exaggerated fashion toward my stool. “Do sit.”

  My neck burned with humiliation, but I shoved down the rock of humility in my throat and sat.

  “Now, I expect you to sit here until you’ve done as I asked.” He shoved a brush into my hand. “Or so help me, I will send you back to your palace and someone else can coddle you, because I won’t do it any longer.” He walked away.

  I was hurt by his horrid treatment. I wanted with everything inside of me to be able to do what he asked, to prove that I was competent and worth the effort, that I didn’t need to be babied. But I didn’t know what he meant—another gap in my education. If I made the attempt it would almost certainly not be what he intended. I could waste my time on something he would fling aside, or I could incite his wrath now and plead for more direction.

  I looked to West, who raised his eyebrows then proceeded to massage his knuckles while tipping his head toward Dante. Ah, yes. His proposed sparring match. I was able to smile a little at his feigned threat as his words about humility came back to me. It gave me the courage I needed to let go of my pride and ask for help.

  I closed my eyes, breathing in to brace against Dante’s criticism. “I don’t know how.” I winced at how pathetic I sounded.

  “What was that?” Dante asked from halfway down the gallery. He sounded surprised, but not annoyed.

  I lifted my eyes and turned to look at him. “I don’t know how to do what you ask. I don’t understand what you mean.”

  His brow was skeptical, but he remained quiet.

  “Could you explain further? Or demonstrate it for me?” I tried to ignore the embarrassing tremor in my voice.

  His eyes lightened, losing their angry glint, and he let out a short, breathy laugh. Then he slowly walked back toward me. “I was beginning to fear that I would never see the day.”

  “What day?” His abrupt change in attitude left me off balance.

  “The day you would admit you didn’t know everything and ask for help.”

  That was it? No anger or lecture?

  He returned to my side, the tension and anger gone from his body and expression. He looked relieved, as if he could finally relax. He pulled up a stool and sat, turning to look at me.

  “Shall we begin then?”

  I wondered why he had felt the need to provoke me, but decided it didn’t matter. He was not smiling by any means, but his chin had lost its haughty tilt and his voice had lost its condescension. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, so I merely nodded. If he was willing to start anew, then so was I. However, I couldn’t help being on my guard. His change was so entirely abrupt that I didn’t trust it yet.

  I listened carefully as he retaught the process of dead-coloring, then went on to explain aerial perspective. I selected one of my old landscapes to take home with me and practice on. As I was rolling it up, Dante gave me a nod of farewell and left.

  I puzzled over his change in demeanor as I returned to the Brooks’ home. Was he truly sincere in saying that he had only wanted me to admit my own ignorance? I didn’t know how I felt about such a thing. Was it his way of making me feel less than he was? Or was it really about teaching me?

  I came to the villa the next day on my guard, nearly convinced that Dante was going to return to his harsh, exacting ways. Instead, our short interaction was pleasant. He was patient as I tried to dead-color once again, and I reminded myself to ask questions and really listen.

  As we finished, he stopped before walking away. “I assume you’ll be attending the master’s exhibition tonight?”

  I was taken aback, since he usually focused solely on our lessons. “Yes, of course. Lady Brook is practically beside herself at the prospect of bringing me. I look forward to being able to study his works,” I admitted. Then, since he was being so polite, I decided to inquire, “Do you know if any other artists will be exhibiting?”

  “Some of the more advanced students will have a piece or two on display. I will have a small collection as well.”

  Interesting. “Why is it that I have never seen any of your work?”

  “I try to keep my tutoring separate from my own studio time.” He gave another odd shuffle before raising a hand in farewell. “I look forward to seeing you there,” he said as he retreated.

  I kept my smile to myself, encouraged in my hope that our relationship from now on might be cooperative instead of antagonistic. I would need to be extra cautious this evening and avoid saying anything that might be construed as insulting.

  Walking home, I noticed that West’s hands still held whatever project he had been working on the last two days. “What is that?” I pointed to his hands.

  “Just a bit of leather,” he said, sliding it into the pocket of his jacket.

  “What is it going to be when you’ve finished?”

  He looked over at me, then ahead. He seemed unsure of whether he wanted to answer, which only increased my curiosity. Finally, he cleared his throat, answering with his eyed fixed on the ground. “A sheath.”

  “For a knife?”

  He nodded.

  “May I see it?”

  He reached into his pocket, retrieving the sheath and hol
ding it for a moment before passing it into my hands. The piece was obviously not finished—the stitching was only half done—but it was sturdy and had some interesting details marked into the leather.

  My brow furrowed. “Do you have tools with you?”

  “No. I don’t do any of the details when I’m in your service. Mostly I keep it in hand, kneading it so that it becomes more malleable. It’s merely something to keep my hands busy.”

  Ah. That made more sense. “Have you made many of these?”

  “A few.”

  “Being modest?”

  He gave me a look as if he wondered where I was going with my line of questioning. “They’re nothing to write home about.”

  “Have you been writing home? I hope you haven’t been neglecting to keep in touch with your parents.”

  He smiled, which was a relief. “They’re doing well. Mother actually seems to be improving somewhat.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear it. That must be a relief.”

  “It is.” He held his hand out and I gave back the leather sheath. “Your time with Dante seemed to go better today.”

  “Yes, it was…odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “His change was so abrupt, and I’d gotten used to his confrontational attitude, so to have him being nice was disconcerting. I’m grateful for it, but it’s difficult to believe it will last.”

  “And you’ll be returning tonight?”

  “Yes.” I thought through what I would need to do and wear. I would attend with the Brooks, and of course one of my guards would come. “I suppose Stephen will accompany me since you’ve spent the day looking out for me.”

  He gave a shrug. “We’ll need to discuss it further. Perhaps both of us will need to attend.”

  I didn’t mind the idea. Having West around tended to put me at ease. Somewhere along the way he had become my ally.

  Chapter Eight

  AS I SAT in front of my mirror, allowing Sarah to pin and twist my hair to her heart’s content, I wondered what it would be like to meet many of my fellow artists in a formal setting. The idea had me quite intrigued, and by the time I’d donned a peacock blue gown with gold embroidery embellishing the bodice, I was more excited to attend this event than I had been in…years.