Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4)

by Annette K. Larsen

  I swallowed. “Thank you.” I waited for him to say something, to explain his following me out here, to excuse himself. Something. Instead, he stared at me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The uncertainty etched in his brow made me want to fall into him again. Instead I excused myself and tried to hurry past him.

  He reached a hand out to stay me. “Please, don’t go. I came to try to make things right between us.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t your fault. Everything is fine.”

  “Everything is not fine.”

  “And how would you make it better?” I challenged. Because I wanted things to be better, to go back to the way they were before. I wanted to have him as a friend, to keep him as a friend. I wanted to go back and erase what had happened so that the burning that was quickly spreading from my heart to my neck to my arms would go away.

  He was silent, merely watching me as the moment stretched and strained, seeking relief.

  Then he took one bold step toward me, cradled my neck with his large hand, and kissed my mouth. It was no mere peck on the lips, but a hungry, desperate exploration of the tension that had been humming between us. An exploration that I happily fell into, though it felt more like a leap than a fall.

  He pushed his other hand around my waist and I raised my arms to embrace him, letting his jacket slip from my shoulders. At the sound of it hitting the ground, something clicked back into place in my mind. What was I doing? This wasn’t going to make anything better. It could only make it worse.

  West must have sensed my newfound hesitance, because he let me go—freeing my mouth from its sweet captivity—and stepped back, looking shaken and uncertain, a mirror of my own emotions.

  “I just thought we should make things even,” he breathed out. “You kissed me, and now I’ve kissed you.”

  “But why?” It didn’t make sense for him to do something so inappropriate merely because I had.

  “Why did I kiss you?”

  I nodded.

  “Because I wished to—I have for some time—and I thought you might as well.” The intensity of his words made it difficult to breathe.

  He wished to? Why would he wish to? I was drawn to him because of his goodness. His consistent caring and his obvious love of his family. What could he see in me? This man had seen me at my worst—many times. There was very little about me that he did not know, and much of it I wasn’t proud of. And even if he hadn’t seen every flaw, every moment of weakness, he was still my guard. Kissing him had been a mistake. His kissing me was quite decidedly against the rules. “You and I,” I fought to find the words, “we’re friends, but that doesn’t mean that there could—or should be…more.” My voice was uncertain.

  He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Because it would be inappropriate? Or because you would consider such a relationship lowering?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that because I honestly wasn’t sure. I certainly used to think such relationships were unsavory, but now…

  “I know you find Kalina and Sir William’s union distasteful.”

  “I did.” But now that I understood them more, it was hard to know what to think, where to draw the line of propriety. “But now, I don’t…I don’t know. It’s different. You’re my guard—our fraternizing would be against the rules.”

  “And you never break the rules.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question. I looked down, unsure of whether or not I should lay claim to that trait. I had been proud of it for so long, but being here where rules were ignored, it was hard to see why I had clung so fiercely to such things. “Some rules need to be adhered to.”

  “Yes. I knew that.” His fingers trailed up and down my arm. “I guess I thought your opinion might have changed of late.” He stepped back. “My apologies.” He bowed and left me standing there in the garden. I wanted to call him back, but was too unsure of myself to do it.

  As he disappeared, the sound of my breathing became harsh and heavy and I began shaking, not from the cool air but from a much deeper cold that penetrated my core.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I TRIED TO go back to the way things were, to ignore my stuttering heart whenever West caught my eye, to forget about the kisses we’d shared—moments that had been more personal than anything else I’d experienced. I compared them with the way Tobias had kissed me. Tobias’s affections had often been about control and manipulation, about his own self-gratification. West had been careful and considerate, controlled instead of controlling.

  Sterrino had stopped by to check on me each day but had yet to sit down and have a true lesson. Today that changed. I was to have my first session with him, and I was determined to take full advantage of the opportunity I had been given.

  I met with the master midmorning. Though he instructed me for less than an hour, there was an intensity about him that left me tired but exhilarated. He again complimented me on my self-portrait, calling it honest and promising, an excellent portrayal of fear.

  He spent the next week pulling out each of my paintings one by one and discussing their merits, as well as their flaws. It was a difficult but very satisfying experience. When he would move on to the next student, I would find ways to recreate certain portions of my painting, while attempting to incorporate his advice.

  I was grateful for the many different flaws in my paintings that I could focus on. It gave me something to obsess over other than my guard who—heaven help me—I could have sworn was getting more handsome by the day.

  I tried not to let my eyes linger, though I did manage to find time to watch from the secrecy of my own window as he and Stephen sparred several times over the next two weeks. I told myself that it was to remind me of the inherent danger of their jobs.

  West continued to do his duty. He followed at a discreet distance and bowed and put himself between me and anyone he saw as a potential threat. But he was quieter, more withdrawn, and he didn’t smile as much. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  Sarah was tightening my laces when she suddenly asked, “Why has West been so sour-faced lately?”

  “Sour-faced?”

  “Certainly you’ve noticed. He is always such a pleasant fellow, always quick with a smile. But lately he seems rather put out. Papa has had quite enough of it, says he’s getting tired of West and his humdrum attitude.”

  “I suppose he has been less congenial lately,” I conceded.

  “You don’t suppose it’s homesickness, do you?” she pondered. “Perhaps worrying for his mother?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him.” It was an underhanded suggestion, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “I’m certain he’ll talk it out with Papa if need be.”

  After I’d eaten, I went to the front door, peering out the window beside it. West and Stephen were waiting there on the front step. They had their backs to me, but I could discern their voices and I very impolitely tried to hear their conversation.

  “Do I need to be pleasant company in order to do my job well?” West asked, a note of irritation tingeing his voice.

  “Not at all,” Stephen answered. “It’s just so unlike you. There isn’t much that’s gotten to you over the years. I suppose I’ve simply taken your good humor for granted.”

  Silence prevailed for several moments, and I was about to open the door and join them when West spoke again.

  “There isn’t much that gets under my skin. Wishing for something that I don’t have is…troublesome.”

  Stephen slapped him on the back. “You’ll sort it out soon enough. Either find a way to get it or learn to do without.”

  West nodded but said nothing further.

  I stepped back, frowning, my thoughts tumbling as I straightened my cloak and stepped out the front door. I greeted my guards, but otherwise stayed quiet, allowing myself to sink into my own thoughts.

  My second week of lessons with Sterrino began with his request that I paint disappointment.

  “Pai
nt disappointment?” I asked, sure I had misheard him.

  “Yes. You painted fear in the portrait of yourself. Now paint a scene of disappointment.”

  “Paint someone in the midst of disappointment?” I clarified.

  “Not necessarily. It could be of anything, but I want you to make the scene hold the feeling of disappointment.”

  “But—”

  “No more questions,” he interrupted. “Sit in the feeling and then paint it.” He left me there and I spent the next hour trying to muster a scene of disappointment, but accomplished very little. As I walked home, I couldn’t help voicing my irritation.

  “Paint disappointment. That’s all he says, paint disappointment. That’s like asking me to paint the rain,” I muttered.

  “What do you mean?” West asked as he walked beside me.

  I cut my eyes over to him and noticed with some annoyance that his stride looked normal, whereas I was practically running.

  He looked down at me. “Artists paint rainy scenes all the time, don’t they?”

  I sighed, frustrated not because he asked me to explain, but because his voice sounded so much colder than usual. It was a frank question, lacking the curious warmth he usually exhibited. “I don’t mean rainy scenes; I mean the rain itself. Paint it into existence…painting the wetness of rain would be like trying to paint the heat of the sun or the smell of a flower. I can paint a person who looks sad or angry or discouraged, but how can I paint sadness or anger itself?”

  “It seemed like you managed to paint fear in your self-portrait.”

  “An expression of fear.”

  “It wasn’t merely your face; the whole left half of the canvas portrayed fear. At least that’s what it felt like to me.”

  I thought on that and Sterrino’s direction started to make more sense.

  When I returned the next day I really tried to do as he’d asked. I tried to feel the disappointment before imagining a scene and managed to produce something by the time he checked in with me.

  Each day he gave me a different emotion to depict. Anger, jealousy, joy, melancholy, hope. Given that I only had one day to work on each scene, they were rough and often unfinished. But he claimed that finishing was not the point. Painting such rudimentary, imperfect scenes was difficult for me, but his reasons for making me do so started to become clear. The colors I chose for each emotion were very different, as were the brushstrokes I used. Instead of painting exactly what I saw, I tried to view it through that emotional filter. The melancholy painting overlooked the ocean from a cliff. A lone woman sat on a bench, her back to the viewer. The sky held gray clouds, the ocean rolled with blue-gray waves. Her dress, shawl and hat were all muted browns and dusty blue. Gray stones made up the bench on which she sat. The only real color was the green of the grass beneath and behind her.

  I was happy with my progress, glad that my paintings really did seem to embody those feelings. Then Sterrino asked me to paint contentment, and my mind went blank. I had felt jealousy. I had felt anger and hope and even joy. Yet for the life of me, I could not imagine a time when I had been content.

  I stared at the empty canvas for what must have been a full half-hour until Master Sterrino came up behind me. “Nothing?” he asked.

  “I—” Yes. Nothing. I had nothing.

  “Think on it further. You are excused for the day.” He left before I could find anything to say.

  Excused? Was he giving up on me? Would he only allow a certain number of blank canvases before he sent me on my way? I didn’t want to leave for the day; I wanted to figure this out. I had decided to do things his way, to embrace what he was trying to teach. I couldn’t just give up on my assignment.

  I dropped my brush and shook out my hands, trying to clear my thoughts, look at it from another angle. I ran my hands over my hair, readjusting pins and tucking stray hairs. I stood up to shake the wrinkles from my dress and sat again.

  Another stool was pulled up beside me. I turned as West took the seat and looked at me in that openly curious, welcoming manner that he had. “I don’t remember ever seeing you unable to work.”

  I blew out a breath. “It’s unusual, and it’s over the silliest thing.” Only it wasn’t silly, it was…sad.

  “What are your instructions?”

  “A scene of contentment.”

  His gaze slid to the empty canvas, then back to me. “After all the emotions he’s given you, why is that so difficult?”

  I looked over at him, with his dark hair pushed back and the corner of his mouth curved up. “You’re a content person, aren’t you?”

  He looked down, considering. “For the most part, yes.”

  “Do you think I am?” I knew the answer, but wanted to know if he would still be honest with me.

  He gave me an understanding smile. “No. I don’t think that comes naturally to you.”

  “I’m not sure it comes to me at all.” My smile was self-deprecating. “That’s the problem. I can imagine what contentment would feel like, but I can’t feel what it would feel like.”

  “You don’t think you’ve ever been content?”

  I shrugged, helpless.

  He studied me, a frown lining his forehead. “I find that hard to believe. I would imagine you’re content much of the time when you’re painting. At least before you came to Faria. Here, I can tell it’s frustrating and difficult. But before, when we would go driving and you’d sit by a river and paint the water. You seemed content then.”

  Thinking back to those times, I tried to decide if he was right.

  “And you’ve certainly painted contentment before.”

  I drew back. “I have?”

  He nodded, but didn’t answer.

  I thought through my many pieces, mentally cataloguing the feeling that best fit each piece. “The mother playing in the water with her little boy.” I saw the scene again in my mind, saw both of their faces. “The baby was more joyful, but the mother…I could never get the mother’s face right.”

  “The mother was content.”

  I tried to recall any other scenes like that one and remembered a boy. I had never painted him, but I had wanted to. I’d wanted to catch his relaxed pose as he fished on the dock.

  I closed my eyes, focusing on that idea, that feeling. “All right.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I breathed deep, trying not to be nervous as I explained. “I’m going to sit here and remember what it felt like to paint out in the open, when it was solely for the sake of painting. I’m going to remember the boy on the dock and the mother looking at her baby.”

  “Good,” was all he said, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

  This was what made West extraordinary. So many people would have stood back and let me figure it out on my own, but he was willing to sit by my side and help me break through my own barriers.

  “You have a talent for that, you know,” I murmured with my eyes still closed.

  “For what?”

  I opened my eyes to look at him. “Helping people understand something without lecturing.”

  He glanced away, scratching the side of his head. “If you say so.”

  His humility was endearing.

  “I’ll let you get to work.” He stood, gave a tiny bow and took his stool with him.

  I let him go with a smile, then closed my eyes and tried to remember what it was like to paint with the breeze in my hair, the scent of water touching my nose. I realized that West and I had just had our first truly friendly conversation since our disastrous kissing episodes. He had felt like a friend again and I hadn’t had the urge to fly apart. In that moment, I think I may have even felt content.

  I picked up my brushes and chose rich but calm colors. I kept the light muted and hazy and added an adolescent boy sitting on the ground with his back against a tree, his fishing pole dipping lazily into the water.

  Several hours later, I sensed the master approaching, but continued my work.

 
“I excused you for the day,” Sterrino said.

  “Yes, you did.” I gave a tentative smile, hoping he would approve of my tenacity. “But you also gave me an assignment.”

  I tried to keep painting, to steady my nerves so that I could keep my brush strokes fluid and confident. He stayed quiet for long enough that I started to perspire, to wonder if he was going to dismiss me again. When I was on the brink of turning and demanding that he say something, he finally spoke.

  “Good girl.” He turned and walked away.

  My shoulders relaxed as I let the air out of my lungs.

  Glancing over at West, I caught his eye as he gave me a half smile. He was once again working a piece of leather in his hands.

  My success had been because of him. I’d been doing my best to ignore him, to salvage the dignity I thought I had lost. He hadn’t let that stop him.

  When it was time for me to leave, I smiled as I cleaned my brushes, my body relaxed even as I worked. Satisfaction with my own work was rare and it made me slightly giddy. It reminded me of an archery competition I’d had with Lylin and Lord Fallon. My skill with a bow was lacking, to say the least, but the thrill of actually hitting the target had made me want to jump up and down. It didn’t matter that the arrow had been in the outermost ring; I’d been proud of what I’d done and had to remind myself that such a display would have been unacceptable.

  I chuckled at the memory as I replaced the brushes and palette where they belonged. I slipped my apron off and hung it on a hook, then turned to lean against the wall. I didn’t want to rush away. I wanted to stay here in this back corner, away from the other painters, surrounded by tools that I knew and understood. I wanted to stand here in my contentment for a few moments more.

  The sigh that escaped my mouth felt good, like it belonged there.

  West approached, his step quiet, his gait steady. My eyes took him in, from the brown of his hair to the shine of his shoes. I had tried so hard to shove him back into a box labeled ‘guard,’ but he was so much more than that.