The Artist’s Masquerade

by Antonia Aquilante

  He couldn’t imagine that would be so in Tournai’s royal palace. And with no crowds to blend into, slipping out of the palace unseen would be all but impossible. His new life was not going to begin tonight. He wasn’t sure when it would begin, and the longer he stayed, the higher the probability of someone finding out his secret, finding out about him and sending him home.

  He wanted to hit something. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, and he hadn’t done that in years.

  When the bedroom door opened behind him, he whirled around and stumbled as the skirts of his gown wrapped around his legs. He bit back a curse. He was supposed to be done with women’s clothes, but there he was, still in a dress.

  He glared at Velia, whose face was lit with amusement she wasn’t even trying to hide. “Don’t say a word,” he snapped.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Right. What are you doing just walking in here anyway? Do you want to kill me? I didn’t know who was coming in, and I don’t need that extra worry, Velia.”

  “You’re still dressed, so I don’t see what the problem is.” She shrugged that unconcerned shrug Flavian was beginning to utterly despise. “We’ll find the keys to the door, and I’ll instruct the servants that you prefer privacy and to only come when you call for them. And that you don’t need help dressing.”

  He doubted it would help. He’d already had to order a maid out who had insisted she unpack for him. He didn’t need the girl finding men’s clothes under the gowns in his trunk. He would have to find a place to hide his normal clothes while he stayed in the palace so the servants didn’t stumble upon them. “Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? I would rather not draw more attention to myself and risk someone realizing something is off.”

  “It won’t be suspicious. Some people like privacy, and you’re supposed to be from a less well-off noble family,” Velia said. “A lady like that probably wouldn’t be accustomed to being waited on constantly.”

  He supposed that made sense. Hopefully, everyone else would see it that way, and Velia’s instructions would go unremarked upon for however long he had to stay. “I have to figure out how to get out of here, Velia.”

  “We will. We’ll get you out of here.”

  “As soon as possible. The longer I’m here, the more likely it is that someone will discover what I’m hiding. No one can find out, especially not your aunt and uncle. They’ll haul me back.”

  “Do you think I want people to find out who you really are? I don’t want anything to happen to you, and it wouldn’t do me any good for my betrothed to find out I shared a ship’s cabin with a man for weeks.”

  He wondered if his disguise’s potential effect on her was really what motivated Velia to help him, but then he chided himself for being cynical. Velia was his friend. She had done so much for him. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to make sure it didn’t hurt her either. “So for both of us, let’s figure out how to accomplish this quickly.”

  Velia nodded. “That would be best. Now, for the reason I came in here.”

  “Planning how to get me out of here wasn’t the reason?” What could be more important than that?

  “No. We have more immediate concerns today.”

  He couldn’t find words, but his face must have adequately expressed his incredulousness because Velia elaborated. “We’re not going to manage to get you out of here tonight, you know that. So we need to deal with tonight.”

  He sighed. He did know that, as much as he hated it. “What is tonight?”

  “Tonight, we’re dining with Lord Cathal and his family, including the prince and his consort.”

  “No.” He said it almost before Velia finished speaking, because he could not have dinner with the royal family. “I can’t. I won’t. I’ll just stay here—”

  “You can’t stay here, Flavian,” Velia interrupted, her voice almost stern. “You are a guest of the crown prince of Tournai. It would be rude and reflect poorly on me, my family, and Ardunn if you don’t attend the dinner.”

  “I don’t care how it reflects on Ardunn. Just tell them I’m ill. That’s what we would have done if we’d taken a house in the city. You didn’t think there would be a problem then.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have been a guest of the prince in the palace, but you are now. You cannot stay in this room.”

  “I have to, Velia. It’s stupidly dangerous for me to go to this dinner.” He propped his hands on his hips and stared at Velia, trying to will her to understand what he was saying. “I’m not actually a woman. I do not know how to act like a woman. I do not look right in a woman’s clothing. The more time I spend around people looking like this, the greater the chance that someone will see through the disguise. It is too risky.”

  “No one has seen through the disguise so far. Uncle Willem and Aunt Zelina don’t suspect a thing. There is no reason to think that anyone else will either.” She gestured at him, encompassing his current attire. “I know you hate to hear it, but you look like a woman in that gown with that hair and the cosmetics. Keep doing that and be careful what you say, and you’ll keep looking like a woman. But you have to go.”

  He managed to keep his reaction to her saying he looked like a woman down to a narrowing of eyes. “Too many people seeing me is a bad idea. What will you tell them when I disappear? And what if someone recognizes me after I’m back to being me?”

  “When are you even going to see any of the royal family of Tournai after you leave here?”

  He felt the insult like a slap and couldn’t keep a sharp edge from his words as a result. “I’m an artist, Velia. I will make a living as an artist, and successful artists have rich, noble—even royal—patrons. If I stay in Tournai and have any measure of success, I can expect to see some of these people again. And don’t you dare say a word about my not being successful. I am a talented artist.”

  “I know you are.” Velia looked contrite, which mollified him somewhat. “And you will be a successful artist, but that’s in the future. Right now, I need you to do this.”

  And he’d thought he was getting through to her. But Velia was only thinking of herself, not how what happened would affect him and his future, the life he was trying to build. He wasn’t being entirely fair thinking ill of her, and he knew it, because Velia had helped him despite the risk to herself. He couldn’t just think of himself either, but he wasn’t ready to give in. “And I’m telling you I can’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have to, because we’re guests of the royal family.” She shook her head before he could speak again. “They’ll only send a healer if we say you’re ill. We’re their guests.”

  He bit back a curse. She was right. The prince would send a healer; it would be rude of him not to and rude of them to refuse. And he wouldn’t be able to fool a healer of any skill that he was sick—or that he was a woman. He would have to go and hope that no one saw through his disguise or would recognize him later as himself.

  Perhaps it would be all right. All the attention should be on Velia.

  And why did he think he was fooling himself?

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Now, we need to find you something to wear.” Velia didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps ignored, how grudging his agreement was and bustled over to his trunk. “Why haven’t these gowns been unpacked? Everything is going to be wrinkled beyond repair.”

  He ignored her glare as easily as she ignored his. “Well, I couldn’t exactly allow the maids to unpack with what else is in there.”

  “You could have unpacked it yourself.” She began pulling out gowns and shaking them. He rolled his eyes, not that she could see him, bent over his trunk as she was. “Let’s see what you have. I didn’t expect for you to have dinner with royalty when I ordered the clothes for you. And you can’t borrow something. Mine wouldn’t fit you.”

  Maybe lack of proper attire would save him from attending the dinner. But he doubted he was that lucky. He hadn’t had any kind of good luck since they la
nded in Tournai.

  “Here. This may work. I don’t think it’s too wrinkled either. The maids may be able to neaten it up.” She held up a cerulean silk gown, cocking her head to the side as she studied it. “Yes, I think this will do. Just make sure you don’t trip over the skirt in front of anyone.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her and glared.

  Flavian still felt like glaring a few hours later as he trailed behind Velia through the palace corridors. He’d bathed behind two locked doors and dressed in the cerulean gown, which the maids had managed to smooth to Velia’s satisfaction. Velia had taken time from her own preparations to help him into the gown and to make sure his hair and cosmetics were properly applied. She had hurried back to her own bedchamber to dress once she was satisfied with his appearance.

  At least one of them was satisfied.

  But he was trapped, for the moment at least. As he followed behind Velia, who was on her uncle’s arm, he tried to distract himself by looking around. Perhaps if he immersed himself in the paintings and sculptures lining the corridor, he would feel less like screaming when they arrived in the prince’s presence. The art was interesting and impressive, but he didn’t have the time to study it if he was to keep up with Velia and her family. And no one, except Flavian, would be happy if he fell behind or disappeared entirely to study the art.

  Velia glanced back, as if checking whether he was there. As if he were a child who would wander off. Despite his momentary thought about how nice it would be to just walk around looking at paintings, he wouldn’t have done it. He bit back a comment; he didn’t want to draw Velia’s uncle’s attention. He had done his best to avoid the duke on the voyage to Tournai, and he would have to continue to do so.

  After several twists and turns he barely kept track of, they arrived at their destination and were shown into a fairly small room. Despite the dais and two thrones on one end of the room, Flavian assumed there was a more formal throne room or audience chamber somewhere. The room, though richly appointed with velvet and silk curtains at the large windows, thick, patterned rugs on the polished marble floor, and paintings hanging on the walls, was too small and too informal to be the official throne room. But it was an impressive and wholly appropriate room for Velia and her family to meet the prince and his consort.

  A small crowd of people was already in the room. The princess was seated on a small chair placed next to the unoccupied thrones, Cathal standing next to her. A man who resembled Cathal so much he had to be his brother stood on the other side of the thrones. Everyone else gathered in front of the dais. Flavian saw Cathal’s father immediately. The duke wasn’t an overly large man, but he seemed to take up an inordinate amount of space through sheer presence. The woman next to him was probably his wife, and Flavian could only assume that the men and women clustered around them were probably their other children, since they all resembled each other to some degree.

  Flavian’s conclusion was borne out when the duke welcomed them into the room and introduced the assembled family—his wife Helena, their sons, Vrai and Etan, their daughters, Isaline, Ottilie, and Meriall, and the eldest girl’s husband. He was still talking, a long-winded, rather flowery speech, when the doors opened again and two men stepped inside. Everyone sank into bows and curtsies. Flavian’s curtsy was wobbly, but he didn’t fall. He did, however, see a look on the duke’s face that might have been disgruntlement, but Flavian had to have been mistaken. Why would the prince’s uncle look like that at the arrival of his nephew?

  The prince and his consort made their way directly to the dais, walking arm in arm. Flavian swallowed a gasp at the sight. Two men would never walk that way in Ardunn, lovers or not—it was just too dangerous. But in Tournai, the prince and his consort hid nothing. It was shocking but so good to see.

  Everyone stood straight again once Prince Philip Alexander Stefan Mael and Prince Amory were seated, and Flavian got his first good look at the two men. They were young—he had known that—but seeing them sitting there looking so close to his own age was still surprising. The prince was tall and broad-shouldered, not as muscular perhaps as his cousin, Cathal, but still a well-built man, and an extremely handsome one. His consort was a little shorter and slender but just as handsome, though in a different way. If a man could be called beautiful, Prince Amory, with his head of auburn curls and large dark eyes, would be. They looked like princes from a tale, but that wasn’t why Flavian couldn’t look away. It was how they were with each other, how they seemed to lean into each other despite sitting separately, how their hands met and clasped between them. Their marriage was a love match, and though Flavian had known that too, seeing it was something else entirely.

  And seeing it made him want. He stamped down that urge quickly.

  The prince nodded at his uncle, and the duke stepped forward. “Your Highness, allow me to present my son’s betrothed, Lady Velia, just arrived from Ardunn.”

  Flavian thought it odd that the duke didn’t address both the prince and his consort in his introduction, but perhaps it was the custom. He would have to learn. Flavian hadn’t expected to find himself in the palace the day of his arrival, so he hadn’t bothered studying these protocols of Tournai. He’d thought he’d have more time.

  As he watched, Velia gracefully greeted the prince and his consort and even spoke a few words to Princess Elodie, acquitting herself perfectly as always. Velia’s uncle and aunt also were smooth and practiced in their conversation to the royal couple when they were presented. From what Velia had told Flavian, her uncle and aunt were favorites at the emperor’s court, an accomplishment that would mean mastery of courtly graces.

  He was so engrossed in his musings that he nearly jumped when the duke said his name, or, rather, introduced Lady Flavia. He could not start thinking of Flavia as his name. It was not his name, and he wouldn’t be called it for much longer if he had anything to say about it.

  He needed no prompting to drop into another curtsy, and he did his best to keep it from looking as awkward as it felt. How did women do it, especially in these clothes and shoes?

  “Welcome to Tournai, Lady Flavia,” Prince Philip said.

  “Thank you, Your Highnesses,” Flavian responded in a murmur. He’d barely spoken above a whisper in weeks, it seemed, as he tried to disguise his voice. It was more difficult than he’d thought it would be, and he still didn’t understand how everyone didn’t realize he spoke with a man’s voice anyway. Which was why he spoke as little as possible.

  Thankfully, the princes let him fade back into the group after their greetings. He tried to move into the background. Velia and her uncle and aunt were and should be the center of the princes’ attention, with Cathal’s father doing his best to control conversation. Flavian wondered about him. There was a strong resemblance to his sons in his facial features, but the duke’s expression was set in rigid lines even as he spoke in the practiced way of the courtier. Flavian wondered briefly what he would see if he painted the duke, but he shook that notion off, repressing a shudder. He did not paint portraits.

  He lifted a hand to tug at the scratchy lace at the high neck of his gown but lowered his hand back to his side as soon as he realized what he was doing. A lady wouldn’t pull at her clothes, at least not in public. Perhaps in private. Princess Elodie was sitting still and serene. Her hands gestured gracefully as she spoke, but they didn’t fuss with her gown or hair. His gaze slid over the young princess to Cathal, still at her side. Cathal, who was looking at Flavian.

  Flavian froze under that gold gaze, so intense. He found himself staring back at Cathal, helpless to look anywhere except those eyes, and he had no idea why. His hands clenched into fists hidden by the skirt of his gown. He wanted to look away; he had to look away. He didn’t understand, had never felt a compulsion like it before. It was bizarre and he didn’t like it, and he needed to stop before Cathal looked too closely at him and realized things Flavian didn’t need him to know.

  Why was Cathal looking at him anyway?

&n
bsp; Abruptly, Cathal looked away, toward Princess Elodie, who must have said something to him, and Flavian dropped his gaze as well. He focused on the floor with its intricate pattern of many-colored marble and the hem of his skirt just brushing the smooth surface. His skirt. Why was he in this situation? And why had Cathal been staring at him?

  Before Flavian could contemplate those questions, the party moved into another room for dinner. Again, Flavian surmised that there had to be a larger dining room somewhere in the palace for court functions. The dining room was done in pleasing shades of green and gold with painted landscape scenes, which he assumed were Tournai, on the walls. Wide windows looked out over what he thought was a garden, but the deepening twilight made discerning details difficult.

  In the center of the room, a long table, polished to a gleam, was set with delicate plates and crystal, but the true focal point was the chandelier hanging above the table. It was a fantasy of intricate glasswork, mostly in greens that matched the room, but with complements of yellow and purple and pink. The longer he looked at it, the more he could pick out—delicate glass shapes resolving themselves into stems and leaves, buds and flowers, even a dainty bird peeking out here and there.

  He smiled just looking at it, not only because the fanciful design was, at its heart, happy, and it was the first glimpse of happy he’d had in quite a while, but also because the chandelier was art. As much as the paintings on the walls, and he had never been one to be interested in anything other than paintings. Maybe the occasional sculpture, but mostly paintings—they were the height of artistic endeavor to him. That chandelier was an incredible work of art, though, and he knew it. The craftsmanship that had gone into it from design through the shaping of the glass… even his painterly mindset admired it.

  “Do you like the chandelier, Lady Flavia?”

  He nearly jumped out of his chair at the unexpected voice. While he’d admired the room, they all had been seated at the table, and servants had begun serving the meal. Flavian had let the conversation flow around him while he studied the paintings he could see without twisting around and the chandelier above them, and hoped the conversation would continue to pass him by for the entire meal. No such luck.