Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4) Page 11

  West and a footman came down the stairs and passed by the door with their arms laden with paintings, but I tried to ignore them. I would think about Master Sterrino scrutinizing each of my paintings—and how his opinion would shape my future—later, or perhaps never.

  My attempts at being attentive weren’t enough to fool Lady Brook. After barely half an hour she commented that I looked worn out and suggested I head upstairs to rest my eyes.

  I didn’t quibble about it, merely thanked her and did my best not to trudge up the steps. The moment I entered my room, my eyes were drawn to the wardrobe where my less professional paintings were hidden.

  Or at least, they had been hidden there. Now the wardrobe doors stood open and I knew. I knew without having to look that they were gone, that somehow West had known where to find them and had taken them along with the rest for Master Sterrino to scrutinize. I crossed to the open doors and pushed aside the dresses just to be sure, hoping that I was wrong.

  Of course, I wasn’t. They were gone.

  I had to fix this.

  Suddenly energized, I flew down the stairs, running for the front door and barely giving the footman time to open it before I slipped through and hurried down the front steps. I fumbled with the front gate but before I could get it open, a pair of large hands covered mine, preventing me from conquering the latch.

  I pulled my hands back automatically and looked up at West, who stood on the other side of the gate, the footman behind him, looking alert and nervous.

  “Are you well, Princess?”

  “You took my paintings! You have to get them back!”

  West made quick work of the latch, but prevented me from escaping down the road. “You asked us to deliver—”

  “Not the ones in the wardrobe!” I insisted as my mind cast about for a solution. “Those paintings are mine and mine alone. They aren’t for anyone else, especially not that man.”

  “Princess!” Stephen called, and I turned to see him hurrying down the front steps.

  West took my arm and steered me toward the front door. “Were you about to leave the property by yourself?” He looked stern and almost angry.

  “That’s not the point!”

  “It is the point.” He ushered me up the steps and pushed his way through the door. “Your father put rules in place, and it is our duty to ensure that we all follow them so that you won’t be in danger.”

  “You’re afraid someone is going to abduct me?” I scoffed as he directed me into the empty front parlor while Stephen closed the front door and stayed by it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous.” He released my arm and turned to face me head on. “And it’s not merely about someone with ill intentions. People love you. They want to be around you. Crowds of admirers can get out of hand very quickly.”

  “No one cares a fig about me. I’m not one of the beloved princesses. We’ve established that already. I’m the one everyone puts up with.”

  “I respectfully disagree.”

  My jaw worked back and forth as I tried to give a reasonable answer. “My habits and mannerisms may not be as off-putting as they were before, but we both know I’m far from what I should be. You’ve never lied to me before, West. Don’t start now.”

  “It’s not a lie.” His eyes were sincere, his tone calm. He was telling the truth.

  I shook my head to clear it. I didn’t have time to worry about that right now. “Why did you take the paintings?”

  A mere flash of guilt crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant. “Because they’re your best work.”

  That exaggeration wasn’t even worth acknowledging. “Get them back.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Find a way!” I demanded.

  “Master Sterrino was there when we arrived. We left the paintings in his care. He’s looking over them now.”

  I shook my head, mortified. “Why? Why would you do that? You had to have known that I didn’t want to share those with anyone. They’ve been hidden away since the moment I finished painting them. They are mine.”

  “They’re honest and emotional. Why would you not want to share them?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Since when have you known me to be an emotionally demonstrative person?”

  “Since the day I met you.”

  I pulled my chin back. His answer so surprised me that I was left without words.

  “You may not be giggling and crying every other day, but your feelings are not quite as difficult to discern as you may have hoped.”

  Panic heaved into my throat as I clung to a desperate hope that my feelings for him had at least been less obvious.

  “You try to pass off sternness as apathy, when really you’re simply trying not to let anyone in.”

  I refused to consider how right he was. “I let you in.”

  “Then why not allow others to see who you are?”

  “I don’t even know if I want to be here anymore,” I muttered at the ground. “From what I’ve seen, Master Sterrino is not the sort of person I wish to emulate.”

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding.” He tipped his head down to catch my eye. “I certainly had no wish to make you uncomfortable. I merely hope you won’t leave before giving him a second chance.”

  I forced myself to breathe deep and consider what I really wanted. I had serious reservations about working with a man like Sterrino, but at the same time, that had been our only interaction. “No,” I concluded, “I won’t go. I’ve come too far to let him scare me away after one horrid encounter.”

  He gave me an encouraging smile and we parted ways. I was satisfied with my decision to stay, but horribly wary of what the morrow might bring.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  My stomach was in knots for the rest of the evening, through the night and into the morning. I was overly warm and felt as if I might be ill as we walked down the lane and headed toward Sterrino’s villa. My hands were clutched together so tightly that my fingers ached, and my shoulders felt frozen in place.

  Master Sterrino had studied my paintings last evening, likely looking over every canvas, scrutinizing every detail, seeing every flaw I had ever noticed and the many I was too much of a novice to recognize. Would he tell me himself what he thought of my work? Would I discover right away his verdict, or would I be forced to go about my studies as if this day weren’t one of the most significant of my life? Perhaps he would say nothing at all and continue to let me languish with Dante as an instructor, leaving me to assume that my work was not even worth his acknowledgement. Part of me wished for exactly that, but the other part of me, the part that still strived to perfect my craft, wanted to know exactly what he thought. Even if he insisted on being rude and dismissive, I couldn’t ignore the brilliance of his work. I may not respect him as a person, but I admired him as an artist.

  I had no idea what he thought of the painting I’d done for him yesterday. Yes, he had asked to see my other work, but I was certain that had more to do with my display of unbridled emotion than anything else.

  Stephen bade us farewell as we arrived, and West and I stepped inside. The moment I entered, Carolyn approached, peeling me out of my cloak before West had closed the door behind us. “Good, you’re here. He’s waiting for you.”

  “He?” I asked in alarm. “He, who?”

  “The master, of course.” She hung up my cloak and beckoned me after her as she bustled down the corridor. “Follow me.”

  The master? Waiting for me the moment I arrived? I wasn’t prepared for such an encounter. My feet stuck to the floor as I watched Carolyn hurry away. It wasn’t until I felt West’s hand at my lower back, urging me into motion, that I was able to unlock my limbs and move forward.

  I followed on stiff knees, trepidation quivering in my chest. The moment I entered Master Sterrino’s workspace, I heard my own breath whoosh out of my lungs. Every painting I had ever created was displayed in a large semi-circle, each on its own easel.

  I f
elt stripped bare, exposed, vulnerable and trembling. All of the pieces I was most proud of were on the periphery, shunted out of the way, while the paintings that had been torn from my fingers, born of the ragged wound still aching from Tobias’s death, as well as the deeper ache caused by years of pulling away from my family and trying to be perfect, were all prominently displayed.

  The master stood in the middle, his hands clutched behind his back, staring at the piece that was the most painful for me to look at. The view was cropped close, showing only the prone torso of a man, the shirt and jacket blood-soaked, the edge of a letter barely peeking out from the jacket pocket.

  “You paint death, Lorraina.” His words snapped me from my horrified examination.

  I sucked down my emotion, trying to muster a response.

  “You paint isolation and loneliness. I had begun to despair of you ever producing something with a spark of brilliance. Your landscapes are well done, lovely, but I didn’t think you capable of more.” He still had his back to me as I fought down my anxiety. “You surprised me yesterday. The painting you did for me was broken and ugly, and I was pleased to see that you at least have the capacity to paint a range of emotions. But I admit I was not prepared for what I found in your collection.” He moved to the side, reaching his hand toward the next painting, the one of the girl with eyes cast toward heaven. He ran his finger along her cheek. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

  He fell silent and I didn’t know if he was dismissing me or waiting for a response. I stood, breathing through the shock of having my secrets strewn about the room. They had been set free and I could not call them back, could not hide them away again as I had for so long.

  Yet he was praising them, impressed with the haunting truths I had painted. I hated that he liked them, but felt vindicated as well. Those paintings had each played a part in helping me to move on from who I used to be.

  “Might I suggest that you take the day to paint another truth.” He turned to face me finally, his eyes rimmed in red. The condescension was gone, replaced by a sincerity that made me rock back.

  Was this the same man who had insulted and provoked me the day before? Had his mockery been an act? Or was this supposed understanding the lie? I didn’t know what to make of him and considered simply leaving and doing as he asked. However, he claimed to want honesty, and if there was anything I was good at, it was speaking my mind.

  “Might I be honest, sir?” My voice shook.

  He nodded.

  “I appreciate that you seem to understand my work, especially my darker works, but I must say I do not agree with your tactics.” I was still trembling, but determined to at least focus my disquiet and get some answers.

  “Oh?”

  “You seem to think that I have some sort of dark, roiling secret that I need to let out in order to be honest. You are trying to force me to face something that I’ve already dealt with. I don’t believe I need to be angry or in pain to paint with honesty.”

  His face was curious as he swept a hand toward my paintings. “And yet, your more painful works obviously mean the most to you. You were clearly dealing with loss, loneliness, maybe even feelings of isolation at the time, and I would also venture a guess that these paintings played a large part in helping you overcome those feelings.”

  “Yes, but they were born of genuine emotion, not emotion wrung out of me by someone else’s provocation.”

  He sighed, perhaps bored of the conversation, perhaps frustrated that I didn’t see things the way that he did. “I don’t expect you to paint well only when you are in a rage or a depression. But I think now that you have let down your guard, you might be able to access a much broader spectrum of your own brilliance more easily.”

  I chewed that over for a moment, acknowledging that it was likely true. “Do you plan on teaching me any technique at all?”

  “Of course, but artistry is much more easily accomplished when we have both the skill and the point of view, and can utilize them together.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, so I nodded and backed toward the door, reluctant to turn my back on him. He watched me retreat, his eyes unwavering until I turned and left the room, the sound of my heels sharp against the stone floor.

  I walked on numb legs up the staircase, past my fellow students, until I reached my work area. Sitting on the stool there, I thought through all that he had said, all that he had seen in my work and all that I saw in it. There was no doubt he had jumped to conclusions about me, and even less doubt that his methods were flawed. However, I could see a great deal of truth in his observations. The paintings I had done in private and held the closest were the ones that had allowed me to sift through my feelings and invite healing. Many of them lacked discipline, but perhaps now I could use the distance I had from my pain, as well as the discipline I had gained, to create something I could be proud to show anyone.

  I stood, anxious to start, and grabbed for my supplies in a determined hurry, setting out the things I would need. The rhythm of my breathing became a metronome for the composition I created. I allowed it to ground me, while at the same time willing myself to let the memories in, to enable them to inspire me but not overtake me.

  I was determined to paint truth, the truth that I knew, not the truth that anyone else tried to assign to my name.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE COLORS WERE starting to blur as my eyes became too tired to focus properly. I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting here, staring at what I’d created, but I knew my face was wet with tears, the first I had shed since the day Tobias died.

  My hands were covered in paint and I still clutched a brush between my fingers. I hadn’t put on an apron before I’d started. My dress was likely ruined—again. And still I sat there, staring into my own eyes from where they stood out on the canvas. I had never painted a self-portrait before. The canvas held an image of me walking through a field, the landscape spread out behind me. To the left, darkness consumed the scene and the hard lines of dead trees reached for me. My painted figure was in the midst of fleeing the darkness, my fearful eyes cast over my shoulder even though my hands strained to reach for the light. The right half of the scene brightened, softened and came alive with blossoming trees and radiant sunlight.

  I hadn’t realized until I sat back to look at it that what I really wanted to portray was the fault that I accepted for the path of my life. This painting was my way of admitting my guilt, while also claiming my innocence. It had been my choice to seclude myself, to stay away from the light I craved. I owned blame for many things, but Tobias’s death wasn’t one of them.

  Someone stepped in front of me, blocking the view of my painting. I recognized the royal insignia of his belt.

  West.

  I didn’t lift my eyes to his face, having nothing to say. He sank into a crouch so that his gaze fell into my line of sight. His brow was pulled down in concern as he searched my eyes. “The sun will be setting soon,” he said.

  I nodded without blinking. He studied my face for a moment more before turning to look over his shoulder at the painting, and then back at me. “You’ve never painted yourself before.”

  I looked at him, unable to voice a response.

  He reached up, brushing his thumb over the tear there. “Who do you cry for?”

  “You know how selfish I am.” My voice came as a bare whisper. “So it shouldn’t come as any surprise that I cry for myself.”

  “I don’t believe that’s selfish.”

  “You should.” I didn’t know why I said it. Perhaps I was hoping to scare him away and regain my solitude. Perhaps I hoped that he would condemn me in the same way I condemned myself.

  His eyes dove into mine, searching for something. Finally he spoke, his question bold. “Are you ever angry with him?”

  I didn’t have to ask to whom he referred. Several more tears streaked down my face. “More often than I ought.”

  He clenched his jaw, but nodded his head. “Good. Be
cause it makes me angry to see him still hurting you.”

  “I carry plenty of the blame.”

  “More than you should.”

  I wanted to argue with him, but his insistence made a different sort of emotion well up to clog my throat.

  “Why did you paint yourself facing the darkness?”

  I shook my head, lifting my shoulders. “Because—” The answer hit me with sudden clarity— “I fear I’ll never be able to escape it fully.”

  “Did it help to paint it?”

  I stared past him, at the way my hand grasped for the light while a branch snagged my skirt, holding me back. “It helps to know how I see myself.”

  Something tugged at my hand and I looked down to see West trying to free my handkerchief from my tight fist. I couldn’t even remember taking it out, but I forced my fingers to relax, allowing him to pull the cloth away. He reached up, and with a shaking hand, dabbed at my tears. “Perhaps now would be a good time to walk away for the evening.”

  The shock of warmth I felt at his tentative touch forced the numbness to retreat. I looked at him, realizing just how close he was, how warm and inviting his eyes were, how much I trusted him. I stared at him, crouched before me, his eyes understanding but holding no pity. He finished drying my tears, then ran his thumb over my cheek, looking distracted and handsome; and suddenly he seemed too far away. I wanted him, to be closer to him, to feel him. Without thinking, I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. He kissed me back immediately, perhaps even hungrily for a moment before gentling his response and then pulling away to look at me, a question curving his brow, a hand resting against the side of my neck.

  Saints, what had I done? I sucked in a breath and pulled back. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered and stood, turning my back before walking away. I cast my eyes about, but no other students remained this late in the day. Crossing to the washbasin, I set about furiously scrubbing my hands, humiliation burning my cheeks, scorching my neck. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t been thinking. I had simply acted because I was sad and lonely and he was my friend. He was sweet and always so kind, and I had wanted—needed—comfort. But at what price? I’d never be able to look West in the face again after such a display.