Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4) Read online

  I thought over the anguish I had suffered when I’d tried to ignore my feelings for West. “If you can manage that, you’ll prove yourself a stronger person than I am.” I let a sad half-smile cross my lips.

  She dropped her head back against the cushion with a groan. I patted her knee, not having any other words to advise or comfort her.

  We both turned back toward our windows. My thoughts were drawn to West and everything that I missed about him—the simple ways he would set me at ease, his ability to make me laugh, his devotion to his duties as well as his friends. I closed my eyes as I remembered the way it felt to simply be near him, feeling his warmth and his strength. My breath shuddered out of me on a wave of missing him and I forced my eyes open, reminding myself that I was supposed to be looking for inspiration in the landscape rushing by.

  I leaned my head against the side of the carriage and admired the scene as we rolled by a crumbling rock wall, an orchard with neat lines of trees, and a stream that cut through a field. The view cut off as we entered some thicker trees, and after a while I spotted a barely discernible track veering off to the left.

  I rapped on the top of the carriage and Stephen brought it to a stop. Jonas came up to the window and I pointed back the way we had come. “There was a track just back there. I would like to follow it and see where it goes.”

  He nodded and relayed the information to Stephen. Though it took some maneuvering, we were able to backtrack and drive down that lane, cutting through the trees for some time before the view opened up. Two hills rose in the distance, butting up against each other as this lonely, almost forgotten track continued ahead, disappearing somewhere between them.

  The carriage halted and I stepped down, my attention entirely arrested by this forgotten road, this lost path. It spoke of a journey made by so few that it would soon be swallowed up by the grass and trees and hills.

  “This is beautiful,” Ingrid commented from behind me.

  I nodded, walking past the horses and ahead twenty paces, stopping in the middle of the path. My fingers weren’t itching to paint, not yet at least. I simply wanted to stand here and look at the path ahead and the empty expanse of green that surrounded it.

  By the time I pulled myself from my reverie, my guards had pulled the easels and supplies from the carriage. Sarah and Ingrid’s maid were setting up stools and easels. Our canvases and paints sat beside them.

  Ingrid had wandered off to my right. One of her arms wrapped around her waist as she stared at the hills, still and contemplative. I pulled off my cloak and set it aside, then lifted the hinged lid of my box to pull out my brushes and apron. I took a piece of charcoal and sketched out the rudimentary outlines of the lonely road.

  Eventually Ingrid joined me, though she turned her attention in a different direction, and we both lost ourselves in our art. I let myself paint quickly, allowing the details to fall by the wayside, getting caught up in the sway of the grass and how to capture it in paint.

  A couple of times I caught sight of Jonas in my periphery and for just a moment, I would think he was West. Then I’d have to remind myself that West was gone and I needed to learn to stop expecting him to be there. Ingrid must have noticed my break in concentration.

  “You know,” she said in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to our maids or either of my guards. “Perhaps if you could confide in me, it wouldn’t be so hard.”

  I straightened my back and tried to sound offhand as I asked, “What wouldn’t be so hard?”

  “Your new guard does a fine job, but you miss the one that left.”

  My brush stilled where it rested against the canvas as I fought an inner battle. I fought against my inclination to appear aloof and unaffected, against my fear that saying it out loud would make it even harder.

  “Why did he go?” she asked.

  My wall crumbled. “He was…trying to give me a chance to find myself.” My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. “He knew what this chance meant to me, and I think he believed that he was getting in the way.”

  “Was he?”

  “I don’t think so. I think my painting was better with him here.”

  “And what about his idea that you need to find yourself? Have you done that?”

  I turned to look at her, surprised that she hadn’t questioned whether or not I needed to find myself. “I…”

  “Have you even been trying?”

  I was at a loss. “I don’t know if I can.”

  She tilted her head, her face curious and concerned. “Perhaps that’s the point. If he really did know what this chance meant to you, then maybe he was trying to give you your best chance to find out what you’re capable of. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to do exactly that? You and I have the privilege of studying under a man who is arguably the best artist in the kingdom.”

  “Why couldn’t I have done that with him here?” A note of aching had seeped into my voice.

  “If you can’t do it on your own, then what’s the point?”

  “Is it a bad thing to be able to depend on someone?” Wasn’t I trying to learn how to let people in?

  She considered for a moment. “Having someone dependable in your life is good, of course. But not being able to function without them…” she looked at me, allowing her words to sink in. “That seems like a bad thing.”

  “I am functioning,” I defended myself, because I was. I’d found my passion again.

  “Then…perhaps you need to learn to thrive without him,” she suggested.

  My heart constricted at the idea, but I couldn’t dismiss it. Yes, I had been working and improving, but was I thriving?

  Her words stayed with me for the rest of the day; they consumed my thoughts as I continued to paint, and I wondered when it was that I had started believing I needed more than just myself to do what I loved. When had I started relying on others to make me feel strong?

  It was so contrary to what I had always striven for. I had always reached for strength, independence and self-mastery. But somewhere along the way, I had lost confidence in myself. I had become used to blaming others for both my successes and my failures.

  As we packed up and went home, I kept thinking about what West had said and what Ingrid had pointed out, their words and my own realizations rolling around in my head, frantically trying to fit together, to settle in and start making sense.

  I lay awake that night, thinking of ways I could honor what West had asked of me. I needed to stretch and reach for my potential. I needed to accept his decision to leave and do what I had come here to do.

  The next morning, I decided it was time to stop limiting myself. No more restricting my scenes to safe subject matter, no more ignoring the images that tugged at my fingers, even if they brought me pain. I retrieved the paintings I had given up on when West left, determined to complete them.

  As my days continued to roll by, I let go little by little. I missed West, and it was easy to let that sadness turn to anger when I became frustrated with my work, but I reminded myself that this was my choice, that I wanted to be here, that I wanted to improve for myself. As I did, my failures became less bitter and my successes more satisfying.

  I finished the image of a man leaning against a pillar as he watched a lady wandering through a garden. I finished the scene of a dark haired woman in fine clothes standing on a grassy hillside above the ocean, a child at her side holding her hand.

  Ingrid and I went on a few more carriage outings, and each time I felt my spirits lighten a little more.

  A month passed. Sterrino seemed satisfied with my progress and enjoyed introducing me to new techniques. I improved. Even I could see the difference in my work. I began enjoying the process instead of obsessing over the end result, and I fell in love with painting all over again.

  Two months had passed since West had left, and I was able to find beautiful inspiration not only in expressing my melancholy, but also in remembering my sisters. I painted pieces of their stories in my own way
and felt closer to them in the process.

  Dante came by to look at my work more often. At first he would simply give a compliment and go on his way, but I was curious enough about his opinion that I asked him about certain aspects of my work. He would stay to discuss brush strokes or color mixing or different uses for glazes. The awkwardness between us faded and he became a valuable asset. I even found myself thinking of him as a friend.

  “Like this right here.” He pointed to a corner of my painting filled with flowers.

  I was proud of this painting. It made me smile, and I was anxious for the opportunity to gift it to Ella. It had been inspired by her and Gavin. It was set in the midst of a garden, and a young girl lounged on a bench nestled under a bower filled with flowers. She lay on her back, her elaborate gown draping to the ground as she held a book over her head, reading. A little off to the side, just hidden enough that you might miss him upon first glance, a gardener crouched among the foliage, his hands buried in the earth, but his eyes fixed on the girl.

  Dante was pointing to the flowers in the foreground. “Why did you glob the paint on? It looks like a mistake.”

  “It gives it dimension,” I answered, knowing that wouldn’t satisfy him, but enjoying the feeling of getting under his skin.

  “You can create dimension with shadows and shading, just like you did with the rest of it.”

  “I’m trying something different, and I think the recipient of this painting will enjoy it.”

  “I think the recipient will wonder if you spilled your paints on the canvas and forgot to clean them up.”

  I laughed at his ridiculous claim, knowing that he was trying to needle me in return, and watched as a smile brightened his features. He looked fairly attractive when he let himself smile. The thought brought me up short and for a moment I wondered if the feelings that had prompted him to kiss me all those months ago still existed. What would it be like to pursue a relationship with Dante? We certainly had plenty in common. We thought and communicated in very similar ways.

  He turned toward me, catching me in my frank perusal and lifting a brow in question. I felt my cheeks heat and looked back to my canvas, clearing my throat. “You will simply have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

  He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well, but I will enjoy watching the master’s reaction to your ‘innovative technique.’”

  I raised my brow in what I hoped was a haughty gesture. “That’s exactly what I shall call it.”

  He rolled his eyes and I couldn’t help smiling. “What have I done?” he muttered and walked away.

  I chuckled to myself and returned to work.

  Chapter Twenty

  IT WAS THE dream that woke me. West had been gone for three months. I still missed him, was still unable to squelch my hope that he might write to me, still wondered if his feelings for me were as strong as mine continued to be for him. But I’d found myself. If he ever had a chance to ask, I would honestly be able to tell him that I knew myself again. And I might even be able to say that I liked what I’d found.

  Perhaps that was what the dream was about.

  It was the strangest thing, dreaming about painting and not having it turn into a nightmare about how I couldn’t do anything right, or how I didn’t have brushes, or how the canvas crumbled as soon as I touched it. Instead I dreamed that I was painting outside, with no canvas at all. Rain was pouring down, but instead of it frustrating my efforts, it enhanced them. I took my brush and I painted the rain. The sheets of water coming down were my canvas, and as I touched my brush to the water, the color bled into the rain, becoming fluid and swirling away with the wind.

  There was such a feeling of freedom as I ignored all rules and conventions and welcomed the changes brought about by nature taking a hand in my creation. It was ethereal and beautiful as my brush strokes blew away or blended together.

  I awoke elated, excited by the possibilities until reason took over and told me that such a thing wasn’t possible. Even Master Sterrino couldn’t teach me how to paint the rain. But as I lay awake, the images of the dream drifting though my thoughts time and again, I longed to find the feeling of freedom and confidence I had felt in that sleeping vision.

  And then I thought, why couldn’t I? Was it really so impossible? Perhaps I couldn’t paint the water that poured from the sky, but what if I could fix that image on canvas?

  By the time the sun rose, I knew I had to try. Before I’d taken my morning meal, I found my sketchbook and pencils, determined to solidify the image in my mind more fully. I rushed through my morning routine, hurrying my guards along so that I could arrive at the villa earlier than usual.

  When we reached the villa, I tossed my cloak aside and pulled my supplies together quickly, grateful that I had canvases already prepared. I pulled out my sketch and pinned it to the side of my canvas. The image was so compelling that I knew it would never leave me be unless I at least attempted to do it justice. I also knew it would be my most difficult piece yet. Merely deciding on the perspective to use had been torturous. I knew that the entire painting was going to be experimental at the very least, but because I had become accustomed to painting quickly and with feeling when necessary, it didn’t intimidate me nearly as much as it would have a few months ago. I had great hope that this would be my show piece, the piece that I would present to Master Sterrino as evidence of the things I’d learned in the time allotted to me. I only hoped my execution would live up to my vision.

  I dove into it headlong, letting the image drench me in its colors and come out through my fingers. I trusted in what I’d learned. I trusted in the inspiration that had been pulsing through me ever since I woke with the ethereal dream running though my head.

  I worked on it for hours longer than I normally would have and returned early the next day. My other paintings that sat unfinished were a welcome distraction whenever I got to a stopping point with the rain painting. I was vaguely aware of Sterrino coming to check on me from time to time, but he never interrupted me and I never felt the need to stop and ask his direction. This wasn’t for him anymore. This painting was for me, for those I loved, for the truths I wanted to live. Regardless of what his assessment might be, I wanted to paint this for myself.

  Dante would come by once in a while and simply watch my progress. A few months ago I would have found it annoying, but there was an odd comfort in his silent support.

  Stephen and Jonas took their turns watching out for me, but stayed aloof otherwise. I was grateful that Ingrid was around to interrupt my work and pull me out of my reverie once in a while. She was particularly enthralled with the piece of me painting rain, because I had confided in her what it meant to me—that if I could paint this scene, it would be a triumph for me. She made it her duty to help me through it, to see the good and help me solve the many problems I encountered. I had never painted something so dreamlike and fantastical. We discussed the difficulties as they came along, and she happily cheered me on.

  When I simply couldn’t stare at it any longer, I would switch to a different piece, or I would sit with Ingrid, either helping her work through her difficulties, or simply watching and listening as she told me about her different outings with Maxwell. He had started escorting her home in the afternoons several weeks ago, and I was curious to see if he would be smart enough to pursue her in earnest. For the first time, I became aware of the different friendships and dynamics among the other students. I wondered if part of what prompted Maxwell to start pursuing Ingrid were the looks she was receiving from a couple other students. Jealousy is an effective motivator.

  Dante made it clear to me on several occasions that he would welcome more than a friendly relationship with me. It was odd to think about such a thing, knowing he would be able to understand me in a way that few people could. However, not only was my heart still desperately attached to West, but I knew that any relationship with another artist would inevitably be plagued by competition. I would be constantly comparin
g my work with his and wondering who was better. I didn’t need to be with someone who encouraged my need to compare. So I put him off. I welcomed his friendship, but discouraged anything further.

  He, like Sterrino, gave me advice on my other works, but he left my rain painting alone, probably sensing that this wasn’t a study in technique and discipline, but a labor of devotion that only I could produce.

  ✼ ✼ ✼

  I had finished the painting.

  I had finished many in the nearly six months I had been here, but this one was the culmination not only of my newly acquired knowledge, but also of my newly acquired freedom—freedom from my own criticism and doubt.

  I had painted myself from behind. I was in an open meadow in the pouring rain. My dress and hair hung heavy with water; the horizon was smudged and barely discernible. Easels, brushes and paints lay scattered at my feet as I reached up with a brush clutched in my hand. Where the tip made contact with the falling rain, color bled out of it. Not just one color, but many. Blues and pinks, golds and purples all swirled up and around and away, filling the watery sky with a riot of hues. They mixed into new colors and flew apart again, unbridled.

  It was ready to be presented to Master Sterrino. Of course he’d seen it plenty of times in its various stages of progress, but I looked forward to watching his face as he saw the completed painting for the first time.

  I turned the easel away from the stairs so I would see his approach and be ready for it. When he finally made his way over, I stood and stepped to the side so that he would have a clear view.

  He was silent as he studied it, which was usual. What wasn’t usual was the intensity with which his eyes seemed to soak in all the details. I was accustomed to him looking indifferent or even bored, but he didn’t look bored now.