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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER TEN
SAOIRSE DID NOT KNOW HOW LONG SHE SPENT IN THE SPRING KING'S PALACE, MIXING PAINTS, BUILDING LAYER UPON LAYER ON THE CANVAS, AND CREATING ANOTHER MASK.
But she did know that her time for 'dilly-dallying' had drawn to an end.
The Spring King had given her a single sennight, in Mortal time, to prepare. And that seventh day had come, finally.
She had painted the base layers with solid colors, fleshing out the figure in a storm of bold hues. Then she had mixed colors, carefully, grinding the cakes and stirring in linseed oil. She had strained the concoctions, using a spatula palette knife to mix the paints, and broaden their hues to precisely what she wanted. It was a laborious process, but it had worked.
Saoirse peered down at her canvas, admiring it, and not for the first time, with an awe-filled breath.
She liked to think she had outdone herself with the painting, for looking down at it, it was almost as though she were looking into a mirror, for how much vivacity she'd imbued with each color and twist of the brush.
She had used an old technique to create it, not the one that she favored with clientele. It was one she'd learned from a Mortal in a town they had settled in long, long ago. Saoirse held scant memories of that place, and nearly all of them consisted of the elderly painter who had gladly taken her on with all her curiosity and unabashed, tender spirit. It was a technique that had been passed down from his father, and his father before. But the elderly painter had no children that were interested in such a "menial task," as they'd scoffed at it, and he'd taught her of it.
It was a laborious technique. And for her to have done it all within a week, was absolutely unheard of in the Mortal world. It had taken the elderly painter months to finish a portrait, even in his youth, he had exclaimed. So time-consuming it was, that he managed to produce only a fair few painting each year. But however few he produced, they fetched him an exorbitant sum of money from each sale.
Saoirse smiled softly, recollecting. Pieter had been his name. And she had taken his lessons and gifts and ran with them not even a year later.
Shaking her head to loosen herself from the memories, Saoirse admired the portrait once more. The woman immortalized on canvas was as human as she could create, with a few exceptions. Like gazing to the surface of a glassy, serene river, Saoirse beheld her new identity.
Large, unabashedly innocent eyes peered at her, blazing a majestic silver-hue reminiscent of rushing, babbling water. Long spirals of hair, turned every which hue of golden she could possibly dream of--a far, far cry from Saoirse's own dark hair. Skin of dew-drops and honey, Saoirse wasn't sure quite what to call it. All she was certain of was that the Mortals in the towns she'd inhabited had an affinity for darkening to a particularly entrancing golden shade when exposed to the sun--at least, a small number of them. The rest burned like a crisp, turning as red as a tomato. A constellation of freckles were splattered across the woman's skin. The facial structure was similar to Saoirse's; elegant slopes and curves, noble arches, serene softness, and lofty grace. Being a faery, Saoirse was vain, and knew that beauty was a coveted and prized thing amongst faerys. The Alder King would undoubtedly not be an exception to that fact.
