Arden, the meek and innovative daughter of an Artist-For-Hire hides behind an admiration of her father's works to conceal her own (unencouraged) love of painting. By chance, Arden is discovered by the Queen Elza, a lover of art herself. Arden is whi...
"Haider," Arden's mother speaks her husband's name sharply, like cutting ice. "Arden is taking too much after you. We've had our years of arguing and I have resigned myself to losing my husband for hours in a day while he frolics with imagination but I refuse to support a daughter forever because she can't make a good wife of herself and thus is overlooked by every eligible match." Potatoes are slopped onto his plate violently before the tired woman sits down in her own seat. "I simply cannot maintain this household on my own anymore.
Arden glances at her two younger sisters who recoil, seeming insulted by their own hard efforts being overlooks. Arden would argue and make mention of the many ways she also contributes, but she knows her mother well enough to not defend herself in this matter. "I will work harder, mother." Arden interjects before her father is forced to say something he doesn't truly believe in.
"You've said that before."
"And I always adopt more of the household responsibilities." Arden dares to speak against her mother.
"I never notice."
"It is as though you want me to ignore my love of father's art."
"Men have the luxury of being artists and masters," she answers "you have no luxuries until you find a husband and unless he is a wealthy one you will have no luxuries even then so I recommend you put your admiration for your father out of your mind and make a name for yourself as a woman to be desired. Indra already has prospects and she is four years your junior."
"What?" Simultaneously, both Arden and Haider speak, looking across the table to the timid brunette. Although Arden is surprised that her younger sister has a suiter at her young age, she is less surprised given the fact that Indra is beautiful as well as well ground in the duties of a household woman.
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"When did this happen?" Haider inquires, setting his fork down harder than he might a paintbrush.
"While you've been painting." Indra answers, her young voice sounding to immature to hold such a harsh tone with her own father.
"Watch yourself," Arden instructs, smiling at her sister despite the concrete nature of the command.
"And nobody thought to tell me? Who is the young man?"
The duration of dinner is spent discussing the son of a wealthy merchant, the distraction allowing Arden to be released from any further conversation about her own future prospects, a conversation she intends to always avoid if possible.
And like clockwork, later that night when the last candle is snuffed and doors creak closed, warm beds welcome weary family members, Arden remains awake. Her own candle is still lit, the eerie yellow glow dancing off the framing of the walls, lighting her barefoot path up the spiraling staircase into the attic. Father is right, this is a metaphor for heavenly ascension.
This is peace. An escape from the capsule that is her life when the rest of the world is looking. It is an escape from the demands of her mother, and although Arden knows she only wants what is best, it is hard to not feel suffocated when your very being is condemned. And thus, Arden finds solace in this silence, in the way candlelight illuminates canvas, in the way starlight bleeds through the small, dust-filmed window. It is an escape into a world otherwise inaccesible.
