The Painter's Apprentice

Chapter 5

When Destan's portrait is dried, framed, and on proud display in the queen's personal salon, demand increases for my work. Even though I hate the piece, which feels like a betrayal to Morel's legacy, I have passed my first test as the court painter. I can stay. I can lavish this court with more sycophantic, soulless art in the Royal Academy's style and perhaps if I keep my head long enough, I will find a way to live with myself.

With no excuse to be in the studio, Destan and I become strangers again, but that doesn't mean I see any less of him. Much goes on in the palace at all hours. There's a frivolous ceremony for everything during the king's day, then the evenings are filled with parties, concerts, operas, and all manner of leisurely distractions. Anytime I venture from my studio, I seem to see Destan, but I can never get close enough to speak to him.

At first, I thought it was just bad luck that we could never seem to connect with each other, but as his avoidance of me quickly became more obvious. If I have done something to offend him, he gives me no opportunity to apologize. My hot temper urges me to corner him and scold him for befriending me then pretending I don't exist, but I can't even catch his eye anymore. There was no misinterpreting his genuine kindness — I'm not sure how I could have misread him in those long hours he sat for his portrait, but the rejection stings.

Without Destan to confide in, my friends at the palace are few and far between. So when Lavernia asks me to do a painting for her, I gladly accept. To my surprise, she doesn't want one of the posed portraits that fit into the Royal Academy's approved style.

"Do you want a historical painting then?" I ask her over dinner.

"Certainly not!"

"A still life?"

"What use have I for painted flowers when I have fresh flowers delivered to my apartment daily?"

"Then what do you want?" I ask, exasperated.

She swirls the burgundy wine in her glass as she watches me. "I want you to paint something you want to paint."

"What I want to paint?" The foreign notion catches me off-guard.

Lavernia knows the irony of what she has asked me to do just as well. She laughs and the sound echoes through the Grand Salon over the ambient clatter of silverware on china and hushed conversation. A few heads turn at the sound of our mutual amusement. Destan sits as far away from us as possible, but not out of my view. He eats surrounded by some of Queen Henriette's most beautiful ladies-in-waiting — all of them noble and dressed in the finest of court robes to show it. I let myself sneak a glance at him and I'm reminded how he's been bred for court life. To bow and scrape for any scrap of power, for a favor from someone a rung above. My stomach sickens when a dark-haired girl laughs at something he says and clutches the sleeve of his frac coat.

I tear my eyes away and return my attention to Lavernia. The corner of her pouty lips turns up and I suspect she caught me staring at Destan. "I want you to paint something that is wholly your style," she says and takes a sip of her wine. Knowing, green eyes watch me over the crystal goblet.

"Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?" I say. "Morel taught me to match his style — the Academy's style."

She snorts. "Master Morel had his talents, but I already have a painting of his. I want to see what you make when you are inspired."

"That's quite dangerous, Lavernia," I say and lean in so anyone attuned to our conversation can't overhear. "The Royal Academy sets the artistic style for all of France. Rejection of that style is tantamount to rejection of the king and the monarchy."

"Fine then," Lavernia says. "Don't commit treason, but can you stretch the boundaries a little bit — create something less fussy — more personal?"