The Painter's Apprentice

Chapter 12

The following day, pewter clouds, pregnant with a summer rain, have rolled in and cast a dull grey over the palace grounds. I love painting when it's raining so I open the windows wide and let the wind blow the first drops of rain on me where I sit down to sketch. Inspiration strikes the moment my charcoal hits paper.

I send for Destan within the hour.

"Florette," he says in a rather stiff greeting as he enters my studio and finds me sketching on the floor. "Do you have a sketch already?"

He wears his guard's uniform again. When he crouches down beside me, I'm overwhelmed by the smell of freshly baked baguettes.

"You smell like a boulangerie," I remark. Destan's displeased look makes me laugh.

"I am living above the kitchens in the Grand Commun. Not everyone gets an apartment in the actual palace the day they arrive."

I look up and catch the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You do not live in the palace?"

Destan picks up one of my sketches and examines it with a furrowed brow. "My father is having an apartment prepared for me in the Grand Stables. He wants me to stay in the palace, but I would rather be with the other members of the Royal Guard."

The breeze through the window picks up and so does the rain. The wind catches my papers and sends them skittering across the parquet floor. Destan jumps up to close the window and I chase after my sketches.

After I gather the last of them, I turn to find Destan with my final sketch in hand. He looks up from the page and his face is full of emotion. "This looks... perfect."

"It is Mercury," I say, as pride blooms in my chest.

"I can see his winged helmet. Are these ropes?" He holds out the sketch to me.

"Thorny vines that turn into the snakes of the Caduceus."

Destan shakes his head at me. "The Roman god of messages, trapped."

My stomach turns a little. I don't know why I so desperately want him to like it, but I do. "A little on-the-nose," I say. "Do you think anyone will discover what we are trying to say?"

"Paintings in the approved style don't carry meaning anymore. Moralizing went out of style decades ago. No one will see what they aren't looking for."

He's right, but I have another precaution in mind. Something that when I even think of mentioning it, my pulse starts to race. "I also had a thought about that..."

Destan's gaze flicks to scan my face. "What? I'm not sure I like that look," he says.

I will my cheeks not to blush. "I think we should give them something worth looking at."

"What do you mean?"

"I want you to sit for the painting," I say. My face heats against my control.

Destan's eyes widen as he looks down at the sketch. "Mercury is barely clothed."

I snatch the drawing away from him before he gets scared away. "I know, but I can tailor Mercury's clothing to fit you. He has the apron and pteruges of a Roman soldier and a red commander's cloak—"

"No," Destan says. "You cannot paint me like this."

"Why not? It will give you an excuse to write to your friend to tell him to look for your portrait in the Salon. How else will he know where to find it? Furthermore, what better place to hide an encrypted message than a beautiful painting that screams to be looked at? And you cannot deny that you have a certain physical appeal—"