The session unfolded with a pleasure that mirrored the fond memories of our previous encounter. I strove to capture Rascal’s beauty with as much fidelity as possible, while also permitting a touch of artistic liberty. Depicting her hair in the radiant style she flaunted tonight, rather than the way it had been during our last sitting, posed its own challenges. I indulged in slight alterations to her attire, accentuating her neckline and adding a few ornamental flourishes that she had not actually worn. The background I painted with warm, embracing hues, casting the illusion of an earlier time of day, and I poured my very essence into rendering the flickering glow of the candles, laboring until I succeeded in creating a convincing interplay of light and shadow.

  Upon completion, pride overwhelming swelled our chest and brought a simper of satisfaction to Princess’s face. It was a masterpiece in my eyes, and I would brook no argument to the contrary, despite my own awareness of my amateur standing.

  During this time, Rascal and I bantered with lightheartedness, her natural charm enhancing the amusement of the evening. The joy of laughing, unhindered by the fear of triggering a coughing fit, was an experience I had not anticipated. When she delivered that popular bawdy jest involving the horse and a duck with the hat, adding her unique embellishments, I laughed with such abandon that I doubled over, clutching our abdomen. She then afforded me the opportunity to share a comedy routine I had rehearsed long ago but had never dared perform for anyone, hampered by my raspy, frail voice. Though some elements had escaped my memory, it was, nevertheless, a resounding success. Rascal, at one point, collapsed to her knees in a fit of mirth.

  “You have to tell that story to Fermina!” Rascal urged between fits of laughter, after I concluded the ribald tale of a foul-mouthed lumberjack and his obese, impossible-to-please wife. “I would love to see the expression she makes. She’ll get mad when you curse, but she’ll forgive you as you keep talking, you’ll see. How long have you been hiding this one from me, Miss Paintress?”

  “This tale is actually Dubart’s,” I admitted, proud enough to claim ownership. “He entrusted me with a few manuscripts, asking for my critique, knowing I would be his harshest judge. Though he never finished them, there is no harm in sharing them, would you not agree?”

  Yet, instead of eliciting elation at the mention of my former self, I inadvertently saddened Rascal. She averted her gaze and fell silent, though the moment was not entirely ill-timed.

  “Come now, he would not want you to be sulking, especially after I have rendered you so beautifully,” I endeavored to lift her spirits. “I have just finished! Come and see!”

  Turning the easel towards her, I watched as she approached. She raised both hands to cover her open mouth. Her face was worth more than all the compliments she could have paid.

  “Aufelia! T-this is… this is…!”

  “I intend to have it framed and hung somewhere near the dining room… provided the Masters of the house permit it, of course,” I recalled, after an instant, that my authority was no longer boundless. “In time, I might craft another and place it in our bedroom.”

  She wept. Rascal’s innocent face was awash with tears of joy, though her voice remained unbroken as she proclaimed, “You’re much better than Lord Revier! Cracknu’s Hell, you’re much better than Courde de Califagnia!” —a renowned, though long-departed, paintress.

  Her admiration was exaggerated, naturally. Courde de Califagnia had once been so esteemed that Kings and Queens sought her audience, and legend told of her painting her husband with such precision that a physician, upon seeing it, correctly diagnosed him with the Green Fevers of Palma, thus saving his life. On another occasion, it was said she had painted a dragon with such lifelike detail that the Lord who had commissioned it kept employing it as a prop to startle his courtiers.

  Even if not true, it was a high compliment that I gladly acknowledged with a nod.

  Satisfied with my success, I entrusted a happy Rascal with the arrangements for displaying my latest work, as per her request, and retreated to our chambers to conduct a few experiments.

  It was rather inconvenient that I could only converse with Princess when we were in the presence of a reflective surface. Thus, I sought to devise an alternative to carrying a hand mirror everywhere. At my behest, Princess revealed where she kept her jewelry—locked within a drawer of the vanity she shared with her sisters. Initially, I considered a locket, but a more elegant solution presented itself.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Princess possessed a dainty pair of earrings, forged from equal parts gold and silver, that glistened brightly. Their design featured an impractically long chain that ended in a modest yet detailed depiction of the sun. By fiddling with the chain and averting our gaze, we could simulate casual fidgeting while discreetly communicating. The reflection was imperfect, and some refinement would be necessary. Furthermore, Princess had not worn earrings in quite some time and was reluctant to pierce her ears again.

  I tried to persuade her that, for a small measure of pain, we could remain in constant contact. Our conversation had not concluded when we heard footsteps approaching.

  A polite but insistent knock sounded at the door, followed by, “Lady Aufelia de Irchard, I have been searching for you. You were seen entering. May I have a word?”

  I recognized the voice. Confred, my father’s seneschal—a man entrusted with overseeing the daily affairs of our household, from the menu to the gardens, the maids’ schedules, and even the household’s expenses. Though technically a servant, Confred commanded far greater respect than any of the de Irchard sisters. He could expect compliance from Princess.

  “By all means, Sir Confred,” I answered. As a commoner, he bore no title nor surname, but an honorific was due in recognition of his standing.

  The door swung open, and a tall, slender man of dignified gray hair entered, attired impeccably in a fine doublet, bombasted hose, and bi-spectacles. Bi-spectacles! I wondered if…

  “I am here to inform you that you are summoned to Master Kyolhan’s quarters,” he intoned with the dutiful precision that defined him. It must have been a matter of import, given that the seneschal himself had been dispatched to retrieve us.

  “Please, lead the way,” I acquiesced immediately, hastily returning the jewelry to its place. It was customary to lock such valuables away to prevent theft, which could be difficult to trace, but Confred was a man of wealth, beyond suspicion.

  We traversed the corridors at a pace that tested my newfound skill in walking with poise. Confred was not one for idle conversation, and aside from a brief pause to allow me to catch up as he pretended to examine a statue near the east wing, we had no exchange until he held open a door for me, revealing a familiar antechamber. Beyond lay my brother’s office. Today, he was seated behind his desk, rather than in the more comfortable chair by the hearth. He made only a slight gesture, which I interpreted as an invitation to sit.

  A certain portrait in the corner of the room caught my eye. I was proud of it, but I doubted it was the sole reason for this sudden summons.

  “That shall be all, Confred; you may leave us,” Kyolhan dismissed him.

  I turned, surprised to find that Confred had remained behind me since our entry. His unnoticed presence started me enough to elicit a gasp. The man exited in an equally silent fashion.

  “Did you call for me, Master Kyolhan?” I greeted him, feigning nonchalance despite my recent fluster.

  “Just had a talk with Rascal a little while ago. Kid was really excited,” Kyolhan remarked casually, signaling that formality was to be set aside. If plain-speaking was what he desired, I could oblige.

  “I am guessing it is due to that portrait over there?” I did not need to gesture towards it; the topic of Rascal’s picture was self-evident. “I shall not lie or be falsely humble. I am very proud of my work.”

  “So am I; you could become something of a celebrity, Aufelia. Think you can make a few more of those?”

  “I am but your humble servant,” I smiled and bowed. It was not a courtesy as much as a gesture of goodwill. “Painting is rather fun.”

  “Good, good; I called you for something else, though,” he said, as I had already expected. “While discussing with your little sister the matter about permission to hang this lovely piece, she told me a very… original joke. I am glad she’s in very high spirits, but there is a time and a place for everything. She told me she learned that one from you.”

  “Did… she offend you in any way, Master?” I doubted Kyolhan was one to mind this sort of indiscretion, but it seemed he was leading the conversation there.

  “No. She made me laugh so hard I spit my drink,” Kyolhan corrected, leaning back on his chair and crossing his arms. “And she also told me the joke is not yours, either. She told me the precious gift of laughter came from my dear brother, Dubart.”

  For a fleeting moment, I was perplexed before recalling the narrative I had spun for Rascal, wherein I attributed the stories to ‘Dubart’. It was too late to retract that claim.

  “They happen to be… incomplete, for the most part,” I excused. “It was a rough draft he made and had me review, guessing that if I could find it funny, anyone would.”

  “I want them. All of them, everything and anything Dubart wrote,” he declared, staring at me with determination. Kyolhan was not threatening, but all the same, his demand admitted no discussion.

  “Certainly,” I granted. His piercing gaze would have accepted no other answer.

  “It is such a shame I found out about this after dusk. Dubart’s handwriting is terrible to see under my monocle with a mere lamp!” he jested sadly. “I want them on my desk by morning. I am disappointed you did not think of telling me all this sooner.”

  “I cannot even properly apologize. Excuse my earlier omission, Master, but I have been feeling under the weather,” thankfully, recent circumstances had rendered me a palatable excuse.

  “Yes, I heard that, too,” he stretched his neck from side to side, signaling that the conversation would conclude soon. “Grief will do that kind of thing to you.”

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