We had scarcely turned the first corner to the left after departing from my brother’s office when we discerned a figure leaning against the wall, arms folded, legs crossed, fixing a reproachful stare upon Princess.

  “I have been waiting out here for who knows how long for you to finish,” he reproached coldly.

  He was a boy of twelve summers, although his birthday was near, or so I had heard. His hair, more orange than the usual Cafligen wine color, he kept short as befitted the sportsman he fancied himself to be. Draped in a black and white silken cape, he wore it with the pride of the magian initiate he imagined himself to be. Adorning his lapel, our family’s coat-of-arms gleamed, a mark of the titled nobleman he wished he were. Beneath his cape, I caught sight of the insinuation of a seddeveri belt—an affectation of the Path of Steel’s masters; another pretension. This was my dear cousin—Arkin Cafligen.

  “Oh, my apologies, Lord Arkin,” Princess swallowed her pride and bowed, addressing him by a title he did not merit. “Was there something you needed?” she inquired, her tone carrying a hint of condescension, as if speaking to a young child. It was all the defiance she could muster.

  Only those who were landed were entitled to be addressed as ‘Lord’. A title could follow either the individual’s given name or family name—formality dictating the family name in professional matters, while the given name was reserved for eminent figures, like a Duke, or when multiple titleholders belonged to the same family. When in doubt, the given name was safer.

  “Mind your tone with me, if you care about your future here,” the child responded with arrogant insolence. “I have wasted enough time away from my studies waiting for you. Move aside, little chamber-maiden!”

  Arkin rushed forward, forcing Princess to hug the wall to avoid being elbowed. She barely maintained her balance as he insisted on walking through the middle of the aisle. He only slowed when he reached Kyolhan’s door, knocking politely before being admitted inside. We lingered only long enough to collect ourselves.

  “What a brute! What the fuck is his problem!?” Princess cursed, her frustration spilling over. It became less shocking with each instance.

  “Perhaps it is owed to how you conduct yourself?” I suggested with false innocence. “The young Lady Lunatora, Princess Eliziam, and now, sweet Arkin, all seem to be at odds with you. You cannot help but notice you are the only common factor in this equation?”

  “Dubart!” she shrilled at her reflection in a hallway, offended. “How dare… d-do you know who that little… pest is? Have you any idea? Have you ever met him? That little… s-shit is a…!”

  “I understand! I understand!” I could not contain my laughter any longer inside Princess’s mind. “Believe me, I am quite aware. I also hate the little bastard.”

  Arkin was my father’s younger brother’s son, my first cousin. Lady Gerdanina, my mother, a renowned scholar, often hosted young guests from all over Irghumin who sought to study under her. Arkin was one of them. The coward who would threaten a lady had recently secured a betrothal to the dignified Lady Issamine, King Elijah’s youngest daughter, a mere three-year-old. That small royal child was fourth in line to the throne, and Arkin, no doubt, harbored grand aspirations that the succession might shorten by the time she came of age. He could marry a Queen, inflating his already monstrous ego to absurd heights.

  He studied arcana under Magister Thorban and trained in swordsmanship with some esteemed tutor during Summers, or so I vaguely recalled. I had not been following his life too closely. He had visited me personally just once, last year. I had been eager to mentor and watch a pupil flourish. Yet, after a single afternoon in the brat’s company, I quickly feigned exhaustion, dismissed him from my room, summoned my mother, and implored her to ensure that boy never darkened my presence again. For some reason, my request amused her, but she obliged. I was disheartened to see that his manners remained unchanged.

  “…and don’t even get me started about his friends!” Princess kept passionately ranting under her breath. “Bunch of hooligans and thugs who worship the land he walks on and do everything he does. They make me sick. One of them is older than you! There is no shame anymore,” she lamented as she shook her head. It was impossible to answer since there were no reflective surfaces in view. “And they’re supposed to be the future nobles of all neighboring duchies? Watch them bring the kingdom to ruin in twenty years. Why can’t I meet a single nice boy my age? And does that matter? I bet the Lord Duke will marry me off to some old fart to repay a favor or political stuff. I bet you’d love that! Being stuck in my body while we have to… put up with an old man. I would tell him I would do anything he wanted, but only after dusk. Ha! That would be fun. Except that I would still feel it. At least I could be a rich widow when I’m thirty. Or I could join the Sisters of Light; no, what am I saying? The Sisters still have to marry once they reach a certain rank, right? Besides, being a Sister is worse than marrying an old fart. I could see Fermina doing it, though. Hey, Dubart, did His Grace ever tell you what he planned to do with us? No, that’s a stupid question. Of course your father wouldn’t talk about what would happen after you died. Sorry. I mean, everyone wishes they could have been born into a noble family, but do they even think about our responsibilities? No. Worrying about decorum, having to deal with twats like Arkin, always worrying about what you’re wearing… speaking of that, did you notice what kind of dress Eliziam had on? What a showoff. And the cleavage! Who is she even trying to impress? People talk to her because of her name, not to go see her tits. And how she talked to Riatna! Have you ever…?”

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  The deluge of questions was not even directed at me. It was an endless soliloquy of madness, and I was the captive audience, the perfect passive listener. As the ramblings stretched on, my hostess delved into increasingly trivial matters. It grew more excruciating than physical pain; it nearly spoiled the otherwise delightful stroll we took through the garden. The day was mild, with a fresh morning sun, and the air invigorated our senses. We managed to build a hearty appetite just in time for an early luncheon.

  Princess remained notorious, yet she discovered that attention was more tolerable when she was, not standing in the midst of it, with her work displayed for all to judge and with the model striving desperately for praises. She had previously overreacted, but I believed my prudent counsel beneath the library table had made a difference. We still received congratulations, though only in the form of courteous acknowledgments. Lord Amaror, however, drew attention by rising from his seat and proposing a toast in honor of the talented young Lady, which caused her slight embarrassment.

  Fermina joined us as we neared the end of our meal. Smiling from across the room, she approached, took our hand in hers, and beamed warmly. Aware of Princess’s difficult morning, I endeavored to remain calm despite the elation that threatened to overwhelm me. I recited Artanical formulas in my mind as ‘loudly’ as I could to keep myself distracted.

  It seemed to work, for I noticed no reaction from Princess, who conversed with her sister as if nothing had changed.

  “Fantastic news, Aufelia!” announced Fermina, who at this point was only a remarkably attractive young lady, nothing more. I had to believe it. “I have finished making an entire list after asking everyone and polling their opinions on who should go first. You are booked for… six portraits already! These are not just people asking questions or saying to be interested; they are actual commissions. Work.”

  “Oh… that is… quite a lot,” Princess hesitated; I could feel her nervousness.

  “I know!” Fermina instead enthused. “I didn’t dare to schedule any more; that many paintings would keep even a master busy for a while. Believe it or not, there are even more prospective clients. Oh! Aufelia! This is going to help us so much!” Fermina squeezed the hand she held, her joy overflowing. This closeness, this proximity to such a radiant presence, was nearly too much for me to bear. Yet, I resisted. “There was no fighting over turns, either. All the present people agreed that the order of the paintings was fair.”

  “You told them I prefer to paint after the evening sun’s prayer, right?” Princess pressed.

  “Oh, I know; but lighting conditions are not the best by then, are they? You should instead paint in the morning, my dear. Would it not be better?” Fermina innocently suggested, making Princess’s blood freeze inside her veins, which helped me immensely to calm down. “Your first work is for Lord Faringoth, who I’m sure you know after his recent exploits. After returning from a successful campaign, he is resting at home and would like a full portrait to commemorate his victory.”

  “Lord Faringoth? He should not be here, I don’t think…” Princess objected, noticing the same incongruity that had struck me. That man was my father’s trusted subordinate, the Baron of Tulicoth, raised to nobility for his prowess in battle. We had not seen him in some time.

  “He has a house in Bernan,” Fermina explained. “His wife, Lady Orzwa, is here with us, and she plans to join him in a carriage that will go to town soon. You will stay with them for a few days until you complete the portrait. I already asked for permission from Master Kyolhan; he says it should be perfectly fine!”

  “Bernan!” Princess exclaimed, the name carrying with it a promise of distant possibilities. The neighboring city was famed for its library. This fortuitous situation could serve her splendidly. Yet hesitation quickly resurfaced. “But, Fermina, a few days? I have not been away from you two that long since… that happened. A-and Lord Duke Archiments is on his way back; have you not heard? What if I am not here to welcome him? That would be a terrible show of disrespect! W-what if I miss Master Dubart’s funeral? And d-don’t forget this dreadful weather!”

  “I understand you being nervous, but you are a grown woman, Aufelia,” Fermina hardened her tone and strengthened her grip. “It will only be for a few days. We will be here when you return; I promise. I can tell you are making excuses, which will not do. This is not just so we can make some money; this is the start of your career. Our Lord Duke will not think poorly of you for it, I have been assured. You may even be back before his return. The funeral of our late Master,” Fermina showed a tinge of sadness, “will still take some time to arrange. You will be present to pay your respects. Weather is doing just fine, dear.”

  Princess released a beleaguered sigh, burdened by her apprehensions. Normally, such moments compelled me to offer words of encouragement, despite the lack of reflective surfaces around us. Even though she could not hear me, I still uttered the reassuring words within her.

  “When am I to leave?” she asked, her voice resigned to the inevitable.

  “I realize this feels sudden, but… it shall be very soon. In fact, within the hour. Today,” Fermina revealed. “There is no need to pack; you shall be well provided for. Regarding your transportation, Lady Lunatora graciously agreed to Lady Orzwa’s request for you to accompany them on their journey to Bernan.”

  “Fermina!” Princess quickly found fault and objected, forcing her sister let go of her hands. “Not with Tirrha, come on! You can’t be serious.”

  “Lady Lunatora has already apologized about the incident repeatedly, hardly anyone would remember that occasion, and you two should already return to being friends. It is about time,” Fermina cited and decreed. There was no argument to be admitted. I grew curious about what could have happened between those two.

  “We were never friends. She was just playing around with me, finding chances to humiliate me,” Princess defied her older sister but was more morose than insolent, so Fermina allowed it, her features softening in sympathy.

  “You know that is not true,” she countered gently. “We spoke at length. She is earnestly seeking an opportunity to reconcile with you. She even made a request—among the six clients—to have you paint her portrait. Can you not find it in yourself to give Lady Lunatora another chance?” Fermina’s delicate fingers came to rest upon our cheek, and in that tender gesture, I felt our shared resolve begin to falter. What more could we do, other than acquiesce?

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