Lord Faringoth was introduced to us sometime after tea, though not in any orchestrated fashion. Rather, the encounter transpired as he wandered the corridors of his own home, an entirely coincidental meeting. He greeted us with the requisite politeness and decorum, though there was a certain haste to his manners. It was as if his wife’s hospitality toward guests was of little concern to him, something trivial and beneath his notice.

  The man, stout and rugged, bore the appearance of one who had endured much. His beard, though trimmed to a minimum standard, did little to soften the image of a soldier in reprieve, a man momentarily withdrawn from the harsh demands of war and campaigning.

  True to what had been mentioned earlier, he seemed entirely unaware of the request that he wash, dress himself in military armor, and pose for hours on end to be painted by an amateur hand. At first, he laughed, dismissing the notion as a jest. However, when it became clear that this was no joke, the Baron shook his head, muttered something about a later discussion, and took his leave.

  Lady Orzwa made numerous apologies, offering various excuses for her husband’s brusque behavior. Princess seemed unperturbed by it all; had she been given her way, she would have abandoned the pursuit of painting altogether. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, likely preoccupied with matters concerning Lady Lunatora.

  Nonetheless, we were still led to a dining room of acceptable elegance, where a long, rectangular table, polished and varnished to a gleaming black, reflected the soft glow of candlelight and the last remnants of the sun above filtering through the tall windows.

  The Lord of the Manor assumed the seat of honor, and Princess was directed to sit at his left, a detail that did not escape his notice. As the meal commenced, Lady Orzwa attempted to dispel the heavy atmosphere by recounting tales of her recent visit to Highsummit Manor, sharing stories of those she had met and the places she had seen within its walls. She made a point of mentioning me, doing so with a politeness that bore the requisite somberness. In the absence of anyone notable to counter his opinions, Lord Faringoth expressed his expectation that news of my death should have reached him sooner. Indeed, he claimed that the prolongation of my life had been nothing short of cruelty.

  “But, dear…! That is… the youngest son of your Lord Duke you are speaking of!” Lady Orzwa interjected, her voice sharp with reproach.

  “All the more reason for it,” he responded with an air of unbothered certainty. “The Steel Duke is a rational, sensible man. What was he thinking about prolonging the pitiful life of that wretch? I would run my own sword through my neck if I ever got half the ails that boy had.”

  “That wretch happened to be my friend,” Princess spoke entirely out of turn, silencing the entire table. She did not yield, even as I pressingly urged her to temper her tone. “I am sorry his existence inconvenienced you, Your Lordship, but he was more than a mere object of pity. He was a distinguished alchemist and-”

  “Do not presume to know more about my friend’s son than myself, girl,” the Baron interrupted, overpowering Princess’s sharp voice with a warning grumble. “The entire existence of that wretch was miserable. Believe me.”

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  “Warlio!” the man’s wife reproached him.

  “Yes, I know,” the man acknowledged, barely guilty. “I am sorry to speak ill of the dead and all that, and if you knew him, my condolences,” he insincerely recited, barely maintaining civilized protocol. “You say he died in his sleep? What a bunch of crap. He had an army of magians and physicians keeping him alive; if you ask me, he had a hand in his undoing. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “I am warning you, Warlio Faringoth!” kind Lady Orzwa raged with wide-open eyes, seemingly intimidating. She threw her napkin off the table in a fury. “Stop embarrassing yourself! If you have nothing good to say, then say nothing at all.” The man shrugged, uncaring, but did go quiet. “Aufelia, dear, I am so sorry for this oaf… spending all day long around those boorish soldiers, breathing all that gunpowder and horse manure can make him like that. You will have to excuse him.”

  “Heh, women. What would you know about my men and what they go through so you can be safe at home?” the Baron retorted deridingly but not offended.

  “Oh, there he goes again. His ‘loyal children’, he calls them,” the Lady addressed the table with the last remark. “I am almost jealous of them. If you are quite done talking nonsense, have you given that portrait some thought? I was about to tell you what a wonderful picture Lady de Irchard here did of her younger sister. You should have seen it!”

  “I’m not interested,” Lord Faringoth categorically said, facing Princess. “And before anyone asks, it has nothing to do with your little outburst at my table. Just eat my food and shut your little mouth; good? I’ll arrange someone to escort you back to The Steel Duke’s house, even pay you for your time.”

  “But dear! You don’t understand how talented she is! Lady de Irchard is the talk of Lord Duke Archiments’s court right now! She’s got nobles lining up one after the other, and we were lucky enough to have the first turn in honor of your victory and return,” the Lady argued for us, but the Baron shook his head throughout his wife’s discourse. His decision was made.

  “Fealt already said he’ll get around to doing it when he’s got the time, woman. Leave it be,” the man decreed. “I trust more that old friend that this…” he extended his hand to signal Princess, “teenage girl. I’m sure she’s good for her age and that people love staring into her pretty face while she’s working, but I want that portrait done by someone who understands the seriousness of the situation, and I don’t trust anyone but Fealt.”

  “In that case, I am sorry for inconveniencing you. I assure you, it will not happen again,” Princess ruefully but courtly said. “Thank you for your hospitality and for having me in your home. I shall depart as soon as I am able.”

  “Ha! Ha!” the man did not suppress a guffaw, spitting some food around his side of the table. “I have offended the little Lady, haven’t I? But she’s still all proper and posh,” he took a bite of the venison and continued to talk as he chewed. “Don’t hold back on my account. You can kick and scream on the floor or yell at me for all I care. I promise I won’t mind. Don’t be in such a hurry to leave; it’s not like I’m throwing you out just because I don’t want you to paint me. Stay for a few days, and go with my wife to a few events; I’m sure she’ll love dressing you up and showing you around to her friends. Maybe they will let you play at being a paintress.”

  The rest of the meal continued in the awkward silence one would expect. Lady Orzwa, ever gracious, continued to apologize for her husband’s behavior. Princess, while refraining from any overt displays of temper, was tacitly permitted to express her displeasure through pouting and general coldness. Pretending to nibble at her food, she covered her mouth with a napkin and whispered directly to me:

  “Dubart, we have to prove this… this lout wrong. I don’t care who we paint but paint someone after dusk. Show him what he’s missing out on. I want him to watch.”

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