“Monsieur Roselin. Wait up! I can’t see with all these things.” My body swung toward where I last heard his voice and ran straight into another tree. The two easels, canvases and sacks of paint supplies that I was carrying weren’t at all heavy, at least not to me, but they did block my view.

  “Here Jehan! I found the perfect spot.” A raspy voice called out to me.

  I bounced between a few trees before stumbling out into a clearing. When I set the easels down, Monsieur Roselin was standing at the top of the hill, looking down at the wide swath of green pasture stretching forth below.

  He looked rather magnificent as the wind picked up the waves of his short dark-brown hair, and his airy shirt. His square jaw and prominent nose gave him an air of ruggedness that fit well with the countryside setting.

  “Let’s set up here.” He gestured at a couple of spots at the downward slope of the hill. “I want a good view of the animals.”

  I quickly unfolded the easels, and put up the canvases. Digging through the sack, I selected the jars of what I thought would be the right pigments for this scene, and mixed them with oil. When I handed Monsieur Roselin the palette, he didn’t snap at me, which meant the colors were right.

  We took our places before our canvases and started to paint. This time the subject was a herd of horses down below, some grazing, one trotting, one neighing with its mane thrown back, and a couple nuzzling.

  The noontime sun beamed down at us, setting the greenery that surrounded us alight. A breeze blew from down below, bringing the scent of manure, dirt and hay—the familiar smell of the farm.

  I smiled as my brush smeared textured paint over the canvas.

  This is nice. I wouldn’t mind if things stayed this way.

  “That is good Jehan. You captured the motion and feeling well with your strokes.” Monsieur Roselin’s voice caught me by surprise.

  He was much too close!

  I could feel the heat of his chest against my back. His hand reached past me, pointing out one horse hopping about. “But you should focus a little more on the details. See the way shadow and light play over the muscularity of its thigh as it moves? Capture that detail and you will capture its soul.”

  My heart was pounding against my chest at his proximity. Somehow I just knew.

  It’s that damn [Virtuous] condition.

  “Relax Jehan, or should I say Jehanne? We are both women,” Monsieur Roselin said with an amused chortle.

  “What?” I was so surprised that my hand faltered and he or she had to snatch the brush away before I ruined my study.

  “Yes, I was born Rosa. I dress and act this way so I can do my work in peace, just like you.”

  “Was… that why you chose me to be your apprentice?”

  Rosa scoffed at me waving away the notion with her hand. “I chose you because your drawings had heart. Though I must say, you are awful at pretending to be a man.”

  —

  I looked over my gauze covered fingers. The healer had done his magic, and I was sure that, besides a few bits of broken skin, my fingers were fine beneath the wrap. But Meridol was taking no chances.

  When we got back from the cemetery, Beatrice’s face had turned swiftly from puzzlement to abject horror. I wasn’t crying, but my voice was hoarse and my fingers probably looked like ground meat.

  She was sitting beside me now, and though she was embroidering, I could sense her worried gaze on me.

  I flipped the page of the picture book on my lap. It revealed an idyllic scenery of rolling hills, green pasture, and knight on a horse.

  It wasn’t as detailed as what Rosa had directed me to draw. No sunlight glistening off musculature.

  I was so naive to believe that I could’ve stayed and become a painter.

  Only ‘painter’s apprentice’ was available as one of the backgrounds for Joan in the game.

  The thought tore bitterly at a memory which I had held so dear.

  I never even said goodbye to Rosa when the voice called me to war.

  Meridol reappeared at the entrance, looking exhausted and haggard.

  “Are you feeling better now?” Her body was swaying as she asked the question. It was so heavy with concern that Beatrice looked over as well. “I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

  “Better,” I croaked.

  I realized from both their gazes that I wouldn’t be left alone tonight.

  That’s what one gets for asking to be killed.

  I flipped another page, and a princess appeared, doll-like with blue eyes, trapped in the flat drawing.

  I clutched at my chest as Rosa’s words echoed in my mind. Capture its soul. Maybe, I could also do the opposite. It was the very least I could do for torturing her so.

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  “Give... me… room…”

  Meridol’s eyes lifted. “A room for what?”

  I fought through the pain in my throat and moved my hand over the picture book. “Only me… draw.”

  It took me a few days to convey to them that I wanted a room to myself for painting. Even though [Demon Insight] allowed me to understand what they were saying, my spoken vocabulary was still rather limited, plus my vocal cords were still not used to speaking.

  I made them promise to let no one else into the room. “Only me…” I had repeated stubbornly.

  In exchange, I promised Meridol I would never cast spells there.

  “Won’t you need help cleaning it?” Beatrice worried.

  I didn’t mention to her that as long as there was no dung, I would be fine even as small as I am.

  To my surprise, this world actually had tubes of paint. That made setting my palette much easier than back then. No more grinding pigments and then mixing them.

  But first, I worked on sketches using pencil, just to get my still short fingers used to the movement. I’d sketched day and evening, squeezing every last bit of detail from my memory, until Meridol called me out of my room to feed me and put me to bed.

  Then I used light paint and a small brush to draft and draft again until my strokes brought out the essence of her, those eyes, and her smile.

  Rosa always said, I had a way of drawing the heart.

  After months spent in this room all by myself, my brush finally applied the thick layer of heavy paint upon the canvas. I drew the lustrous strands of her chestnut hair, the soft curve of her face, her sapphire eyes, and then filled out with red, pink and orange her radiant smile.

  Then I drew down in her arms, a little girl with equally bright, blue eyes, a head of wavy, natural-blue hair, and a soft-easy smile.

  Mother and daughter, the way it should be.

  It wasn’t really a release. But here as we stared at it, was a moment of solace.

  —

  I stayed in the room often to stare at the painting. I sensed the child longing to see it, to be on the other side of that painting.

  It soothed me to be there.

  Before I knew it, I began painting other subjects as well, Maman and Papa offering me food on my name day, kids dancing during harvest, the fish in the clear streams, and even the scene of the morning light cascading over the fields at dawn.

  Some color splashed over monochrome memories, even if it wasn’t quite the same.

  Then I made the mistake of trying to draw my original family. I drew my father Daniel’s wild greying hair and bushy beard, his large eyes. I drew my mother Sylvie’s thin face and pronounced nose, her long flowing waves of light amber.

  I grasped at more than their faces: my father’s deep laugh, my mother’s airy laugh. Her scent… was it floral? It slipped away like smoke through my fingers.

  I drew Allison and her thick glasses and her oval face.

  Yes, that’s right, she had dark hair as well.

  But my brush faltered at the blank canvas for me. My trembling fingers drew out the dark blob for my hair… and that was it. I had tried so hard to remember the name and words, but I didn’t realize I had already lost myself… forever.

  A chasm opened beneath me. That pillar I’d clung to for so long... It was gone. I had been clinging to a ghost that had long since departed.

  I crumpled to the ground, the brush, the palette, the dirty paint water splattered beside me.

  I sat and stared at the blank canvas with the black blob, being glad that the room was mine alone.

  There was nothing left of me.

  —

  “Did you get Winthrop’s present?” Meridol asked as we hiked up the hill in the back of the estate.

  “Yes, I learned a spell from it.” I said, my eyes tracking a pebble that I had kicked over the dirt path.

  “You can read and cast magic already? Surely my lady is a…” Beatrice’s voice was quickly cut off by either a glare or sharp shake of the head from Meridol.

  We walked in silence under the soft crunch of gravel beneath our shoes.

  Finally, Meridol spoke, her voice careful and measured as if she had been thinking through this for a while. “Your birthday. The Duke meant to celebrate it. But with all the chaos around the factions, he’s been quite busy.”

  I turned to Meridol and looked into her eyes. “Did you visit her grave?”

  “I did,” Meridol replied with a start. She stumbled back a step.

  “Good.”

  We stopped at a clearing atop the hill and set down our picnic blanket. Down below, the world was laid out like a painter's study. The castle and village sat at its heart, a patchwork of green and gold fields spreading from them until they met the dark, unbroken line of the forest.

  “Oh, it’s so beautiful!” Beatrice gushed, shielding her eyes as they took in the sweeping view.

  In another time, I could have envisioned Monsieur Roselin and I standing before our canvases and painting such a breathtaking scene. But now, the only canvas that stared back at me was that black blob.

  “Come on, My Lady. Let’s fly the kite together!” Beatrice shouted and ran off with the kite in hand.

  I put on my best smile and chased after her.

  When I came back after telling Beatrice I was tired, Meridol was waiting with a sandwich and teacup in hand.

  She waited for me to eat the sandwich. It had a creamy cheese with dill and herbs, and the bread was soft.

  I sipped the tea, and as the warm herbal liquid rolled over my tongue, she finally spoke. “I didn’t take you to her grave that night to accuse you.”

  My tea cup settled in its saucer with a soft clack. I felt the breeze shift around me, billowing my dress.

  “I shouldn’t have said those things to you when you were young. I always knew you were an extraordinary girl, always so very aware. I shouldn’t have called you little demon. I shouldn’t have blamed you…”

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment, and then she grabbed my hand. “Josephine, my dear, what’s wrong? Ever since we came back, you’ve been holed up in that room of yours. And every time I looked at you when you came out, it looked like the soul had left your eyes.”

  I didn’t know how to answer except to numbly shake my head.

  She held on, her grip tightening. “I know you blame yourself. Don’t. I know how deep that despair can go. You’re not evil. I know because you’re my child.”

  I stared back into her eyes. The familiar crow’s feet. The orbs that had stared down at my face that first night. There were more lines on her face now.

  Here is someone who loves me now.

  I had promised myself I’d live life to the fullest going forward, and there I was clinging to a painted past.

  It’s gone. I can’t bring it back no matter how much I stare at it.

  The wind kicked up, lifting my hair up. I saw Beatrice waving to me as her kite soared.

  I waved back.

  Then I looked over at the woman who had held and fed me all this time. She had read to me and yelled at me. She had raised me. A warmth spread through my chest, chasing away the cold that had settled in my bones in that lonely room. I leaned in and hugged her, inhaling the scent that I so intimately knew. “Thank you, Mama.”

  For her, for them, I need to break all the curses and bindings that held me.

  I need to find a solace from fate.