Each of my paintings had represented my best work up to that point, yet a sense of uncertainty lingered over Lord Niyulgen’s portrait. The image captured him with respect and realism, with only slight embellishments to flatter his form. He was pleased with the result, as was the crowd, who lavished us with praise. Yet, something felt amiss. Objectively, it surpassed my earlier attempts, such as the portrait of Rascal, but it lacked the daring detail that had defined my portrayal of Warlio Faringoth. In that piece, the interplay of shadows and the sternness beneath Lord Faringoth’s deep-set wrinkles imbued the work with a solemnity absent in Lord Niyulgen’s jovial, almost simpering expression.

  “It’s so magnificent!” exclaimed a Lady who intruded upon my personal space the moment I declared the piece finished. “Where did you learn to paint like this?”

  “She was not taught! It is pure talent; we all witnessed it. Who could teach someone to move her hands like a seddeveri? Not even Lord Revier, who practices the Path of Steel, could move so swiftly,” a man in the audience replied on my behalf, edging closer.

  “By the Three Suns, I am exhausted from standing straight for so long! But look at it—worth every moment!” The model himself politely requested passage, gently nudging the others aside, and seized our right hand to bestow a kiss upon it. I had little choice but to permit it. “Lovely! Simply lovely!”

  “I am glad it pleases you, Your Lordship,” I responded with a demure curtsey, using the motion to free our hand from his grasp.

  “I shall commission a framer immediately! This piece must be displayed while the paint is still fresh!” called a man from the back of the room, his hand raised as he snapped his fingers repeatedly—a signal for the nearest servant to attend him at once.

  A queue quickly formed before me, as everyone present deemed it a splendid idea to offer their compliments in turn. One by one, they approached, each attempting some form of contact: a handshake, a kiss upon our hand, or even a brief embrace or kiss upon the cheek—primarily from the Ladies, of course. Afterward, they would deliver a short, nearly rehearsed opinion of the spectacle they had witnessed. The next in line would then step forward.

  A social affair had bloomed around the portrait. The audience had not remained silent during the time it took me to complete the piece. They had conversed casually, wandered freely—even within my line of sight—sipped wine, and laughed. The sole unspoken rule had been to refrain from interrupting my work, regardless of proximity, and to avoid obstructing my view of the model. I could attribute my dissatisfaction with the portrait to these distractions, but the truth delved deeper.

  Tirrha and Rascal, who had purposely lingered at the back, were the last to approach me once everyone else had spoken their piece.

  “You were marvelous, kitten!” Tirrha praised as she clasped both of our hands. “I am so proud of you. How would you like to hear some good news to top it all off?”

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  “Nice, Aufelia! You really did it! Everyone is talking about how talented you are and how they will be lining up to be your next subject. You are going to be famous!” Rascal enthused, wrapping me in a tight embrace from the side.

  As the public began to turn away, it appeared as though another round of compliments was imminent. The situation had become overwhelming, and my interest had waned. Wasting no time, I excused myself, explaining that I was rather fatigued after working for so long and had yet to break my fast, though the hour had already passed noon. Tirrha, ever astute, deftly escorted me out, calming those who pressed to speak further. Only Rascal was permitted to follow us, while Fermina remained behind to handle those whom Tirrha could not easily dismiss.

  “I still believe our little secret project turned out much better,” Tirrha whispered conspiratorially once we were seated with food before us.

  “Ohh! Secret project? What do you mean?” Rascal had somehow heard. It made Tirrha burst into a giggle.

  “Ask your sister!” she mischievously suggested. “You will not hear it from me, I’m afraid. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “I shall tell you later,” I assured Rascal, perhaps with some sincerity, before turning to Tirrha. “There is something I would prefer you hear from me first,” I warned her, pausing solemnly. “I may have… struck your brother in the jaw, and I confess I do not regret it.”

  “Oh, I already know. Riatna told me as well,” Tirrha responded casually. “He called you a whore and tried to strike your sister, did he not? Grand moron. I warned him Father would hear of this. I only hope his thick skull did not injure your hand too badly.” She gently took it in hers, examining the knuckles where a small scrape had already scabbed over. Her touch was tender with concern.

  I omitted the fact that it had been Arkin, not her brother, who had insinuated Princess would perform sexual favors for monetary gain. This version of events sufficed.

  “Speaking of grand morons who deserve retribution, I have splendid news for you,” Tirrha continued, her tone brightening. “That evil maverick who attacked you—a man from the Constabulary came to Lady Telenhart’s home to inform us that he has been apprehended.”

  “Truly?” I begged clarification, incredulous.

  A magian apostate, captured by mere guards? The very notion seemed impossible! Though my father had organized an efficient system, no ordinary force could ever subdue a magian unwilling to be caught. They would have a hundred sigils at their disposal, ready to confound and manipulate those who sought them. How had such a feat been achieved? Seddeveri? Magians in their midst?

  “Truly,” she confirmed with a satisfied smirk. “They were asking after you. It seems they wish to speak about the return of your belongings.”

  “Dubart! Our belongings! My clothes—and all that money!” Princess exclaimed excitedly within me, though I could not even discern what surface she was reflecting from.

  Setting aside the dress, we had left behind nearly sixteen royal seals in a purse—a small fortune. That the authorities might return it was remarkable. A trip to Bernan seemed worth pursuing, if only for the possibility.

  “I asked them if a signed letter from you would be enough, but they really insist. They must see you in person,” Tirrha had already thought of a solution and had been shut down. She was upset about their refusal.

  “That’s great! I’ve wanted to go to town for the longest time! Can we go sometime soon, Aufelia? Can we?” Rascal pleaded, her voice brimming with eager sincerity. I responded by ruffling her hair as Tirrha pinched her cheek. It seemed we now had business in Bernan.

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