The Season (Season Series #1)

Chapter 13.1: Libby the Art Critic

"You certainly know your way around here!" I said, as Georgina led us deeper into the Far East exhibit, into a room with nearly a full battalion of terra cotta soldiers.

"My family is close friends with the curator," she said, as she led me through another room of antique china and teapots, "I always begged my governess to take me here so I could learn things without having to listen to her talk,"

I laughed anew as we finally reached one of the many rooms that housed the museum's collection of paintings.

"Look, this one was always my favorite," she said, pulling me over to a smaller painting tucked in a corner. It featured a woman sitting by a window, her eyes turned towards the painter as her face turned towards the window. The window looked over a harbour, where ships dotted the water.

"She seems cheeky," I said, studying the subject. Georgina smiled up at the painting.

"She's supposedly an admiral's wife waiting for her husband to return. One of the ships in the lagoon is supposedly his," she said.

"What a boring life," I said, moving to the next picture. Georgina scoffed, still looking up at the painting.

"How can you say that! Look at her dress and her jewels! And the room she's sitting in! Clearly she wants for nothing!" she protested. I shrugged.

"And yet she's still facing the window, longing for her husband to come home. How lonely," I said, looking up at the next painting, one I recognized immediately as an interpretation of the myth of Parthimos, the man who broke so many women's hearts, the goddess of love cursed him by making him fall in love with the virginal goddess of wisdom who would never love him back. Parthimos was kneeling, pleadingly reaching up towards where the goddess of wisdom was blatantly ignoring him, focusing instead on the glowing golden scroll in her hands. On the other side of the painting were the dozen women with broken hearts reaching for Parthimos, their faces twisted in the agony of heartbreak. I made a face as I looked it over.

"I don't much like this one either, the legend is so much better in books," I said, turning to walk to the next painting, only to see someone already standing in front of it. Behind me, Gerogina let out a gasp, dropping a curtsey.

"You're not much for Hawthorne I take it?" Prince Andrew asked, watching me in amusement as I sank into a curtsey, blushing that he'd overheard me.

"Oh it's very pretty and all, but I much prefer the Parthimos I'd imagined as a girl," I said, looking back at the painting over my shoulder. In the painting, he had long, curly hair and wore a toga as I'm sure was the custom in the time of the myth itself. In my head, however, I always pictured him a a foppish duke with a gaggle of frilly ladies pining over him.

"I'll admit I've never heard anyone describe Hawthorne's work as 'very pretty'," Andrew grinned.

"What can I say, your Highness? I tend to prefer my own imagination to art," I shrugged, fighting my own smile.

"So you'd prefer books over paintings?" he persisted, knotting his hands behind his back. When I nodded, he glanced at the painting he was standing in front of.

"In that case, I'm curious. What are your thoughts on this one?" he said, gesturing to the painting that dominated the wall before him.

I came to stand in front of it, dramatically pressing a fist to my mouth as I looked it over. Georgina stifled a giggle from where she was still hovering near the painting of the admiral's wife. The painting before me now was of a great feast, a king and queen at the center of the table with various attendants around them. I ran my eyes over the painting, studying it. I was sure I'd heard one of my arts mistresses talking of it before, but I couldn't for the life of me remember who painted it or what it was supposed to be.