Working in a dead-end, post office job in the heart of a primarily-Human city, Arya Salcrest cannot let her secret out else she loses her rights and her safety. Norren Sterling, a member of the Council whom she met after a failed museum trip, is det...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
Eliott stared at the painting. In fact, it was all he did for the past five minutes or so. He glanced at the painter who stood beside the easel it perched on. The painter, a wiry man dressed in a plain robe with a scarf wrapped around his neck, ducked his head under Eliott's attention.
"Is it to Your Grace's liking?" the painter dared to probe. Under normal circumstances, he would be punished for speaking out of turn but Eliott's mind was far from protocol and formality. Especially when the painter has outdone himself, knocking Eliott's expectations out the window of this manor.
Right. It was easy to forget they weren't in Rosewall this time of the year. Every once in a while, the royal family, along with the higher Dukes from the adjacent duchies, retreated to the summer villa in Porte Valinten. It was in this dingy, old castle where they would be spending the celebration of the Summer Harvest Festival which the Porte's Duchy was in charge of facilitating. For once in Eliott's year, he got to truly relax.
Eliott glanced at the real window to the studio. Outside, the sculpted landscape burst with blobs of yellow and white. After all, summer marguerites and snow lilies were Porte Valinten's main line of trade. The Duke's paternal grandmother loved the flowers so much she had plastered the towns with them until they inflated with petals.
That reflected in the painting now standing in front of Eliott. The background was peppered with strokes of white and yellow, both blurred and defined. They went around the main subject situated in the middle of the scene. It was a lark. On its feet were about a dozen trinkets, scattered in a hazy array as if the bird couldn't decide what to take on its next journey. It was a mistlark, one of the types of larks that has some of the sweetest songs Eliott has ever heard.
He bobbed his head at the painter, having let the question thrown between them linger for too long. It created an illusion that he had really thought of what to say. "It's great," he said. "I thank you for your hard work. Expect the Crown to compensate you richly."
The painter bowed until his torso was parallel to the ground. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said. "The honor to have done this is enough."
Of course, it was merely formalities. The man, after all, had to eat. And the paint as well as the various brushes, canvases, and travel expenses must have cost a ton. It wasn't a cheap venture. That's why only the best flourished with them getting clients from the wealthy and royal classes.
Eliott jerked his chin at the painting. "Take good care in bringing it to Rosewall," he said. "I expect it to be installed in the Princesse Chambers as soon as possible. It's a gift, you see."
The painter ducked his head once more. "Dare I ask," he said as soon as he straightened. "Who's the lucky lady?"
The door to the studio flew open and spat out Sir Geoffer. Eliott beamed. "Ah, speak of the ghouls," he said. "Do you bring news?"
The affairs manager's face was tight. Drawn. Sweat beaded and dripped down the side of his face when he reached the spot where Eliott and the painter stood. "We need your presence, Your Grace," he said. "There's been a commotion in town."
