Alex nodded fervently, the previous conversation forgotten. “So much of the world outside these walls was simply not built for me, for this chair, for…all of it…. But with books, I can go anywhere, readily and unencumbered. I can stroll down the streets of Arcannus, solve a murder in Pelage, even see what your little islands are like.”
As he spoke, a spark of passion lit his face and I hurried to sketch what that looked like, merging it with my vision. “Where’s your favorite spot by the lake?” I asked, feeling inspired.
Alexander tilted his head in thoughtful deliberation. “There’s a grove of trees—”
“Stop!” I pushed my easel to the side as I stood. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”
“Oh my…,” I murmured, looking up.
Alex’s favorite trees towered above us, bending their thin branches down in a shower of bright pink blossoms and tiny green leaves. Sunlight filtered through them, creating a dazzling effect of dappled shadows and bursts of blinding white. Beyond the grove, an enormous lake spread before us. Its gray waters ran deep and little whitecaps skirted across the surface.
“It’s a weeping redbud,” Alexander explained, patting a papery white trunk as though they were old friends. “These are some of the only specimens in the whole of Arcannia.”
“Did the others…die?” I reached out to touch the flowers dancing around us. Their centers were a lovely shade of red, like little hearts tucked away within the showy blooms.
“No, Father only created so many.”
“He grew them?”
“Grafted,” he corrected. “That’s what he does. He’s a botanist. He experiments with strains of flowers, crossbreeding andcreating hybrids, but when he was younger, he loved working with trees. He made these five and even sent one to King Alderon. I’ve heard it’s still blooming somewhere on the palace grounds.”
“They’re incredible.” A breeze blew past, setting the branches into motion and filling the air with a light floral sweetness. “I can see why this is your favorite spot.”
“I like to watch the water,” he said, turning his attention to the lake. “It’s so mercurial—yesterday it looked nearly turquoise and was almost as still as a pond, without a hint of waves. Thentoday…” He gestured toward the choppiness. “Well, you would know all about that.”
I spread out the quilt Alexander had found us, positioning it directly beneath the tallest of the trees. He pushed down two levers against the wheels of his chair to keep them from moving as his valet, Frederick, stepped forward to help assist him from the chair.
Dauphine had not been joking. The man was the tallest I’d ever seen, a veritable giant and so very strong. He scooped Alexander up, as though he were no more than a child, before setting him onto the blanket. Frederick fussed over his legs for a moment, arranging Alex into a comfortable position, and a second servant was there with pillows for him to recline on.
“Thank you, Frederick, Johann,” Alexander said, nodding to them as they retreated. “They’ll stay nearby, in case they’re needed,” he explained, glancing back at me. “So what are we doing out here exactly?”
“This portrait is meant to be a representation of you—of you in this moment of your life. So many portraitists get bogged down in the trappings of it—the velvet swags, the globe and the library, the swords and the symbols. They’re all meant to bolster that feeling of importance in the subject, to make them seem larger than life, grander than their audience. But when you look back on yours, years and years from now, I want you to be able to recognize yourself. I want you to look at it and say, ‘There’s that young man who liked to read at the lake and look up at the weeping redbuds. What fun we used to have together.’ ”
Alexander studied me and, as the waves lapped upon the shore and the curtains of blossoms swayed around us, I wonderedif I’d said too much, if he thought my speech insufferable and pretentious, the aspirations of a novice painter who had no business capturing the image of a future duke.
“That’s…I’ve never heard anyone so eloquently express such sentiments. I feel…I feel exactly the same way. There are so many here in Bloem who put on that show of importance—like you said—valuing the appearance of something over its content. They’re more concerned about how they’re perceived than who they truly are. The People of the Salt may be hung up on prosaic formalities but the People of the Petals are so wrapped in artifice we can’t look deeper than surface level on anything. That—that—is why I shall add the alyssum to my crest, Father be damned.”
“A worth beyond beauty,” I said, his words from last night echoing in my mind. “I’d guessed your differences were over more than just a little flower.”
He nodded. “We havesomany differences, Father and I. So many warring opinions. I don’t think we, as a people, were always like this, craving the new, the flawless. We need to go back to the older ways, the simpler times.” His jaw hardened. “Father obviously thinks not.”
“What will others think?”
Alex shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not, but youdoworship a goddess of love and beauty. I imagine Arina’s postulants would have quite a bit to say on the matter. I can’t even guess what our High Mariner would do if Camille suddenly declared a moratorium on going out to sea.”
His eyebrows drew together in a thick, dark line. “You misunderstand me. I don’t want to ban what Arina represents—thatwould be impossible. Beauty exists everywhere in the world. Love resides in all of us. That’s the point. I only…I only want to deepen that. Show that there can be—that thereshouldbe—substance in it all. Of course a bride on her wedding day is beautiful, but that radiance doesn’t diminish in old age, when she’s too tired to keep up with whatever ridiculous fashions the shops and salons put out. I know Arina smiles upon an old couple walking down the road together, hand in hand, firm in their commitment to one another. There is love in caring for the sick, the weak, the ugly. A wilting flower holds just as much splendor as one on the cusp of opening. People are so quick to idolize the fresh and the new. They fetishize it.” He rubbed at his forehead, his eyes bright with fervor. “Why should we celebrate one without the other?”
“We shouldn’t,” I said, my hand furious at work as I raced to put this moment on paper. I wanted to capture the exact tilt of his head, the passion and conviction coloring his face, the fire inhis eyes.
This. This was what Alexander’s portrait would look like.
We stayed by the lake until long afternoon shadows crept across the grounds.
Dauphine sent trays laden with fresh bread and cold roasted meats, cheeses and fruit for an impromptu picnic. Later, a cart appeared with a full tea service and towers of little cakes that looked like tiny works of art.
I filled nearly half my book with bits and pieces of Alexander. There were dozens of studies on his hands, the curve of his smile, his eyes. The drawings became more detailed as I grew familiar with his shapes and lines. Some of the renderings seemed to come right off the page, perfect copies of him.
