The next morning, Sherwood waited in Lady Dulgath’s private study, playing out a hunch. In many ways, he felt dishonest, even despicable given the circumstances, but he had to know. Sherwood went about his usual routine: adjusting the easel, setting the canvas, mixing his paints. He marveled at the exactness of his palette. He never cleaned the thing. The new oil kept the paint workable for days, and cleaning it would be a terrible waste—one of the other advantages of oil over egg, which dried up in minutes. Even with the oil, an inevitable buildup formed as paint dried beyond his ability to reclaim, but palettes were cheap and eventually he would replace the whole thing. He’d had this one for a while; none of the original wood was visible on the paint side. Even the backside was a mess of smudges and multicolored fingerprints—and every one was exactly the same as it had been. Sherwood didn’t know how, but he was certain Lady Dulgath was responsible.
I consider it my failure. I’m responsible, and I’ll make it right again.
Maybe it had been a coincidence that she’d said that, but deep down he was so certain. A feeling wasn’t the same as the truth, though, so Sherwood waited while watching the sunrise, its light creeping across the ceiling and down the wall.
If she’d had nothing to do with it, Nysa wouldn’t expect a session. No one else knew about the miracle except Melborn, and Sherwood was convinced he didn’t care enough to say anything. So if Lady Dulgath came to the study, it would prove her involvement.
And what will that mean? He didn’t know, didn’t care. One thing at a time.
He finished mixing, then set the palette knife down. Hopping onto the stool, he wiped his hands on a rag, then returned to watching the sun creep while he waited.
He didn’t hear her walking; he never did, at least not her feet. The dress was what he heard, that familiar swish, swish. Lady Dulgath entered, as she always did, without a word or glance. She wore the same gold silk-brocade dress, had the fox stole wrapped around her shoulders, and held the riding gloves. Moving to her mark on the floor, she turned, lifted her chin, and looked at the chandelier.
“Thank you,” he said.
The two words just came out. Sherwood had run through a dozen different conversations in his head, everything from pointing an accusing paintbrush at her to kneeling at the lady’s feet and weeping. He’d been undecided on what he would really do if she came. Now he knew and was pleased with the simplicity—so much better than weeping.
“For what?” Her words were aloof, her eyes still on the chandelier.
“I honestly don’t know.”
This made her look at him.
“You don’t know why you’re thanking me?”
“For restoring my property, certainly, but…I don’t know what you did or—perhaps more to the point—how you did it. So, while I thank you for the gift, I’m not really sure what exactly I’m thanking you for. Does that make sense?”
“It does not.”
“But you did repair my easel, brushes, and paints.”
She looked down at his tools with squeezed lips and squinted eyes. “Oh, that’s right. Are those new?”
“No, they aren’t. They are the same ones that were destroyed. Somehow you managed to put them back together for me, down to the last sable hair in this brush.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If it wasn’t you, how did you know to come here this morning?”
She resumed looking at the chandelier. “Habit.”
“Habit?”
“Yes. To be honest, I’d forgotten about your mishap of yesterday. You’ve had me doing this for so long, I act by rote now, which, as I think on it, is most disturbing. You need to finish this foolish painting so I can have my mornings back. This has gone on far too long.”
She lifted her chin and blanked her face.
“I know you,” he said. Once more, the words came out without thought, as if a pipe ran directly from his mind to his mouth and someone had flipped open the spigot.
“No, you don’t,” she said.
“Oh, but I do. I can see who you really are. I can see what you’re so desperately struggling to hide from everyone. I can see it clearly—and it’s beautiful.”
“If you knew the real me, you wouldn’t think me beautiful.”
“But I do, and you are—beautiful and wonderful and wise and…and I—” Sherwood caught himself. He looked at the restored easel, at the miracle before him, and threw caution to the wind. “I love you, Nysa.”
There. Sherwood felt as if he’d expelled some kind of poison that had sickened him for weeks. Saying it filled him with relief and joy. The euphoric sensation lasted all of a second; then reality crashed down.
What have I done?
He expected either outrage or laughter. If the former, guards would be throwing him out of the castle. If the latter, his heart would break. Instead, Nysa Dulgath slowly shifted her gaze to him. Pity was in her eyes, a deep, mournful sadness so pained that Sherwood trembled.
A tiny almost-smile stole over her lips, a bitter, painful face. “You don’t know me, Sherwood. No one does, and no one ever will. Just paint. Can you do that?”
He nodded, a terrible emptiness filling him.
Sherwood took his noon meal outside, sitting in the grass of the courtyard. The day was perfect, as every day in Dulgath had been since he’d arrived.
It never rains.
He only then realized this and found it odd he hadn’t noticed before. The skies were perpetually blue. There was always a light, warm breeze, never hot. He sat in the shade along the south wall near an overgrown area where the scattered stones of the crumbled tower made scything the grass too much trouble to bother. He had his back to one of the great blocks and his legs outstretched toward the statue of a man and a woman kissing. Of the many wonderful pieces of artwork at Castle Dulgath, this was Sherwood’s favorite. The two figures intertwined and blended at the base, as if they were part of a tree trunk. Then, as the torso twisted up, a man and woman appeared like the frayed ends of a rope. The two embraced on the edge of a kiss, their lips a hairsbreadth apart, eyes closed, ecstasy on their faces.
The statue stood partially hidden in the tall grass, behind a wild bush and maverick tree. No one came there. No one visited that side of the castle, and at first he’d lamented the statue’s isolation. He felt others should see its beauty and incredible artistry, which went beyond depicting the human form, lifting it above reality into the scope of what ought to be. Raw emotion formed from cold stone, the sculpture captured a moment of longing and triumph, passion and love.
What else is there to hope for with any art? To capture not just truth but a truth worthy of display, one that provides comfort, joy, or understanding, and moves the heart or makes it pause.
As the weeks had gone by, Sherwood came to see this neglected corner of the courtyard, this tranquil place of quiet solitude, as his. He appreciated its seclusion. The statue—those inspirational lovers lost in the forgotten weeds of a fallen past—gave him hope for the future. At times, when the shadows were just right, he thought the woman looked vaguely like Nysa. The cheeks were far too high and sharp, the face too long, but he obviously wasn’t seeing with just his eyes.
He heard feet swishing through grass and was surprised to see Rissa Lyn coming toward him. No buckets this time. Instead, she carried a curled-up bit of parchment.
“Pardon me, sir.” She halted the moment he turned her way and gave a curtsy. “I have a message for you.”
“From whom?”
“Chamberlain Wells gave it to me, sir, but he says it’s from Her Ladyship.”
“Lady Dulgath?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sherwood nearly toppled his plate in an effort to stand. “Let’s have it then.”
He reached out, but Rissa Lyn hesitated. She had a troubled look in her eyes.