I spared a glance toward where he sat near Gadfly’s throne. He looked elegant but uncomfortable on the brocade chair that had been brought for him, bent over restlessly with his elbow resting on his thigh, half-listening to whatever Lark was prattling into his ear. He caught me looking, and our eyes met. I noticed, for no particular reason, that a lock of dark hair had fallen over his cheek. Quickly, I returned my attention to my work.
For Foxglove’s portrait, I had chosen human joy. It seemed to me that what passed for joy among fair folk came in two varieties. The first was something akin to the self-righteous, frigid gladness a cheated-on wife might feel upon hearing that her husband’s mistress had taken a fatal fall down a flight of stairs. The second was a vain, selfish, and indulgent pleasure: a rich nobleman calculating that his silver mine had earned so much money he could survive on caviar alone for the next three centuries, were he to live long enough to enjoy it.
And so as I inked Foxglove’s features in blueberry pigment with the tip of Rook’s quill, I gave her the swelling, radiant joy of being swept up in a lover’s arms; of seeing a beloved figure coming down the road after months apart, and recognizing his silhouette against the morning light. Without the crisp and glossy perfection of oil paint on canvas there was something raw about my work, less beautiful, less realistic, but stronger. A stray line by Foxglove’s mouth that I couldn’t correct suggested she was holding in a smile. Laughter welled up behind her crinkled eyes. Working in this imperfect medium made it easier to transmute humanity, the court alchemist turning gold back into lead.
When I was finished, I rose and curtsied. Foxglove approached to take the sheaf of bark from the stand. All around, the court held an indrawn breath. No one spoke, and I sensed an unusual stillness from Gadfly’s direction. Though only a heartbeat passed, a lone heartbeat in which Foxglove expressionlessly scanned my work, the pressure built and built in my chest until I felt like screaming.
“Oh, how quaint!” she exclaimed in a high, clear voice like the ringing of a fork against a crystal glass. She turned the portrait just long enough for the waiting fair folk to have an unsatisfying half-second look, and then whipped it around again to resume her own perusal. The quality of her smile had changed. She had an empty look in her eyes. While the court whispered gaily behind her, the prior tension diffused, she stood there frozen, staring at a version of herself that felt human joy. No one noticed the oddness of it but me.
No one but me and Gadfly, I corrected myself, and Rook, glancing toward the throne again. They too watched Foxglove closely.
Lark’s words came back to me: Just like how Gadfly knows things before they happen.
Earlier that morning, he had declined the honor of sitting for my first demonstration. I hadn’t made anything of it at the time, but now I wondered. Was he waiting for something? Something he had seen?
Movement fluttered in the corner of my eye. I looked back in time to see Foxglove walking briskly out of sight, the portrait held in front of her as though she’d unwillingly been given an infant to hold for the first time in her life.
Finely, almost imperceptibly, the feather shook between my fingers. I held my breath, seeking calm.
Swallowtail approached next. His flaw was his hair, which was spider-silk blond and so impossibly fine it floated about his head like milkweed fluff. He looked to be between Lark and Rook in age, and his large eyes and youthful features lent themselves well to an expression of human wonder. He dashed away clutching his portrait when I was finished and went down the line boastfully showing it to everyone, particularly those who had several hours left to wait.
The day stretched on. Each portrait was a single stepping-stone, the sum of which would form a path home. I lost count of how many portraits I did, marking them only by the emotions I used: curiosity, surprise, amusement, bliss. The pigments dwindled in their teacups.
Throughout it all I felt Rook watching me, and firmly avoided sorrow.
Every fair one reacted differently to seeing themselves transformed. Some laughed, as if at a delightful joke. Some flinched and giggled skittishly. Most of those, I observed, were younger-looking fair folk. Others, usually the older ones, stood and stared like Foxglove. And a few more went and sat down, gazing quietly into the distance, with such an inhuman expression I couldn’t begin to guess at their thoughts. Though fair folk ceased aging once they looked about like Gadfly, it seemed to me these were the oldest ones of all.
Painting straight through the day was as arduous as running a marathon. My right elbow ached from being held for hours in a bent position. My buttocks and knees became sore from sitting. My fingers—cramped around the quill—first grew stiff, and then painful, and then numb, joints spasming whenever I straightened them. Most of all, my face hurt from smiling. My frozen expression must have eventually become rather horrific, but none of the fair folk appeared to notice.
After a time, many of those who had had their portraits done gathered for games on the lawn. I was relieved to find myself no longer the sole focus of attention as the courtiers played shuttlecocks and ninepins nearby. A spirited atmosphere overtook the gathering. Behind me I heard, rather than saw, Rook shift in his chair. My smile grew genuine as I imagined how much it taxed him to stay put for so long.
Finally he exclaimed, “I must say I don’t see the point of sitting here any longer!” and trotted off to beat Swallowtail at lawn billiards. He then lost a game of blind man’s buff to Foxglove, but rallied and defeated everyone shamelessly at both ninepins and shuttlecocks. Lark fluttered behind him like an inquisitive butterfly as he proceeded to win every match in his path.
The fair folk played at a human speed, I noted with interest. Perhaps this was the only rule that provided a challenge. On several occasions, I saw a feathered projectile fly past a player at a distance they surely could have reached with little effort.
Rook had left his coat behind. Every time he twisted his body, an inch or two of his white shirt showed beneath his tightly fitted waistcoat, accentuating his slimness. His rolled-up sleeves put his muscular forearms on display, and the faintest sheen of sweat gleamed on his throat above his unbuttoned collar. Having seen him slay fairy beasts without perspiring, I recognized the exertion of holding himself back. With each swing, each strike, he struggled not to flaunt his power like a war-horse prancing stiffly in a flimsy parade harness.
Without warning, heat rushed through me. The morning before last—had he broken a sweat then, too? I remembered the way his hands had felt lifting me as though I weighed nothing, running down my sides, pressing me against the tree . . .
With burning cheeks, I finished contouring the lines of my subject’s hair, whipped it off the easel, and passed it on. He ran off laughing at the expression of befuddlement on his portrait’s face and settled into a game of ninepins. My next subject sat down, smoothing her skirts over bare, bird-frail knees.
The heat died like coals dashed across winter flagstones.