Anna Darvin dipped her brush into a pool of cadmium red, dabbed a few roses onto some loosely set up bushes, and frowned, looking up to compare her painting against the view of the Archeological Society gardens.  There was a quality of light to the blooms that she was missing.  She considered adding a touch of ochre. 

            “How do you feel?  Are you tired?  I could get you more tea,” Djaren offered.

            “I’m not ill any longer.”  Anna made a good-natured bad face at Djaren’s concerned one.  “I’m only thinking.  You needn’t hover.” 

            The fever had been awful, and Anna wanted to forget it.  Everyone had gone about smiling at her, but then talking in hushed whispers, and speaking in worried voices to the grim-faced doctors who came for weeks.  Anna had been no end weary and frustrated by it all, especially the knowledge that she was missing what could have been a glorious holiday in the capital city of Germhacht, with all its famous art museums and sculpture gardens.  The thought that she might not get to see the paintings of Veriscinthe DeAngelli had been worse than the fear of losing all her hair.  She hadn’t lost her hair, though, and despite all the grim whispers and talk of writing her parents to leave the archeological dig and come to Germhacht, she had gotten through everything perfectly.  She jabbed some ochre about with her palette knife.

            “Well, you’re still as pale as an Arienish lady,” Djaren informed her.  “It looks all wrong.  And it’s your first day outside after everything.  You should be careful.”  He picked up the mirror she’d been using for better light and pointed it at her.  Anna’s own reflection glared briefly back at her, and then laughed.  The girl in the mirror was not the usual tanned and grinning Anna Darvin, of the Standing Rocks clan of northern Shandor, but an aristocratically pale and bright-eyed young lady of fourteen in a new be-ribboned frock, with spots of pink on her cheeks and her black hair done up neatly in curls instead of flying about all unruly.  She looked a bit like one of the portraits in the hotel salon.  She batted away the mirror and the stranger in it.

            “I’m sitting quietly.  You’re the one hopping up and down.  Put my mirror back at once just as it was.  It was lighting my canvas.”

            “I’m sorry,” Djaren said, carefully setting the mirror back.  “I am, it’s just . . . you’ve never been sick before.  It scared us.”

            “I know.  Stop bouncing the chair.”

            “Sorry.”  He was, too.  Djaren Blackfeather was a slim, apologetic bundle of hyperactive energy with green eyes and spectacles.  Anna had long ago despaired of ever trying to capture his likeness in paint.  He never sat still except while reading.  Djaren was about her own age, more or less, but he really didn’t look it.  Both the Blackfeather children were a good deal smaller than their contemporaries.  It made Djaren’s anxious look rather sweeter than it might have been.

            “I would like some tea, I think, Djaren.  Thank you.” 

            He grinned.  “I’ll go at once, and I’ll hurry back.  Do you want lemon?  I’ll get you lemon too.  And cream.  And cakes.”  He dashed off along the balcony, and Anna found herself able to concentrate on her work again.

            She had fixed the roses and started into some details on the windows of the conservatory in the middle ground when she sensed that someone was near.

            Anna looked up, ready to send Djaren on some other errand, when she found that her visitor wasn’t Djaren at all, but a tall and good-looking young man in a fashionable longcoat, with very blue eyes and an intent, serious expression.

            “Pray don’t let me intrude,” he said at once, when she turned.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.  You’re quite good.”  His voice was low, with a charming Arienish accent.

            “Oh.”  For a moment, Anna was lost for words.  Dashing young noblemen didn’t often compliment her work.  Dust-covered workmen and fetching boys sometimes admired her sketches at the dig site, but this was rather different.

            “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.  I should not have spoken to you, unintroduced.  I quite forgot myself looking at your painting.”

            “No, it’s no trouble.”  Anna found her voice, and smiled at the young man.  He was seventeen, maybe, with good bones in his face, and lovely shading.  The shadows cast by the hair around his deep-set eyes made for some nice, intense darks.  Cobalt blue and a touch of burnt umber, Anna decided.  “I was about to set it aside.”

            “Don’t let me interrupt you, please.”

            She set her brushes in their porcelain cup of thinner.  “I can’t do much until I’ve more Ellesmere yellow, in any case,” she pointed out, truthfully.

            “I could send someone for that.”  The young man seemed a little unsure.  His long fingers fidgeted with a pair of gloves.

            “Don’t think of it,” Anna said, smiling.  “I’ve someone coming back who can fetch it.”

            “Of course.”  The young man blushed a little.  “I should take my leave.   I’ve some books to collect from the library.”

            “Are you a scholar?”

            “Yes, oh, I’m terribly sorry, I have yet to introduce myself.  It’s--.”

            “Varden!” a boy’s voice cried happily.  A small boy careened around a corner of the balcony and stopped just short of rushing into them.  He stood blinking up at Anna with one hand full of somewhat crushed flowers. “Oh.”  The little boy smiled a little desperately and presented the flowers to Anna.

            “Morly,” the older boy moaned.

            “I am pleased to meet you both.” Anna nodded to each of them.  “Are you brothers?”

            “Yes.  I’m Morly.  I’m eight,” the little boy announced.  “You’re pretty.”

            “We should be going,” Varden said, looking a little pained.

            “Yes, you should.”  Djaren’s voice, oddly stiff, came from behind them.

            “Blackfeather.”  Varden turned, his face going hard.

            Anna felt the urge to strangle Djaren.  He circled the chair and easel, spectacles crooked, gripping an over-full tea tray.  “Chauncellor, the lady is trying to paint.  Do you mind?”

            “Is this who fetches your paints?” Varden asked.  “You could do much better.”

            “Go away.”  Djaren frowned.  “We were having a pleasant day before you appeared.”

            “I’m sure you were having a pleasant time, at least,” Varden said.  “Come along, Morly, we’ve people to see.  I must beg my leave, Lady--”

            “Anna,” Anna said.

            “Now leave,” Djaren said.

            “Perhaps I will have the pleasure of crossing your path again, Lady Anna, in one of the galleries.”  Varden bowed to Anna.

            Anna smiled, and Djaren glowered.

            Varden took his brother’s arm gently and led him away.  Morly waved as he was propelled out the door.

            Djaren set down the tea tray stiffly, and Anna tossed the flowers down on it.  “Why ever were you so rude to them, Djaren?”

            “Me rude?”  Djaren stared at her.  “That was Varden Chauncellor.  He’s a Chauncellor.  They’re born rude.”

            “The little one certainly wasn’t.”

            “Just wait.  Marlton Chauncellor is one of the most despicable of Father’s rivals.  He had an entire temple stolen from the ruins of Etruenai, and he keeps it in his garden.  He deals with thieves and corrupt officials, and he’s sold more treasures than ever he’s donated.”

            “That wasn’t Marlton Chauncellor.  That was Varden.”

            “He’s just as bad.”

            “How?”

            “Well, he doesn’t think much of Shandorians, or Father, or Uncle Eabrey, or any of their research.”

            “Isn’t most of their real research secret anyway?” Anna asked.

            “That isn’t the point.  He wouldn’t speak to you twice if he knew who you were, and that you worked as a simple documentation artist for Father.”

            Anna frowned.  “You think that.”

            “I know that.”

            “I believe I’m quite ready to go in now,” Anna said stiffly.

            “What did I say?” Djaren asked.

© Ruth Lampi 2010