Anna stared in delight and awe at the paintings of Verescinthe DeAngelli.  There weren't just four, there were six!  True, two were small studies, but they were brilliant.  The gallery also displayed, unusually, two paintings by Verescinthe's husband, Davi.  Both were wildly colorful landscapes, lovely and mountainous and very Shandorian.  Anna had spent only a few moments on them, though, before going to stand before the DeAngellis. 

She picked out one at once as her favorite.  An armored figure stood at the window of a white tower.  The sky was the red of sunset, and the figure, a strong featured but beautiful woman with gold hair, wore a crimson cloak.  The figure was a common one in Shandorian art: the hero Amryn at the castle siege, from the Corestemarian war, but Verescinthe had made the scene moody and heartbreaking, rich with color and shadow.  The woman's hand, wrapped around the hilt of a black greatsword, had the thin delicate lines of old scars and her eyes, deep set and haunting, were a brilliant glowing green, catching the dying light. 

The next painting was more airy, full of clouds over mountains.  A man in the foreground was laughing, his handsome face daubed with a few spots of blue paint.  He had a canvas, too, and his style was carefully and fondly mimicked upon it.  Beside him, in a dark corner of the painting amid tumbled rock formations, a neater and more subdued young man with black hair seemed nearly to disappear into Verescinthe's rich shadows.  Children climbed rocks on the other side of the canvas, under the eye of a red-haired girl who had her back to the painter.

            The red-haired girl appeared again in one of the small studies.  She looked about Anna's own age, with freckles and green eyes, and a bit of a similarity to Lady Hellin Blackfeather.  She was quite possibly an ancestor, Anna considered.  The painting was almost a hundred years old.  She decided to bring Lady Blackfeather here next time so she could ask if any of her grandmothers and great-aunts had known the famous artist, or even apprenticed with her.  With Lady Blackfeather, at least she would have an ally about art.  One who wouldn't go shocky at every single nude.

            Tam had returned, she noted, and was trying hard not to stare at the large reclining statue in the center of the room.  Instead, he studied a battle scene on the other wall.

            Anna put all thoughts of annoyance out of her head as she drank in yet another stunning DeAngelli.  This one showed a family of darkly warm-skinned people in a library of books and scrolls, their bright clothing echoing the jewel tones of the stained glass in the background.  A paler elderly man was reading to them, and one very small child vied with the book for a place in his lap.  

            "That's where I've seen colors like yours," a low male voice with an Arienish accent said, behind her.  Anna turned to find Varden Chauncellor standing there, in a severe dark blue greatcoat, holding Morly's hand.  "Your style is similar to DeAngelli's."

            "She's my favorite," Anna said, smiling at Varden and Morly.  There was a cough from across the gallery. Anna looked over at Tam, who gave Varden's back a pointed glare.  She ignored him.  "Verescinthe DeAngelli was the greatest Shandorian painter."

            "She was Arienish," Varden said, though not disagreeably.  "She married a Shandorian landscape painter."

            "Davi Sheridan, yes." Anna said.

            "Her style changed a good deal, between her work in Arien and that done in Shandor."

            "I thought there was no work surviving from her early years," Anna said.

            "There's some controversy over it."  Varden directed Anna's eye to another painting, rich with shadows, of a cathedral interior where a dark scene from Arienish mythology was unfolding.  "You see the plaque says this was by the master of Sente Gavrelle, but it was rumored at the end of his long life that most of his last work was done by his promising secret pupil."

            "Verescinthe," Anna breathed.  The shadows and the rich reds and blues were unmistakable.

            "But then came the revolution.  She fled, Sente Gavrelle's studio burned along with a quarter of Logansburg and the royal palaces, and she resurfaced years later in Shandor, with a different style."

            "You don't like it as well," Anna guessed.

            "She painted battles and histories when she was younger.  Later it was landscapes, flowers, and children.  Her subject matter became . . ." Varden trailed off, perhaps looking for some polite phrase.

            "Softer?  More feminine?" Anna raised an eyebrow.  "Maybe she'd seen enough blood.  She did paint battles later, though, and histories.  There are some especially large and impressive works at the castle in Shandor."

            "Where no one can see them without venturing into the wild wastes."

            Another cough, sounding aggrieved this time, came from Tam's direction.  Anna ignored it, but not Varden's comment.  "The wild wastes of Shandor might surprise you. This is the view from the north tower of that castle."  She indicated another DeAngelli, a sweeping vista of mountains and waterfalls with tiny figures climbing down the tumbled rocks.

            "You've traveled a great deal then."

            "All my life," Anna said amiably.  The K'shay tanna clans of Shandor were nomadic, after all, and her own family more than most, following the Blackfeathers everywhere.

            "Have you been to Narmos?" Morly asked, with curiosity.  Varden hushed him quickly. 

            "No."  Anna wondered when this was leading.

            "We have," Morly said.  "We were.  We didn't see much."

            "There's nothing to talk about there."  Varden frowned.

            "But isn't your father giving a lecture all about it?" Anna asked.  "I thought you might present a paper there."

            Varden blinked at her, his intense blue eyes surprised.  "I didn't know you'd read any of my, er . . ."  His face clouded.  "Well, it's all off anyway.  There won't be a lecture."

            "Father's really angry.  Thieves took everything we brought back," Morly said.

            "Hush," Varden told him, a little sharply.

            "And it's a secret, so don't tell," Morly added, apologetically.

            "I'm so sorry," Anna said.  There was misery in Varden's eyes and in Morly's too.

            "Father is yelling and throwing things, so we wanted to be somewhere pretty instead," Morly continued, encouraged by Anna's sympathy.

            Varden looked pained.  "Morly, the lady doesn't need to hear all this.  It isn't polite to say."

            "Oh."  Morly's voice was small.

            "I'm very sorry to hear you won't be speaking," Anna said to Varden, sincerely.  "I was looking forward to that lecture."

            Varden's lips parted.  "Oh.  Well . . . have you seen the Berdrach collection?  It's across town.  My father knows Lord Berdrach.  I could get us in.  Did you, would you, like to go?  Tomorrow?  I could send my coach for you.  That is, if you wished it."

            Anna's world spun a little.  The Berdrach was not a collection anyone but well connected nobility got to see.  "I, I'll have my, er, coachman bring me.  Tomorrow."  Anna glanced over at Tam.  Varden followed her gaze.  "Ah, so that's what that lout is doing in the gallery.  Tomorrow, then.  At two?"

            "Um, yes, thank you."

            "Dear young lord Chauncellor," a familiarly shrill voice exclaimed, interrupting them.  "You will be attending Mister Pumphrey's lecture of course, won't you?"

            Varden turned incredulous eyes on a woman in a violet turban who was crossing the room with a small collection of people in clashing colors, and a thin man with no chin and a funny moustache. 
            "There will be a seance beforehand, in the Derdrien house, at dusk.  The place is an anchor for spirits, you know.  We shall be calling on the spirits of departed loved ones.  If you came we could perhaps even contact your dear mother," the woman gushed.

            Anna saw the flash of fury and disgust in Varden's eyes before he spoke.  "I've seen my share of charlatans and bald-faced liars, thank you.  I am not interested in your parlor tricks.  Pray go practice your weak wiles on the dull-witted."  Varden wheeled on the mustached man, whose eyes opened wide.  "Unscientific fools and the uneducated masses may have tolerated you, but here you'll find people aren't as gullible."

            Varden grabbed Morly's hand firmly and wheeled away, leaving the gallery and the shocked spiritualists behind him.

            Tam collected Anna in much the same way.  "Let's get out of here.  Those people aren't right, somehow." 

            They were halfway down the gallery passage when Tam at last slowed and frowned.  "What was that about a coachman?"