The Painter's Apprentice

Chapter 19

Queen Henriette's cadre of simpering Fae courtiers takes some time to warm up to me, but by the end of the meal, they seem less annoyed at my presence in their midst. Few deign to make polite conversation with me, but a small handful solicits my opinion on the artists of the day and their latest works. I even secure three portrait commissions.

The party proceeds from dinner to a private concert in the Apollo's Bath Grove where Henriette keeps me alarmingly close to her. The towering rock sculpture dotted with caves, waterfalls, and marble statues serves as the impressive backdrop to a stage filled with a troupe of musicians. A full moon and gilded candelabra light the grotto.

There are a few stools placed in front of the stage, but not nearly enough for everyone in attendance to have one. My pulse races as queen Henriette pulls me towards the coveted seats. She places me in a seat beside a remarkably beautiful Fae with a round, innocent face and piercing blue eyes.

The woman's face brightens at the sight of me and she flashes me a dazzling smile. She wears a pale blue gown that matches her eyes.

"Mademoiselle Florette," Queen Henriette says. "I would like to formally introduce you to my sister Madamoiselle Charlotte la Duchesse D'Amboise."

My chest tightens when I realize who I have been introduced to. This is Destan's mark. The woman whose favor he is trying to gain. My instincts tell me to run — that I've wandered too far into Destan's charade. I ignore my instincts and recall my training.

"The painter! Monsieur Morel's apprentice?" Charlotte exclaims with a brilliant smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes as if his name brings her pain.

"I'm afraid I'm his apprentice no more," I reply. My lips press into a sympathetic smile though I'm not sure why. Morel never mentioned her, never passed a single sketch of her to me for painting.

Charlotte shakes her head and her powdered blonde ringlets tremble violently. "Such a terrible loss," she says. "He was such a lively addition to our parties, but we cannot live in the past can we?" She downs the remaining champagne from her glass. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's Mademoiselle Florette."

Satisfied with our introduction, Queen Henriette grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. One for me and one for herself, and she takes a seat on a stool positioned at center-stage.

"Mademoiselle Florette..." Charlotte muses. "You have no family name? No title?"

"No. I –" I hesitate to give her a full account of my personal history, but I trust Lafayette's belief that it will do more harm to pretend I'm someone I'm not. "I was living in an orphanage when Monsieur Morel discovered me," I say with the hope that my modesty will likely be rewarded with pity and not contempt.

Charlotte clutches her empty glass to her chest. "He was the kindest man, wasn't he?"

"I suppose you could say that." I wouldn't name kindness as one of Morel's virtues, but memory is often tainted with idealism. "I certainly owe him a lifetime of gratitude."

"Certainly. I can only imagine what an honor it was to be his protege. And the painting of General Bordelon — your second portrait of him, I believe. Absolutely stunning."

"Stunning?" A woman sits down on my other side. Clearly she had been eavesdropping on our conversation. "Stunning doesn't do it justice," she says. The moonlight makes the veil of her glamour glow like pearl on her pale skin. Faerie. And not just any faerie, the raven-haired woman who mocked me for staring at the ceilings. I doubt she remembers me, but her cruelty is fresh in my mind and it sets me on edge.