It was not surprising Fermina informed me ruefully that we had pending painting commissions for the foreseeable future. Some were in distant lands, yet to my knowledge, none offered anything of value concerning Artalar.

  “This is exactly what we have been trying to avoid, Dubart! What are we going to do now?” Fermina fretted. “If you were to disappear tomorrow, what would Aufelia tell all these people? ‘I’m sorry, I can’t paint anymore’? She is going to be so embarrassed!”

  “Lady Aufelia insists it is a meager price to pay in order to be granted the full autonomy of her body once more,” I informed.

  We had withdrawn to the library, where Fermina harbored the belief that the solution to my predicament might lie in the neglected tomes that cluttered the shelves. She seized each volume that appeared even remotely relevant, presenting them to me one by one, as though she believed I had simply overlooked some vital detail. I, in turn, would patiently recite the titles, elucidate their contents, and explain why they would be of no help.

  “Calling her only Aufelia is fine. You two are supposed to be friends.” Fermina then thrust another book toward me, her frustration beginning to seep through her determined demeanor. “Oh! How about this one?”

  “That is Applications of Horticultural Alchemy,” I cited, not having to open the book to know, as I recognized the green spine with yellow raised bands. “Fermina, as I had previously mentioned, the only use I had for alchemy during the… ‘procedure’ was to elaborate the wax, powders, and to catalyze various reactions,” since I could not produce enough lifespark myself. I was quite proud of my workaround; I would write a book on it if given a chance. “This book pertains to how to fertilize several common ornamental flowers and plants. It is an interesting read, and the alchemy used is extremely simple; I recommend it if you want to read it.”

  “So it isn’t any good,” she lamented but stared at me in fury as if deciding it was my fault the book was useless. “And his one? The Forbidden Seal of Ultimate Magic. Don’t you dare tell me this one doesn’t work.”

  “Fermina, that one is fiction.”

  Though our exchange seemed almost trivial, we were far from idle. Fermina stood guard, vigilant in case someone stumbled upon us unawares, and I sat at a table littered with pages, notes, and elaborate diagrams. Such an image—Princess poring over arcana—might arouse suspicions, which was why Fermina had insisted on remaining nearby. Before me was a manuscript we had acquired in Bernan. The sole valuable find of the journey, it contained an illustration of a sigil, providing enough information for me to deduce the origin equation. But deciphering that equation to wield the hexerei was an altogether different matter, one which I had been approaching incorrectly from the beginning.

  The sigil, though not particularly remarkable, warranted further study. It was a potent mixing hexerei that induced turbulence in liquids, effortlessly blending even the most stubborn substances. A useful tool, no doubt, though hardly groundbreaking.

  We heard footsteps—light and deliberate, advancing toward us. At once, we acted. I gathered the scattered papers, folding them hastily and concealing them within a decoy volume, one aligned more with Princess’s preferred interests. Fermina took her post, and we assumed a facade of innocent reading.

  Four figures approached us, led by none other than Princess Eliziam Azchatar. Flanked by three attendants, she strode toward us with purpose. Her ever-present guard, I presumed, lingered by the entrance. Her presence here was clear: she had come to confront us.

  We rose, offering the required courtesies to this foreign captive, though her disdain for us was barely concealed.

  “Lady de Irchard! You are a troublesome one to find. Had you not thought about informing a servant where to find you in case you were needed?” she said as an answer to our cordiality.

  The only indication she was addressing Princess and not Fermina was where her eyes were aimed; the title she had used could refer to both.

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  “My apologies, Your Highness,” I assumed that those words would hopefully deescalate. “I was not… expecting the honor.”

  “I heard you organized a little event earlier. A bit of a demonstration of your… let’s call them ‘talents’,” she sneered, dismissing my apology with a wave of her hand. Her attire was as gaudy as before, her skirts broader and adorned with excessive lace, conforming to the fashion of Repubian nobility. Her raven hair spiraled artificially, held in place by an unknown method. For once, she did not obscure her face with her fan, though her contempt remained visible in her haughty posture.

  “Her Highness was invited to attend to it, should she have wished it, of course,” I immediately offered. “It would have honored us to see Her Highness there.”

  “I just came to give you good-natured advice,” Eliziam continued, disregarding us again. “Painting is an art form, and you are corrupting it. Painting is supposed to be expression and passion, not this showmanship you are making it out to be! Gathering people to watch you paint? I have never heard such… disregard for art itself!”

  She was speaking in transparent platitudes. Eliziam Azchatar merely disapproved of our event for reasons of her own; I would dare to think mere envy.

  “It was not my meaning to offend,” I also transparently stated, a mere appeasement. “I humbly apologize and shall take this lesson to heart.” Princess’s fame would not need further assistance anytime soon.

  “But the damage is done, isn’t it?” she said with an insincere smile. “I have also been hearing that you… paint without any inspiration. A painting is supposed to be a vision of a paintress soul, Aufelia; a culmination of months of introspection until you can place it all on a canvas after carefully crafting your art. You? You paint meaninglessly, endlessly, selling your art. You feel nothing.”

  Her voice turned harsher the more she continued with her speech. All I could gather was that she was upset that our art drew the attention of prospective buyers, and that we were so swift.

  “I am sorry Her Highness feels that way,” was all I could offer her.

  “No. I feel sorry for you,” Eliziam countered, her eyes gleaming with malice. “I feel sorry that you are not an artist. You are… a worker, a laborer, a… craftsman.” She concealed her face behind her fan once more, her words biting and calculated.

  Even Fermina gasped at the insult. To compare nobility to common laborers was a serious affront. Yet, the fury that welled within me was not my own—it belonged to Princess. I swiftly suppressed it.

  I did not necessarily disagree with Eliziam. Her statement did not offend me, even if she were to genuinely believe it, which she did not. I personally did not see myself as an artist. I was a scientist. My apparent ability to capture what I saw in paint was not a form of high art, merely a skill I had chosen to exploit.

  “Oh. In that case, I hope nobody minds me reaping the rewards of my labors,” I tamely ignored Eliziam and her distasteful remark, reveling in it. “I shall leave the art to my betters and dedicate myself to mere production.”

  If she wanted to rationalize that my portraits were cheap, uninspired, or not worthy of her time, she was welcome to. Whatever went through Eliziam’s pretty head was none of my concern.

  “But I do mind,” she said sternly. It was clear she had not expected her words to have so little impact. “As a defender of the art, I cannot allow such… mockery to plague my home, can I? The Duke of Teloran may feel sorry enough for you to allow you to hang your shallow little pictures in his house, but it would only sour my view, as I am obligated to stay here. I cannot have it.”

  “Then Her Highness shall be pleased to know that most of the work others have commissioned is not destined to hang here,” I informed, though I doubted this was truly her concern.

  “No. That will not do. I will not have you disrespect the art like this,” she insisted from her morally superior point of view. “I am afraid I will have to ask you to stop altogether.”

  Now, that was a surprising proposal. “Your Highness, can you possibly be ordering me to stop painting?” I could not help but inject some humor into the question. Ordering a noble who was not subordinated to her what she could and could not do was bordering insanity. It would be the equivalent of me writing a letter to a city in the Eastern Empire, ordering them all to fast for a fortnight, and expecting them to comply.

  “Of course not!” she denied at once, as she should. “It’s not an order; I already told you, Aufelia. It’s only good-natured advice.”

  In other words, a threat. “And I assume unpleasant happenings await for me if I do not stop?” I dared her to make her intentions clear.

  “Plenty of things! You could be shamed for your lack of talent, your guilty conscience may betray you, and you could be plagued by regret; there is no end to the calamities that could befall you! You should really think about it, Aufelia, dear. Well, now, assuming you don’t mind, I have business elsewhere,” she excused herself and left, furious at me. She had expected this to go differently, somehow.

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