“Thatisindecent. Witches’ sabbaths and naked foolishness.” She pours water on my hair, leaving me sputtering. “Utter nonsense. But this is art.”
When she gets out a particularly rough looking loofah, I settle in for the bath and try not to think about what comes next. Dancing nude with a load of witches high on the brew is one thing; posing with my legs open is another. And the hair removal issue? I shiver as she gives me a scrubbing that might just take off the top layer of skin.
Mama may have been right about all the luxury here, but I think she missed a few of the finer points of consort life. Then again, when she was in the “bloom of her youth” as she liked to say, she probably would’ve volunteered for a nude portrait. She ran off my lout of a father when I was young, but there was always plenty of talk around the village about her youthful appetite—both beforeandafter her marriage. I need to channel her wild heart like a witch calling forth a spirit.Mama, give me strength.I yelp as Lucidia shoves the loofah into places that should remain loofah-free, but she ignores my protests and hums a tune as she goes about her work.
* * *
“Ah, that hair, those eyes.” A lesser fae in a large blue velvet coat and bright red breeches peers at me through a pair of peculiar glasses. They’re square and make her eyes look terrifyingly large. Her pink hair is piled on top of her head and secured with what looks like gryphon claws splattered with paint.
She circles me while tapping her chin. Her hooves are highly polished and painted with some sort of sparkling effect.
“I have work to do.” Lucidia points a finger at me. “Behave.”
“I’m behaving.” I ignore the sting between my legs. At least it’s fading now, but when Lucidia told me to count to three and yanked the hair off on two, I thought I was going to vomit. When I lift my gaze, I forget where I am and what I’m here for. Instead, I stare at the canvases stacked around the room. It’s a treasure trove. So many blank spaces, so much precious paint and every sort of brush.
“Ancestors,” I breathe out and walk past the artist, Brunilla is her name, and run my fingers along one of the stark white canvases.
She follows me. “You have quite an eye. This is one of my greatest works.”
I look at her, then back at the utterly blank canvas. “This?”
“Of course.” She leans close, her giant refracted eyes bouncing around. “It’s my exploration of minimalism.”
“Oh.” I drop my hand.
“Come, come.” She clomps away toward a bright corner where another blank canvas awaits. I can’t decide if it’s been done as “minimalism” or is actually a blank canvas, so I don’t comment on it as I pass. It doesn’t hold my attention anyway, not when a vast wealth of color lies around in pots and jars, some forgotten, some just waiting. These paints are worth a fortune, and I would happily sit for a nude portrait and spread my hairless nether regions as wide as required if I could only create with them one time.
She peruses me again, her too-big eyes disconcerting as they scan me top to bottom. “It’s been so long.” She gestures toward a white divan next to a window. “Please, disrobe and sit.”
I swallow hard. This should be easy. I mean, I’ve dropped trou plenty of times with Mama in the same room, and I’ve let the moon bathe my bare skin in silver light more times than I can count. But that was in the balmy night, not here where light strikes from every angle and illuminates the things I’d rather keep hidden.
“Come now.” She grabs a thin brush. “Don’t be shy. It isn’t becoming of a consort.” Her tone is brisk, but not necessarily unkind.
I take a deep breath and pull the robe off. Careful to keep my back from her view, I sit on the divan.
“So stiff.” She tsks.
“This is weird. Isn’t this weird for you?” I have the urge to cover myself, but I think she’ll just tsk some more if I tried it.
“You have a beautiful form.” She blinks. “What’s weird about that? The king would like to immortalize your beauty on canvas. What’s weird about that?”
Channeling Eloisa Druzy, I lean back and kick my legs up.
“Better.” Brunilla smiles and continues to stare, her brows drawing together as her velvet jacket ripples. “Lean back a bit farther. Yes. Twist your hips forward. No. The other way. Yes.”
She stares until I wonder if she’s somehow fallen asleep, then barks, “It will strike me. Soon. Very soon. Inspiration dances to and fro, and I must catch it in my grasp.”
I jump at her sudden outburst, then settle back into position. My legs are only slightly open, my modesty preserved in that area, but my breasts are fully displayed, my hair curling around my face, and one hand resting on my waist, the other near my cheek.
“Tell me about you, Emma. Tell me of your home.” Her jacket rustles again as she holds her brush up to the canvas, but she doesn’t move. She’s poised there.
“It’s dark.” I shake my head. “That sounded dumb. It’s wonderful, really.”
“How so?”
“It’s home.” I relax even more into the pillow behind me. “The fires are bright, the moon my constant companion. Fireflies whisper secrets, and the onyx fairies make music that even the Ancestors must envy. Their songs wrap around you as you make your way through the warm, embracing gloom.” I close my eyes and think of my home, my friends, my tiny cottage and the pile of socks that still need darning. “My mother is there.”
“Your mother?” She peeks around her canvas.
