“It wasn’t just her. Mr. Fletcher approved of her suggestion.” Mr. Fletcher is both Edwina’s publisher and my boss. I never would have been considered for the commission were it not for Edwina’s pleading on my behalf, but the fact that Mr. Fletcher agreed to hire me must count for something.
“And he had so much faith in you that he’s only allowing you to work in the illustration department one day a week.”
I give her a warning growl and finally locate the page I’m looking for. It’s the rough sketch I drew before I reproduced it as a clean sketch on my current canvas. I glance from the paper to the easel and back again, comparing the two drawings. The blood leaves my face as I realize the flaws were there from the start. How did I look at this sketch and think it was satisfactory enough to be replicated in my final piece? How did my supervisor do the same?
Araminta studies the page in my sketchbook. “Did your friend even look at your artwork before she recommended you?”
“Of course she did,” I say, flipping dozens of pages back to the very piece that convinced Edwina I’m a capable artist. My panic eases as I study it. Two mostly nude figures are entwined in a passionate embrace, every intricate line alive with movement. The emotion practically leaps off the page, the sexual tension palpable in the placement of the figures’ hands, the breath of space that separates their lips.
“This is why she recommended me,” I say, every word brimming with pride. Even under my most critical assessment, the sketch is beautiful.
So how did this piece turn out so perfect, while my current one is a thing of nightmares? This sketch is more than a year old, which means I should have gotten better since then, not worse. Was it the lack of pressure that made this one so easy? I never intended for a soul to see it, for sketching has always been my secret hobby. The one activity I carried with me from my brief time as a debutante. I never imagined Edwina would discover my sketchbook during one of her visits. Yet discover it, she did.
And humiliated I was.
Not only was my sketchbook and all its contents never meant for anyone’s eyes but mine, but the sketch Edwina saw was inspired by her most recent manuscript—which wasn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but Mr. Fletcher’s. She’d just turned it in that week, and I had to confess I’dborrowedit from his office one night, sneaking an early peek.
She didn’t so much as balk at my furtive actions. Furthermore, she refused to hear a word of apology and instead begged me to reproduce the sketch in full color. I wanted to refuse. I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since my disastrous debut season when I found solace painting landscapes and portraits while the other debutantes engaged in gossip I was firmly excluded from.
But how does one say no to the woman who is not only your dear friend but also your favorite author?
One doesn’t.
“I see the problem,” Araminta says, pulling me back to the present.
“What problem?” I snap, tapping the sketch with my graphite. “This is perfect.”
“It is, which is precisely my point. This piece is perfect because it involves twowomen.”
I frown, staring down at the sketch once more. I mean, of course it involves two women. The couple from the borrowed manuscript was a water nymph and a banshee. Their chemistry was so titillating, I couldn’tnotdraw them?—
That’s when understanding dawns.
“You are absolute rubbish at drawing men,” Araminta says, putting words to my realization.
My stomach drops to my feet, as does my sketchbook. I crouch down to pick it up, but it’s now splayed open to reveal a page that only further solidifies my terror. It bears several quick sketches I made months ago while I was practicing male anatomy. They looked decent enough at the time, but now that I’ve become intimately acquainted with my flaws, they’re all I can see. Too-long torsos. Fingers that look more like paws. Beady eyes. Muzzles instead of mouths.
“No, no, no.” I snap the sketchbook shut but remain hunched by the floor. “I can’t draw men.”
Which is a problem. A big fucking problem.
Because I’ve been commissioned to paint four covers in the next three months, and each features a male-female pairing. If I succeed, Mr. Fletcher may promote me to full-time illustrator during my next performance review at the end of July.
But if I fail…
My eyes unfocus. “This can’t be happening.”
The buzz of paper wings reaches my ears, but I don’t bother looking at the sprite. She flies around my head three times before landing on the puffed sleeve of my ivory blouse. “Ugh. It’s no fun when you’re all sad about it. It’s only amusing when we make fun of your arttogether.”
My lungs tighten, my fingers curling into fists. Everything inside me yearns to shrink down into the comfort of my unseelie form. To return to my tiny stature, so easy to overlook, and a furry face that hides emotion.
But I can’t shrink down and hide. I promised myself I wouldn’t anymore.
When I returned to seelie society for the first time in a decade, still reeling from my awful experiences as a debutante, I hid in the comfort of my unseelie form. Even when I entered the workforce, I did so as a pine marten, only shifting into my humanoid body in secret when I wanted to draw.
Bit by bit, I’ve gained more confidence over the last couple of years. The working class isn’t nearly as judgmental as high society was. I secured a job and gained a few close friends. I was navigating my life with ease in the busy city of Jasper, Earthen Court, which is rather different from the small unseelie village I left behind. I was blending in with the humans and seelie fae around me.
Yetblendingisn’tbelonging, and the latter was what I lacked.
