When the agency in Richmond hired me, it was a dream come true. Not only would I get a work visa for the States, but I would be able to move far away from my family in the process. Two birds with one stone. There’s way more to graphic design than splattering paint on a canvas, but it turned out I had a knack for it, the money was good, and I got on well with my colleagues—especially Susan who, as it turned out, is also kinky.
There’s a pang in my gut when I think about my life back home, so I rake my fingers through my still damp hair, straighten my shoulders, and push those thoughts away. After I raved about the living pictures, Khan offered to invite an artist over to show me how to make them. She’s coming today. And even if I wasn’t desperate for something else to happen to break up the monotony of my current existence, I’d be super excited about this.
Rippling lakes? Glittering stars? I got so close to the paintings that I bumped my nose, and I still couldn’t figure out how they were moving—or even what material had been used to create them. It definitely isn’t watercolor, acrylic, oil, or any other commonly used medium I’ve ever heard of.
Now I’m pacing in what Khan calls the greeting hall, glancing alternately at the giant entrance, and the incredible picture of a river cascading down the side of a mountain.
“Majesta?” One of the Beta servants calls to me from across the room. “Your guest has arrived.”
“Please show her in.”
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having servants. I vaguely remember there being soldiers standing around when we first arrived, but since that first day, I haven’t seen a single male—servant or soldier, Beta or Alpha. Khan is insanely possessive. I don’t know whether he doesn’t trust me around other guys, or whether he doesn’t trust them around me, but the end result is the same: I’m surrounded by female Ulfarri Beta servants.
This one, Lilla, is young and pretty, with pastel pink skin and mauve hair. She ushers in the one I assume must be the artist—another female, of course—who is wearing the same kind of robe all the Betas wear. I quickly learned that the robes have different colors depending on the roles the Betas have in society.
The artist’s is a deep, sunset orange.
“Majesta,” Lilla continues, “this is Deva.”
Deva is lugging a big bag, which she sets down beside her. She looks to be roughly middle-aged, with large, dark brown eyes, bronze skin, and russet hair. The markings on her hands and face are like swirls of caramel. “Majesta,” she says.
“Emma,” I say. “Please.”
“Emma.” Deva glances at Lilla nervously, like she’s wary of addressing me informally. If I had my way, they’d all call me by my name but Khan won’t have it. He says I am his queen and I need to be treated as such. My wishes, apparently, don’t matter in that regard.
“Would you like some refreshment?” I offer.
Deva shakes her head.
“Thank you, Lilla. You may go.”
There’s an awkward pause while the servant leaves. All the Beta females glide more than they walk—they have an inherent grace. I wonder whether they’re born with it or whether they’re taught it somewhere.
“Welcome, Deva. It’s lovely to meet you.” I’m about to stick out my hand and then remember they do things differently here. No handshakes on Ulfaria.
“It’s an honor to be invited. I hear you’re interested in learning about art?”
“I am! I specifically want to know how to make these kinds of pictures.” I gesture to the one of the river. It’s huge, taking up a third of the wall.
A little crease forms between Deva’s eyebrows. “You want to create these yourself?”
“I do.”
There’s a pause. “There is a certain… skill involved. It takes many years of practice. Not everyone is born with the ability.”
Hmm. I wonder whether she’s trying to tell me that not everyone has artistic talent, or not everyone is able to use whatever medium makes the pictures move. I know I have the former… “What kind of paint do you use?”
She hesitates as if wondering whether to say something, then bends and rummages in her big bag. Taking out a pot, she hands it to me.
I bring it close to my face and examine it. It’s a jar holding a substance which is bright teal in color. The lid on it seems tight. When I tilt the jar, the contents move slowly, so it is liquid, but it’s thick. It shimmers in the light. “And how do you apply it?”
More rummaging, then she hands me a tool which looks like a cross between a brush and a feather. The handle is long and tapered, like a regular paintbrush, but up close, the bristles look more like tiny feathers. They’re so soft against my fingertip that I wonder how I’ll know if I’m using the right amount of pressure.
I may be about to learn how to paint all over again.
“This,” I hold up the jar, “is what makes the picture move?”
“No.” Deva shakes her head. “Magic dust is what does that.”
