“Do you have some here?”
She bends back down to her bag and produces another jar. I don’t know what I was expecting but the powder in this jar looks like very finely ground flour. No magic sparkles, or even a light shimmer. It seems disappointingly ordinary. “This is what makes the picture move?” I ask again to confirm.
“Yes. But only those with the gift can make that happen.”
“The gift?”
She nods. “As I said, it takes many years to learn.”
Again I wonder whether she means the painting, or the movement. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see. “Do you think you can teach me?”
“I can try.” Picking up her bag, she glides over to the huge table I had cleared especially, and starts to lay things out. I recognize palettes, more brushes of different sizes—but all with the weird feather tips—and several jars containing paints in the most exquisite colors. Deva then lays out two sheets of canvas, one at each end of the table. “Majesta—”
“Emma,” I correct her automatically.
“Emma. I cannot promise anything. His Majesty will be most displeased if I—”
“Please don’t worry about Khan,” I interrupt her again. “All I ask is that you show me. Anything I produce—or I’m not able to do—is out of your hands. You won’t be held responsible.”
The relaxation of her shoulders is visible. “Thank you, Maj—Emma.”
As I go to stand in front of one of the canvases, the off-white expanse calls to me, as do the rich colors of the paint jars. The entire scenario ignites something deep in my belly. Excitement. Hope. Potential. I glance over at the painting on the wall, the way the river shimmers as it slithers down the mountain, and it hits me how much I’ve missed this. As much as I enjoyed working in advertising, nothing I did there ever gave me the same rush as standing in front of a blank canvas, knowing I was about to create. To make art.
I pick up one of the brushes and finger the tip carefully, trying to get a feel for it. Deva, meanwhile, has gone to stand in front of the other canvas. I watch her as she gets set up, and copy her movements as she prepares an array of brushes, paints, and what looks like a giant black sponge.
“What’s that for?”
“Cleaning the brushes. I’ll show you.” She turns to look out of the enormous, floor-to-ceiling window giving us a panoramic view of Altrim. “So much inspiration.”
“It is beautiful.” Sometimes, I still feel like I’m in a dream when I wake up and see the gushing water, the weird skimming, hovering platforms people use to travel around, the insane architecture. I shouldn’t be surprised my instinct is to capture it all somehow.
I watch Deva as she adds several different dollops of paint to a palette, then picks up a brush. From what I can tell so far, the consistency of these paints seems to be closest to the oil paints we use at home. I set about adding colors to my own palette. I know exactly what I want to paint. I’m keeping it simple to start with—at least until I’ve learned to work with these new tools.
Deva already seems to be in the zone, that weird state of flow creatives sometimes get into when they’re working. I’m bursting with questions but don’t want to interrupt her. She projects an air of calm efficiency, and I like her already. Having met quite a few Ulfarri women since I first arrived here, I’m relieved I’m not entirely surrounded by overbearing Alphas.
One, as it turns out, is quite enough for me.
Pushing thoughts of Khan aside, I take a deep breath, relishing the prickle of excitement I feel as I pick up a brush and swirl the tip into the azure paint, as I saw Deva do.
Back on Earth, painting was an escape for me—one of the only things I could do that made my head actually go quiet. That made me stop overthinking. Now, I realize I’m hoping that painting here on Altrim will have the same effect.
Lord knows I could do with a little vacation from my own head right now. I spend so much time worrying about the future, about my conflicted feelings for Khan, about how they potentially want to kidnap and enslave human women—not to mention how I’ve been abducted and sold into slavery on an alien planet.
I’m just praying that losing myself in the creative process will help me the same way it used to.
The way the brush feels as it glides over the canvas is miraculous. Incredibly, the pigments of the paint turn even more vivid and rich as I apply them. The color is so gorgeous, it almost hurts to look at it.
Glancing up, I see how Deva cleans her brush by swirling it over the black sponge, and do the same thing with mine. It works; there’s not a trace of blue left on the tip, and it’s completely dry.
Amazing.
My pulse pounding, I dip my brush into some white paint, and get to work…
SIXTEEN
Emma
I lost track of time.Everything ceased to exist but the way this incredible paint soaked into the canvas, the tip of my brush swirling and stroking… until I stood back and admired my handiwork.
