The queen speaks. “They make a striking pair, don’t they?”
I keep my pencil moving. “The contrast works well. Dark and light.”
“I’ve always thought so.” She sounds satisfied. “The portraits will be magnificent. Something that will be remembered through the ages.”
This is a lie displayed in colors, a record of it that will hang in this palace long after we’re all gone. I think about Henri and how he hid his love in brushstrokes no one noticed. Every portrait session must have been torture. This is death by a thousand cuts.
“Could you move slightly closer together?” I ask, keeping my voice professional. “There’s too much space between you.”
Tatiana shifts immediately, closing the gap until her shoulder presses against Louis’s arm. He stays rigid, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Like this?” Tatiana tilts her head, looking up at him with adoration.
“That’s perfect.”
I sketch the new positioning, capturing the way her body curves toward his while his stays straight. As an artist, I see the tension. The queen and everyone else will see devotion. Perspective changes everything.
When I finally allow myself to glance at his face, he’s watching me. His blue eyes hold everything he can’t say out loud. There’s an apology, mixed with frustration and love. I want to cross the room and tell him it’s going to be okay, that I understand and know this isn’t real.
Instead, I look back down at my sketch pad and add a line to his jaw.
“The prince seems tense,” the queen observes. “Louis, darling, try to relax. This isn’t a formal state portrait. We want to capture the warmth between you.”
“Of course, Mother.” His voice is flat.
Tatiana laughs, and it sounds legitimate. “He’s always like this when he’s being watched. Aren’t you, my love?” She reaches up and toucheshis cheek, turning his face toward hers. “Just pretend it’s only us. Show them how you act when we’re alone.”
She’s trying to get under my skin, but it’s not working. Also, I don’t like howmy lovefalls from her mouth so easily. Like she means it.
“That’s better,” the queen says approvingly. “Hold that.”
I sketch Tatiana’s hand on Louis’s face, the curve of her fingers against his cheekbone. My pencil presses harder than necessary, leaving dark lines on the paper.
“Miss Cross, how long do you anticipate this project taking?” The queen’s question is casual but pointed.
“Portraits of this significance typically require several weeks, if not months, of work.” I keep my tone measured. “The preliminary sketches alone will take at least a week, if not longer. Then there’s the underpainting, the layering, the detail work that really brings the subjects to life. I want to ensure the final piece meets the standards of the royal collection.”
“We don’t have months.” She considers this. “The engagement announcement is being pushed forward. We plan to soft launch Tatiana and Louis as a couple at the ball and will let everyone know Louis has chosen his bride.”
I look up, meeting her eyes directly. “Art can’t be rushed, Your Majesty.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. “Of course. Quality takes precedence. However, I’m sure you’ll fulfill this deadline.”
It’s not a request; this is a demand.
“Yes, Your Highness. I’ll do whatever I can to make you happy.”
She grins as I crawl into her web. Soon, she’ll spin me up and suck every drop of life from me.
We work for another two hours, taking several short breaks during which Tatiana stretches, and Louis disappears to refill his water glass. I fill pages with sketches, capturing angles and expressions, and the way light falls across fabric. I draw everything except Tatiana’s face, focusing on her hands, her hair, the drape of her dress. I draw Louis completely, memorizing him through the movement of my pencil. The clock on the wall ticks through the minutes, each one lasting longer than the last.
“I think we should try something more intimate,” Tatiana says whenwe resume. “For the composition. Something that shows our connection.”
The queen nods. “An excellent idea, Princess.”
Tatiana stands and repositions herself, perching on the arm of Louis’s chair with her hand on his shoulder. Her silk dress rustles as she settles, and a waft of her perfume reaches me across the room. It’s too sweet.
“What do you think, Miss Cross? More dynamic?”
