“Thank you, Your Highness.” He turned to us. “My family has been involved in Wexstone’s lumber production for close to a hundred years. My brother, Lord Collins Lewellen, continues that legacy while supporting conservation efforts.” He inclined his head toward Sabine, who smiled and nodded back to him.
As he spoke, I remembered meeting Lord Lewellen and his wife, Lady Laurel, the night before. I would never have guessedthat this man before me, so casually dressed in a worn flannel shirt and brown work boots, was the brother of the tuxedoed Lord Collins.
Mr. Lewellen continued, “As a boy, I learned the art of woodworking from my grandfather. My wife and I opened this space soon after we married, with the goal of training other woodworkers and nurturing artists of all types. From this building,” he gestured to the room around us and toward the back of the building, “we were eventually able to build out the rest of the artisans’ square. This room still serves as an open space for aspiring artists to work while also providing our own woodcarvers a place to finish their pieces. The back of the building houses our woodworking shop, where we produce everything from furniture to serving ware to decorative pieces.”
Prince Oliver picked up where Mr. Lewellen left off. “Each year, the palace hires one of Wexstone’s artisans to create a set of ornaments for our main Christmas tree. This year, we have asked Mr. Lewellen and his carvers to do the honors. At the end of the holiday season, the queen chooses her favorite ornament to add to our family’s personal collection, while the rest are sold to benefit a charity of the artist’s choosing.”
Mr. Lewellen moved to a table near the edge of the room, picking up a large box and carrying it over. “Our team has been working on our ornament collection for months, designing pieces that portray the natural beauty of our country.” He lifted out several ornaments, passing them around our group. One was a relief carving of the night sky. Another was shaped into a miniature pine tree, lacquered until it gleamed in the sunlight. A third featured delicately painted holly berries. While each one was wildly different, they were all stunning and would make for a beautiful Christmas tree.
Mr. Lewellen continued as we admired the ornaments, “We thought it would be fun to have all of you take part in this tradition.” His eyes glittered as he pulled a stack of small pine rounds out of the box. “We fashioned some of our scraps into blank slates for each of you to paint and decorate as you like; the finished pieces will join our collection on the palace tree. As you can see, we have a large stock of supplies here for you to work with. I invite you to take an ornament, get creative, and have some fun. Remember, there are no rules and you’re limited only by your imagination.”
I glanced at the women around me. Cora had an eager look on her face. Sabine’s expression remained unchanged, although I spotted a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. Renata and the cousins looked like they would rather be anywhere else but here.
We each took an ornament from Mr. Lewellen and made our way to the tables. I took my time perusing the paints, trying to decide what I would paint on my ornament. I was an artist at heart, and this felt familiar, like home. By the time I gathered my supplies, there was only one spot left at the end of one of the worktables.
I set to work, sketching out an outline and mixing colors together.
“May I join you?”
I started. Prince Oliver was standing in front of me, looking slightly sheepish, an ornament in one hand, a few paintbrushes in the other. I could feel eyes boring into the back of my head.
“Of course,” I said.Twice now, he has asked to join you. That must mean something, right?I couldn’t deny that it was, at least, flattering. But why wasn’t I more excited by it?
The prince took the seat to my right. “I must confess,” he said, voice low as he leaned in close, “I am terrible at this kind of thing. I fear that any illusions you had of me being good atanything will be dashed when you witness my lack of artistic skill.”
I laughed as I took a brush to my sketch, filling in the background. “Trust me, I’ve witnessed plenty of my brother’s terrible drawings. Nothing can surprise me at this point. I’m sure you’re much better than you think.”
“I assure you, I am not. But in the spirit of the occasion, I shall at least try.” He peered over at my ornament. “And of course it would happen that you actually are an artist,” he said, putting his hand to his forehead in feigned shame.
I looked down at my work: A tiny rendering of the New York skyline at night, lights glittering. “I think ‘artist’ is a generous term, but thank you.” I glanced over to his ornament, which was currently a mess of blue paints. “Yours is…um…”
“A wreck?”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “Well…yes.”
Prince Oliver threw his head back, laughing earnestly. From two tables away, Renata’s head spun around like she was inThe Exorcist, her eyes narrowing.
“What are you going for there?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I was just hoping if I put enough paint on it, something would magically appear.” It was his turn to blush.
“Okay, we can fix this,” I said, reaching across him and selecting a deep purple paint and grabbing the white that was in front of me. “Swirl in some of this purple with the blues. Then you can take some of this white and add some stars. Ta-da, it’ll be a night sky.”
Prince Oliver looked at me as if I had hung the real stars. “You are a genius,” he said, a smile filling his face. He added some of the purple paint to a tray, dipping his brush in. “So have you always been into art?” he asked, brows furrowed as he concentrated on his work.
I turned back to my ornament, filling in details with a liner brush. “Yes and no. I loved drawing and painting as a kid but was way more focused on ice skating than anything. We couldn’t afford for me to be a part of the skating academy, so my mom—she owned a dance studio, and my dad was a mechanic—gave ballet lessons to all their top skaters in exchange for my lessons and ice time. When my mom passed away, skating lessons weren’t really an option anymore, so I kind of channeled that energy into art instead.” I took a deep breath. “My real love is art history, though, which is why I got my master’s degree in curatorial studies. Except you probably already know a lot of this, I guess, since it’s got to be in the file they put together on me before I came here.”
Prince Oliver paused, paintbrush in hand. “Actually, I made a point not to read any of your files,” he admitted. “I know that Sheffield compiled detailed information on everyone for security purposes, but I didn’t want to come into this experience with any preconceived notions. I’d rather you tell me your story when you’re ready and comfortable.”
I caught his gaze. “So, you probably didn’t know about my mom until this morning when that journalist?—”
“No. No, I didn’t. And I’m sorry he did that to you. That wasn’t okay.” His eyes blazed. I was seeing that behind the calm, even-keeled exterior was a man who would fight like hell for the people he loved.
“Thank you for speaking up for me. I wasn’t prepared to talk about her to the press yet.”
“You’re welcome. It was the least I could do. Some of those reporters are nothing but vultures dressed as human beings.” He reached over, taking my hand in his. “Please know that you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to share.” He squeezed my fingers gently, then turned back to hisornament.
My heart warmed at his kindness. I resumed painting, working alongside him in companionable silence.
