“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I helped myself to another donut—this time I tried a Gollum. “But what’s the point?”
“To record the leaders of our Court,” Skye said. “It’s useful for history, and in some ways it can be a lesson to the Night Court itself not to judge our monarchs based on their images, but rather what they did for us.”
“Oh really?” I followed her around a corner, through an archway I vaguely remembered—yes, even though the massive mansion was mine and I knew my way around it, I didn’t remember every single room. My schedule was too packed for me to stroll around and admire it, and there wasno wayI was exploring the place in the middle of the night. Lone girl going through a house filled with magic? No way—I’d seen that movie before!
The archway opened up into a large, sunny chamber. The walls were covered in a beautiful fern green wallpaper and decorated with light gray baroque swirls. I spotted the requisite tea equipment—every room in my mansion had to have at least one tea set or teacup, apparently.
The portrait gallery had a glass case of tea implements that looked like they belonged in a Japanese tea ceremony. There were several shallow, off white bowls that each had a brush of blue glaze on their sides—I was guessing those were the teacups. A bamboo tea whisk and an ivory tea scoop were set off to the side with a beautiful lacquered box and a square of white linen.
The tea implements were a stark sort of beauty compared to the overwhelming walls upon walls of painted portraits.
Starting at about chest height and reaching high up to the ceiling were dozens and dozens of portraits of long-dead fae monarchs.
All of them were solemn faced—though they kind of looked like they sat on a thumbtack—and more beautiful and perfect than I’m sure the monarchs were when they were alive.
Perfect skin, flawless hair—what, am I supposed to think they’re elves?
I frowned as I studied the portraits, looking at a few familiar faces from paintings that had been showcased in my history textbooks. “Are they out of order?” I asked.
Skye linked her hands behind her back. “Yes. They’ve been arranged in the order of, how to say it delicately…”
“Popularity,” Indigo bluntly said. “That’s why they stuck Queen Nyte all the way at the top up there.” She pointed to one of the enormous portraits that was in the top row—barely viewable because it was up so high and there was a glare from the lighting.
“Hah—that is hilarious!” I turned in a slow circle, taking the gallery in.
The room didn’t connect to any other chambers, and besides the portraits, the tea stuff, a few benches, and several palm-tree type plants placed strategically around the space in giant pots there was nothing in the room.
“I’m not going to lie. With so many portraits that look ridiculously perfect, they all start to look alike after a while,” I said.
Indigo snorted. “You’re not wrong.”
“Your portrait may include Consort Rigel, if you wish. But having a couple’s portrait is not required—or even common.” She indicated to the wall of paintings. Only about half of them were of couples. Lots of them were of a single monarch—even though I knew from personal experience that they had to be married.
And each and every one of them—including the original king everyone was obsessed with, man I’d like to give him a piece of my mind if he was still around—looked icy and other worldly.
No wonder so many members of my Court are formal with me. When you have such beautiful but cold leaders like this, there’s going to be a clear line of distinction between the Court and its monarch.
“Do these get shown to the other Courts?” I asked.
Skye tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Are these portraits used for press releases or anything like that? Maybe for official ceremonies or something?” I asked.
“No, we take annual photographs—you had to sit for yours with Rigel the day after your wedding, remember?” Skye prodded.
“What you’re saying isno onebesides my Court and maybe a few curious visitors will see the portrait?” I asked.
Indigo and Skye exchanged looks.
“Yes,” Skye slowly said.
“But this portrait will be how your Court remembers you once you’re gone,” Indigo said.
I ate a donut hole to cover my smirk. “Oh—I understand that perfectly. In fact, I’mcountingon it.”
* * *
“And as I’mleaning theatrically into Solstice and Eclipse like this, Rigel should be just behind us, daggers—and abs—out. Sound good, Rigel?” I turned away from the possibly traumatized artist to give my husband a thumbs up.
