Lord Hopnell scrambles out of his chair, bowing. “It was her idea, Your Grace. I commissioned her for a portrait, and she thought?—”
“A portrait?” The duke trains his violet eyes on me, intrigued. “I wasn’t aware you were an artist, Miss Fitzroy.”
I execute a small curtsy. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Your Grace. And it’s just a hobby, really. I would never presume to call myself an artist. This is my first official portrait.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Hopnell splutters. “She is a rare talent. I discovered her myself. Saw her sketching out by the reflecting pool.”
Duke Áine ignores Lord Hopnell, his focus solely upon me. As if I have magically transformed into something of value. “And you felt Thaddeus was the most appropriate subject for your firstofficialportrait?” A vein in his temple throbs.
My eyes dart to Lachlan, an unobtrusive statue who will not move until called upon. And though his face is a perfectly blank canvas, I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
Trap sprung.
“I thought it best to practice my skills on a lesser courtier”—Lord Hopnell huffs an affronted breath—“before even thinking to use you as a subject.”
Duke Áine sniffs. “Bring examples of your work to dinner this evening. If anyone in Tír na Lune should be judging your talent, it’s me. Your commission will have to wait, Thaddeus.”
“I am at your service, Your Grace,” I say, bowing as Duke Áine stalks away, trailed by a blubbering Lord Hopnell.
Later that evening, a sketchbook tucked under my arm, I arrive at dinner to find Lord Hopnell seated farther from the duke than he’s ever been.
And right next to him is Lisande LaBeaumont.
I am far too petty to resist smirking at her as I take my place next to the duke.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Afew days later, Aowen and I are strolling through the market square in downtown Tír na Lune, enjoying a mid-morning iced cream. Because, well, why not?
“How are your painting sessions with the duke coming along?” she asks.
“Mostly well,” I answer, licking the most delicious strawberry iced cream I’ve ever tasted off a small wooden spoon. It’s as though I’m eating a freshly plucked berry that’s been soaked in the coldest bowl of sweet cream. When I become queen, I will mandate this specific flavor for dessert after every meal.
“Has he shared his clue yet?”
“No. But I have not asked again. Not yet. If he senses my desperation, he’s sure to deny me. I’ll know when the time is right.”
I do believe that, even as my deadline looms larger and deadlier every day. And my sessions with the dukehavebeen going well. I’ve been able to maintain Torvil’s undividedattention for several hours each day. Every time he rises to check my progress, he comments on how well I’ve captured his essence. It’s less a compliment on my skills and more a testament to his vanity.
“Mostly well,” Aowen echoes. “What’s the trouble then?”
“I fear I am running out of questions to keep him occupied. He delights in talking about himself, but evenhemay grow bored if I don’t find some new material to inquire after.”
Aowen thinks for a moment, then jabs the air with her tiny spoon. “Back issues of the Sky Gazette. There are loads in the castle library. Plenty of stories he’d be delighted to embellish for you.”
I snicker, though it dies quickly when Aowen continues with, “Lughnasadh is only a few weeks away. How confident are you that he’ll share the clue before then?”
“Food.” Vesper pokes her head out of Aowen’s shoulder bag. “Dead food.”
“Thanks, Vesper.”
The little pixie chomps her teeth. It’s almost affectionate.
I turn back to Aowen. “I’m more confident than I was when we first arrived, at least. What are the courtiers saying?”
“Lisande is in a near panic state on a daily basis.” Aowen waves to a group outside a café who’ve been angling for her attention. She’s nearly as popular with the common folk here in Tír na Lune as she is in Tír na Strelle. “She knows she’s losing her influence over Torvil, and she’s despondent. We’ll need to keep an eye on her. She could be desperate enough to attempt another sabotage.”
