Read Online Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel) by Victoria Strauss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Victoria Strauss
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in the sun, contented as a cat. Angela in profile—a simple sketch, just quill and ink, yet none of the more finished drawings Giulia had done captured her friend so well.
She went first to Angela’s easel. “For you,” she said, laying the portrait on the little table where Angela kept her pigment pots and other materials.
“What is it?” Angela set down her brush. She was highlighting an angel’s wing feathers with vermilion; Giulia heard the color’s voice, a musical sizzle like oil in a hot pan. “Oh, Giulia, what a lovely drawing! But you’ve made me look so . . . so . . .”
“Beautiful? You are, you know.”
“Oh, well.” Angela made a dismissing gesture. “Thank you. What made you think of it?”
“I thought you might like it. Angela . . .”
“Yes?”
I never imagined I’d have a friend like you. Someone who cared about me, who stood up for me. I’m going to miss you so much.
“Nothing. I love you, Angela.”
“I love you too.” Angela frowned. “Giulia—”
But Giulia, already hurrying away, pretended she had not heard.
Lucida was delighted with her portrait and kissed Giulia on both cheeks for thanks. Perpetua was embarrassed, blushing as she looked down at herself. Benedicta had stayed in her cell that day; Giulia placed her portrait by her easel, where she would find it the next time she came in.
For the rest of the afternoon, Giulia went about her duties with a calm efficiency that amazed her, while fear vibrated in her like a swarm of bees and her pulse beat high and fast against her throat. She felt outside herself, unable to believe what she was about to do.
The Vespers bell rang at last. She stood by the grinding table after the artists departed, counting to a thousand to make sure they were truly gone. Then, half-certain she was dreaming, she crossed to the supply shelves, where she spread a square of linen on the floor and stacked it with her Annunciation painting, the best of her drawings, a supply of unused paper, a pouch of charcoal sticks, and a knife for sharpening them, which she could also use to cut her hair. She added Humilità’s bequests: the Alberti manuscript and the rosewood brushes. She’d left the workshop earlier to retrieve them, smuggling them back in under the bodice of her gown.
Last, she fetched a small silver plate from one of the chests that held the costumes and other items the workshop used for the models who posed for drawings. She hated stealing. But she had to have something to sell or barter for the clothing and food she’d need on her journey.
I’ll pay it back,
she promised silently.
I swear I will.
She folded the linen around the items and tied the bundle with cord. She loosened her belt and pushed the bundle up under the front of her gown. It was bulky; but if she clasped her arms around her midsection and hunched forward as though her stomach pained her, it was more or less hidden.
She was ready.
She stood a moment, looking around. The candle flames shook in the draft from the courtyard, sweeping light and shadow across the big room so that everything in it seemed to shift a little, to breathe a little, as if the workshop were a living thing. At the grinding table, the marble slab was still smeared with bone black, the last paint she’d mixed: She could hear its thrumming, drumlike voice, rising and falling in steady rhythm.
How long will it be before I hear the color songs again?
For an instant she was sure she sensed Humilità’s presence, as if her teacher were standing just behind her. Approving? Accusing? She could not tell.
This is the only way I can think of to become what you wanted me to be, Maestra. I wish I could see another. But I can’t. I can’t.
She blew out the candles and left the workshop. The torch-lit corridors were deserted; the noble nuns were all in church, singing Vespers, and the servant nuns were at their duties. She was aware of the bundle, uncomfortable beneathher clothes—and of the
She went first to Angela’s easel. “For you,” she said, laying the portrait on the little table where Angela kept her pigment pots and other materials.
“What is it?” Angela set down her brush. She was highlighting an angel’s wing feathers with vermilion; Giulia heard the color’s voice, a musical sizzle like oil in a hot pan. “Oh, Giulia, what a lovely drawing! But you’ve made me look so . . . so . . .”
“Beautiful? You are, you know.”
“Oh, well.” Angela made a dismissing gesture. “Thank you. What made you think of it?”
“I thought you might like it. Angela . . .”
“Yes?”
I never imagined I’d have a friend like you. Someone who cared about me, who stood up for me. I’m going to miss you so much.
“Nothing. I love you, Angela.”
“I love you too.” Angela frowned. “Giulia—”
But Giulia, already hurrying away, pretended she had not heard.
Lucida was delighted with her portrait and kissed Giulia on both cheeks for thanks. Perpetua was embarrassed, blushing as she looked down at herself. Benedicta had stayed in her cell that day; Giulia placed her portrait by her easel, where she would find it the next time she came in.
For the rest of the afternoon, Giulia went about her duties with a calm efficiency that amazed her, while fear vibrated in her like a swarm of bees and her pulse beat high and fast against her throat. She felt outside herself, unable to believe what she was about to do.
The Vespers bell rang at last. She stood by the grinding table after the artists departed, counting to a thousand to make sure they were truly gone. Then, half-certain she was dreaming, she crossed to the supply shelves, where she spread a square of linen on the floor and stacked it with her Annunciation painting, the best of her drawings, a supply of unused paper, a pouch of charcoal sticks, and a knife for sharpening them, which she could also use to cut her hair. She added Humilità’s bequests: the Alberti manuscript and the rosewood brushes. She’d left the workshop earlier to retrieve them, smuggling them back in under the bodice of her gown.
Last, she fetched a small silver plate from one of the chests that held the costumes and other items the workshop used for the models who posed for drawings. She hated stealing. But she had to have something to sell or barter for the clothing and food she’d need on her journey.
I’ll pay it back,
she promised silently.
I swear I will.
She folded the linen around the items and tied the bundle with cord. She loosened her belt and pushed the bundle up under the front of her gown. It was bulky; but if she clasped her arms around her midsection and hunched forward as though her stomach pained her, it was more or less hidden.
She was ready.
She stood a moment, looking around. The candle flames shook in the draft from the courtyard, sweeping light and shadow across the big room so that everything in it seemed to shift a little, to breathe a little, as if the workshop were a living thing. At the grinding table, the marble slab was still smeared with bone black, the last paint she’d mixed: She could hear its thrumming, drumlike voice, rising and falling in steady rhythm.
How long will it be before I hear the color songs again?
For an instant she was sure she sensed Humilità’s presence, as if her teacher were standing just behind her. Approving? Accusing? She could not tell.
This is the only way I can think of to become what you wanted me to be, Maestra. I wish I could see another. But I can’t. I can’t.
She blew out the candles and left the workshop. The torch-lit corridors were deserted; the noble nuns were all in church, singing Vespers, and the servant nuns were at their duties. She was aware of the bundle, uncomfortable beneathher clothes—and of the
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