I disagreed. The only thing I might have added, if only in my mind, was the question of whether the Nameless, with all that magnificence, would even have cared what I thought or did.
While the walk from the Anomen D’Este to Brayer Lane and Master Caliostrus’s establishment, even by the winding Bakers’ Lane, was only half the distance I’d walked to get to Father’s, I didn’t even have to do that. Mother had Charlsyn go that way—and she slipped me two silvers as well, when Father wasn’t looking, just before I got out of the coach. So I wasn’t all that chilled by the time I reached my room.
755 A.L.
A good portrait reveals what is seen; a great one also
reveals what is not.
I was halfway into the last sitting with Thelya on a far warmer and more pleasant Samedi morning—and the second one in Fevier—when I found myself looking at her eyes again. I’d been worried about them—not the shape or the shadows, but the color of the irises—for the last several sittings. The problem was simple. Her eyes were green, but I was limited to zinc blue-green and verdigris, and the zinc green wasn’t intense enough, and the verdigris was far too fugitive to be used for Thelya’s eyes, even if I used a touch of a clear varnish-glaze.
What I really needed was imagers’ green, but only Master Caliostrus had that, along with the lapis blue, and they were so costly that I’d never see them, not as a journeyman, and certainly not so long as I worked in his studio. The most I’d ever seen were tiny dollops here and there. Still . . . I wouldn’t need all that much. I glanced toward the converted ancient armoire that held his pigments, then shook my head.
If I could just have used the tiniest bit of that brilliant green, and then shaded the eyes from yellow-flecked zinc green to the brighter imagers’ green on the sides of the pupils—right there . . .
I swallowed. I’d done it again. What I’d visualized, seen so clearly in my mind, had appeared on the canvas before me. That was a form of imaging. There was no doubt about it, but exactly what use was imaging that could only make small changes in oil paints on a canvas?
I couldn’t help smiling as I studied the face on the canvas. That little change had made all the difference, bringing her eyes alive, and creating a subtle but clear linkage between all the elements of the portrait.
I finished just before noon, after refining just the hint of an errant curl above her left ear. Then I set down the fine-tipped brush and stepped away from the easel.
“Thank you, Thelya. We’re finished for now, and today was the last sitting. The portrait should be ready in a few days.”
“It isn’t done now?” She bounced off the chair, holding Remsi so tightly that the cat gave a meow of protest.
The governess raised an eyebrow. She never spoke when a gesture would do.
“Some of the background isn’t finished, but I don’t need you to sit for that.”
“Can I see?”
“You can . . . if you really want to.”
She stopped well short of the easel. “You’re saying that I shouldn’t.”
That stopped me. For a pampered nine-year-old to catch that suggested more perception than I’d thought she had. After a moment, I said, “You certainly can, Mistress Thelya, but I’d rather that you be surprised when you see the fully completed portrait.”
“Like presents at Year-Turn?”
“Something like that.”
She nodded. “I can wait.” Her words were more about her than about the portrait, and, for some reason, I thought about Chorister Aknotyn’s homily the week before, about thinking we understood people because we knew their names and had seen them often enough to believe that what we had seen was all that they were.
“I’m sure you can.” I smiled. “It won’t be long. Thank you for being so good at the sittings.” I turned to the governess. “Thank you.”
“The quiet was most restful.” Her lips did not quite smile.
Once Thelya, her
While the walk from the Anomen D’Este to Brayer Lane and Master Caliostrus’s establishment, even by the winding Bakers’ Lane, was only half the distance I’d walked to get to Father’s, I didn’t even have to do that. Mother had Charlsyn go that way—and she slipped me two silvers as well, when Father wasn’t looking, just before I got out of the coach. So I wasn’t all that chilled by the time I reached my room.
755 A.L.
A good portrait reveals what is seen; a great one also
reveals what is not.
I was halfway into the last sitting with Thelya on a far warmer and more pleasant Samedi morning—and the second one in Fevier—when I found myself looking at her eyes again. I’d been worried about them—not the shape or the shadows, but the color of the irises—for the last several sittings. The problem was simple. Her eyes were green, but I was limited to zinc blue-green and verdigris, and the zinc green wasn’t intense enough, and the verdigris was far too fugitive to be used for Thelya’s eyes, even if I used a touch of a clear varnish-glaze.
What I really needed was imagers’ green, but only Master Caliostrus had that, along with the lapis blue, and they were so costly that I’d never see them, not as a journeyman, and certainly not so long as I worked in his studio. The most I’d ever seen were tiny dollops here and there. Still . . . I wouldn’t need all that much. I glanced toward the converted ancient armoire that held his pigments, then shook my head.
If I could just have used the tiniest bit of that brilliant green, and then shaded the eyes from yellow-flecked zinc green to the brighter imagers’ green on the sides of the pupils—right there . . .
I swallowed. I’d done it again. What I’d visualized, seen so clearly in my mind, had appeared on the canvas before me. That was a form of imaging. There was no doubt about it, but exactly what use was imaging that could only make small changes in oil paints on a canvas?
I couldn’t help smiling as I studied the face on the canvas. That little change had made all the difference, bringing her eyes alive, and creating a subtle but clear linkage between all the elements of the portrait.
I finished just before noon, after refining just the hint of an errant curl above her left ear. Then I set down the fine-tipped brush and stepped away from the easel.
“Thank you, Thelya. We’re finished for now, and today was the last sitting. The portrait should be ready in a few days.”
“It isn’t done now?” She bounced off the chair, holding Remsi so tightly that the cat gave a meow of protest.
The governess raised an eyebrow. She never spoke when a gesture would do.
“Some of the background isn’t finished, but I don’t need you to sit for that.”
“Can I see?”
“You can . . . if you really want to.”
She stopped well short of the easel. “You’re saying that I shouldn’t.”
That stopped me. For a pampered nine-year-old to catch that suggested more perception than I’d thought she had. After a moment, I said, “You certainly can, Mistress Thelya, but I’d rather that you be surprised when you see the fully completed portrait.”
“Like presents at Year-Turn?”
“Something like that.”
She nodded. “I can wait.” Her words were more about her than about the portrait, and, for some reason, I thought about Chorister Aknotyn’s homily the week before, about thinking we understood people because we knew their names and had seen them often enough to believe that what we had seen was all that they were.
“I’m sure you can.” I smiled. “It won’t be long. Thank you for being so good at the sittings.” I turned to the governess. “Thank you.”
“The quiet was most restful.” Her lips did not quite smile.
Once Thelya, her
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