governess, and Remsi left, I spent a bit more time just looking at the canvas. I had a few things to finish along the edges, but it was a fine portrait, probably the best I had done.
At that moment, Ostrius stepped into the studio, bringing with him a gust of cold air that suggested the past several days of comparatively mild weather were about to end. Almost as if to say that he didn’t have to follow his father’s rules about keeping the door closed in winter, he stood just inside the studio, holding the door open. “We need a little fresher air in here.”
“Suit yourself,” I replied. “My sitting’s over.”
He closed the door and walked toward my easel, where he stopped and glanced at the portrait. After a moment, he said, “Not bad. You almost got the skin perfect.”
Much that he knew. I had gotten Thelya’s pale skin perfect. He would have added the faintest touch of earth brown and yellow to flatter her, but that would have left anyone with any discrimination who saw the portrait vaguely unsatisfied without knowing why. “That’s the way I saw it.”
“You need to see them the way they see themselves, Rhenn. That’s what makes a portraiturist a master.”
After all the years with Master Caliostrus, I was getting to hate the way Ostrius tried to sound like his father. Master Caliostrus might be demanding or picky, but most of the time he was looking to improve what I did—or at least make it more attractive to a patron. Ostrius was just using his father’s mannerisms to assert himself, and that trait had worsened since he’d been confirmed as a master, if a junior master. “It’s certainly what brings many of them golds.”
“Golds last, Rhenn, if you have enough of them. Reputation is fickle, and skills vanish with age.”
He was doubtless right, but the way he said the words was annoying. I forced a laugh. “You’re suggesting that we need to use our skills to amass golds before those skills fade.”
“What else?” He walked to his pigment chest, unlocking it and putting several new brushes inside. Then he locked the chest again. “Don’t forget to bank the coals in the stove.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m sure you will.” Ostrius flashed an insincere smile as he left the studio.
It wasn’t that long before Master Caliostrus appeared, while I was finishing the last touches on the rust-brown hangings at the left edge of the portrait.
“Where did you get that green?” Master Caliostrus pointed to Thelya’s eyes.
I knew I shouldn’t have left the eyes that way, but they were perfect. “Sir?”
“That’s imagers’ green. Were you in my paints, Rhennthyl?”
“No, sir. I thought about it, but that would have been wrong.” I gave him an embarrassed smile. What else could I say? “When I was cleaning the studio last Meredi . . . there was a little dollop of it on the edge of the side table, and it was hard, but I worked at it with oils over the past few days, and I managed to work in just a little bit . . . I thought . . . well, for her eyes, it seemed perfect.”
“Hmmmph.” Caliostrus walked to the old converted armoire that held his pigments.
That didn’t bother me—if he were honest—because I hadn’t touched his pigments. I wouldn’t have dared. I could hear him mumbling. “Not here . . . there . . . hmmmm.”
After a time, he returned and scanned the portrait of Thelya D’Scheorzyl minutely, then nodded. “It is quite good. I would have softened her skin a touch, but you chose to render what you saw. That might be best for a child.” He smiled. “That way, if you do one later, you can soften it.” He paused. “You’ll pardon my concern about the eyes, but imagers’ green is almost as valuable as liquid silver. You must have worked very hard to stretch that small dollop.”
“I did, sir. It would have been better if I could have used a touch in the corner of the cat’s pupils, but . . .” I shrugged helplessly. “I wouldn’t
At that moment, Ostrius stepped into the studio, bringing with him a gust of cold air that suggested the past several days of comparatively mild weather were about to end. Almost as if to say that he didn’t have to follow his father’s rules about keeping the door closed in winter, he stood just inside the studio, holding the door open. “We need a little fresher air in here.”
“Suit yourself,” I replied. “My sitting’s over.”
He closed the door and walked toward my easel, where he stopped and glanced at the portrait. After a moment, he said, “Not bad. You almost got the skin perfect.”
Much that he knew. I had gotten Thelya’s pale skin perfect. He would have added the faintest touch of earth brown and yellow to flatter her, but that would have left anyone with any discrimination who saw the portrait vaguely unsatisfied without knowing why. “That’s the way I saw it.”
“You need to see them the way they see themselves, Rhenn. That’s what makes a portraiturist a master.”
After all the years with Master Caliostrus, I was getting to hate the way Ostrius tried to sound like his father. Master Caliostrus might be demanding or picky, but most of the time he was looking to improve what I did—or at least make it more attractive to a patron. Ostrius was just using his father’s mannerisms to assert himself, and that trait had worsened since he’d been confirmed as a master, if a junior master. “It’s certainly what brings many of them golds.”
“Golds last, Rhenn, if you have enough of them. Reputation is fickle, and skills vanish with age.”
He was doubtless right, but the way he said the words was annoying. I forced a laugh. “You’re suggesting that we need to use our skills to amass golds before those skills fade.”
“What else?” He walked to his pigment chest, unlocking it and putting several new brushes inside. Then he locked the chest again. “Don’t forget to bank the coals in the stove.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m sure you will.” Ostrius flashed an insincere smile as he left the studio.
It wasn’t that long before Master Caliostrus appeared, while I was finishing the last touches on the rust-brown hangings at the left edge of the portrait.
“Where did you get that green?” Master Caliostrus pointed to Thelya’s eyes.
I knew I shouldn’t have left the eyes that way, but they were perfect. “Sir?”
“That’s imagers’ green. Were you in my paints, Rhennthyl?”
“No, sir. I thought about it, but that would have been wrong.” I gave him an embarrassed smile. What else could I say? “When I was cleaning the studio last Meredi . . . there was a little dollop of it on the edge of the side table, and it was hard, but I worked at it with oils over the past few days, and I managed to work in just a little bit . . . I thought . . . well, for her eyes, it seemed perfect.”
“Hmmmph.” Caliostrus walked to the old converted armoire that held his pigments.
That didn’t bother me—if he were honest—because I hadn’t touched his pigments. I wouldn’t have dared. I could hear him mumbling. “Not here . . . there . . . hmmmm.”
After a time, he returned and scanned the portrait of Thelya D’Scheorzyl minutely, then nodded. “It is quite good. I would have softened her skin a touch, but you chose to render what you saw. That might be best for a child.” He smiled. “That way, if you do one later, you can soften it.” He paused. “You’ll pardon my concern about the eyes, but imagers’ green is almost as valuable as liquid silver. You must have worked very hard to stretch that small dollop.”
“I did, sir. It would have been better if I could have used a touch in the corner of the cat’s pupils, but . . .” I shrugged helplessly. “I wouldn’t
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