Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Lying back on my bed, I felt the stress of the day weigh on me until sleep began to take me away. I was just about to roll over when I heard a gentle knock on my door.
Who could be coming so late?
“Enter,” I called out with a yawn, sitting up to look at the door. But it didn’t open. “Hello?”
Still nothing.
Confused, I got up and walked to the door. Upon opening it, I saw no one. I did, however, feel a pat on my knees. I looked down and saw a canvas…and a letter. I lifted it up to see…my art. No, it wasn’t my art, but it was very similar to the painting the prince had ruined in the library. The whole layout was the same as well, except a few corrections to the proportions and…my father’s nose, drawn better. It was even completed to the same place I had stopped. Taking it along with the letter, I closed the door and moved back to my bed, carefully putting the canvas beside me before reading.
Dear Lady Hathor,
You are correct: Art, lost or destroyed, can never be replaced. It is more than simply strokes of paint on paper. It is an artist’s feelings, time, and effort. I know this very well, which is why guilt has compelled me to make amends in any way possible. Forgive my lack of talent; it has been some time since I last painted. However, I did my best to salvage what I could from memory. Do accept it as my most sincere apology.
From
A Villainous Imbecile
I stared in shock, first at the letter, then at the painting. He did this from memory…and he called it a lack of talent? All within a day? Was he joking? He had to be, for he was far more accomplished than I was. I lifted the canvas again, inspecting every line in utter amazement. He’d truly forfeited all company just to work on it. Never had anyone done something like this for me. Guilt filled me for insulting him as I did. But that wasn’t the only thing I felt. Magically, all my exhaustion had left me. I was invigorated—no, I was inspired—and slightly sour that he had such talent. I moved to my dresser trunk, pulling out my paints and tools, setting them up on the floor around me.
It was as though something had taken over me. I would not be able to rest until I finished this. I started first on my father, working around where the prince had left off, using the browns to bring out the oaks of the desk…my hands could not stop moving. I found myself humming gently as I planned out the colors of Mama’s dress. It would be purple, of course. She loved that color.
I was so engulfed that I did not notice how long I’d painted. I did not see the sun rise, nor hear any birds or maids. It was as if everything else vanished. I could have sat there for several more hours, happily unbothered, when I heard my name yelled.
“Hathor? What in all the heavens are you doing?” I looked to the door to see Mama, alongside Bernice, staring back at me with wide eyes. Both of them gasped at the sight of me. “My dear, please tell me you have not spent all night painting!”
“I have not spent all night painting,” I lied, as she wished.
“Hathor!”
“Mama, I have to finish this.”
“No, you do not. Bernice, help her up at once,” she ordered. Bernice was already at my side, her hands under my arms.
“Mama—”
“We have several guests here and activities you must attend. Your art can wait. Oh…you’ve paint in your hair! Look at you!” I looked in the mirror, and sure enough, there were smudges of paint all over my face, arms, and clothing. Not to mention the slight dark circles around my eyes from lack of sleep. “Have a hot bath drawn quickly, and then have ice brought up. We will need to make her eyes less puffy as quickly as possible.”
“Mama—”
“What has happened to your enthusiastic quest to find a husband, my dear?” she questioned, cupping my face.
“I met the men, and saw they were not similarly enthusiastic about finding a wife,” I huffed, trying to wipe the paint off my hand.
“Of course not. To many men, a wife is a symbol of further responsibility and death to youth.”
I gasped. “That is not what you have always told me. You always said a good marriage is a blessing. And a man who loves you will give up all the world for you, and—”
“And all of that is true.” She brushed strands of hair from my face. “But it applies directly to the man who loves you. Surely, you remember how your brother was before he met Silva. Your father and I could not even hold a single conversation on the subject of marriage without him rolling his eyes and desperately seeking to escape. Then, one day, he was in love and ready to run off to the nearest church. Men fear marriage, and yet crave a woman to love.”