Free Web NovelChapter 64: Painted Perceptions and Unintended Laughter
Chapter 63: Painted Perceptions and Unintended Laughter
Lyria’s POV
The Marquess Hale of Westreach approached the dais with the same composed posture that so often betrayed a certain pride, though I suspected today it carried a little more restraint than usual. His painting was lifted from the easel by a servant and held carefully upright before the assembled crowd.
Jacinta’s gaze fell upon the canvas, and her smile, though polite, was far less enthusiastic than it had been for Thorncrest or Lucian. There was a stiffness to it, the sort of restrained warmth one might give a gentleman whose intentions were respectable but whose execution had perhaps fallen short of expectation. freēwēbnovel.com
"It is... very beautiful," she murmured, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
The Queen tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in thoughtful appraisal. "Marquess Hale," she said, her tone both gentle and probing, "is that the Princess depicted here?"
The Marquess inclined his head once and nodded.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice measured. "I see Her Highness as the most beautiful woman to have ever existed. To compare her merely to the Moon would be to diminish her. She is wholly herself, and in that, she is exquisite."
The King leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the arm of his chair, and spoke with an air of quiet amusement. "The Duke of Eastmere was correct in his observation, it would seem," he said gently, "that the colours fail to capture the true brilliance of the Princess’ eyes. They are, as one might expect, more luminous than any pigment could hope to render."
The Queen inclined her head in acknowledgment, the corners of her mouth curling in a faint smile.
"Indeed," she said. "And Marquess, while your devotion to the Princess’ likeness is noted and even appreciated, I must comment—rather frankly—that your execution leaves much to be desired. The portrait is... shall we say, slightly askew. While I understand the sentiment, one cannot overlook that detail."
I stifled a small laugh, pressing my hand delicately over my mouth so as not to draw attention. The Marquess’ smile, a proud, upright line of dignity, faltered ever so slightly. There was a subtle twitch in the muscles at the corner of his mouth, a hint of frustration beneath the composed exterior.
The Queen continued, her tone careful yet pointed. "The competition did not request a portrait, Marquess. The task was to depict the essence of the Princess, the impression she leaves upon those who behold her. Had you accurately painted her, I would not fault your skill, but it would have still failed to address the true intent of this exercise."
The Marquess inclined his head once more, lips pressed in a thin, straight line, eyes forward, and gave a formal bow. The faintest sigh escaped me in the shadows, barely audible as I shook my head in quiet amusement. The Marquess’ upright stance, the line of his shoulders, the careful tilt of his chin—all bespoke a man silently bristling at the critique but unwilling to show it openly.
Jacinta spoke then, her voice gentle and forgiving. "Though you did not strictly adhere to the instructions, Marquess, I find that you captured a certain truth about my beauty. It may be imperfect, but the attempt, the intention, is evident. And I am aware that you are self-taught in these matters. That is, I think, quite admirable."
I could not help it. I laughed, faintly but audibly, covering my mouth with my hand. Self-taught, indeed. I had been the one to instruct him, to guide his hand, to teach him how to blend and shade, to teach him how to see. The Marquess had not learned alone; he had learned at my direction.
The Queen’s gaze softened, and she inclined her head once more. "Very well, Marquess. You may step aside."
The Marquess executed another bow, careful, measured, and turned back to rejoin the ranks of his fellow candidates. His stride remained upright, his posture impeccable, though the subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed the irritation simmering beneath the composed exterior.
The next candidate was called—Count Elias Thornleigh of Brightwater. I barely noticed his approach. His painting, as I suspected, was technically competent, competent to a degree that one might expect from a well-trained court artist, yet it conveyed little. Jacinta observed politely, offering the kind of approving nod reserved for competence, not artistry.
Count Matthias Greystone of Northvale — who had spent the competition rotating his brush with barely contained anxiety — presented a painting that was, by contrast, extraordinarily careful.
Every detail was rendered with meticulous precision. A formal composition, technically flawless, emotionally cautious.
He looked visibly relieved when it was received without criticism.
Finally, it came to the Earls, each was called out one by one, and the last to present was Earl Benedict Hawthorne of Windmere. He approached the dais with a nervous stiffness, the way a man might walk to the gallows yet hope to impress nonetheless.
His painting, when displayed, drew a collective intake of breath, though not for the reasons he likely intended. It was... simple. The canvas was nearly entirely blue, punctuated by yellow drops that I wasn’t certain what they signified yet. There was no form, no figure, no elaborate narrative. Just colour, scattered and abstract.
A hush fell over the assembly, the nobles exchanging quick glances, some suppressing raised eyebrows. I, on the other hand, could not contain my laughter. It bubbled up, stifled behind my hand, yet impossible to hold back entirely.
The Queen blinked, her expression poised between curiosity and polite interrogation. "Earl Hawthorne," she said finally, "would you care to explain the intention behind this painting?"
The Earl nodded and adjusted his clothes but did not speak.
"Earl Hawthorne?" The Queen called out.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied.
"You are yet to explain the intention behind your painting and what it signifies," she told him.
The Earl blinked. "Well, it’s quite straightforward. I painted the sky," he said.
"The sky?" the Queen asked him. "You mean the blue thing I see in your work is the sky?"
The Earl nodded. "Quite so."
