Izare could not afford to pay for her rent for long, so she had moved to his house in the middle of the night and hadn’t dared leave it since. He’d arranged with a few of the locals he trusted to warn her if priests entered the area. She would have to leave and come back when the priests had gone.
Hearing the door below shut, she watched Izare through the window as he strode away along the street below. He looked unconcerned and cheerful. It was easy not to worry when he was so relaxed, and she did not yet want to burst the bubble of happiness she was caught within.
It was not a perfect bubble. She missed Narmah badly and felt terrible about hiding so much from her aunt. She could not help feeling guilty about disappointing her parents, brother and cousin, and causing a scandal that now blemished their names. And she was no fool; she knew a life with Izare was likely to be hard.
She was determined to be a help to him, all too aware that he had two people to feed and clothe now. Since she had moved here she had begun a mental tally of his expenses and, during the lessons she insisted he still give her, pressed him on what was a fair price for different kinds of paintings. She sought ways she could be useful, like grinding paint and preparing boards, though he did not have enough work at the moment for that to save him time. When it was safe to leave the house she figured she could fetch him art supplies and food. Maybe she could learn to cook. He seemed to prefer buying meals already cooked from bakeries and drinking houses, but it was an expensive way to eat all the time. Perhaps one of Izare’s friends could teach her, though that would mean cleaning up the grimy corner that passed for a kitchen on the ground floor and hoping there were cooking pots in among the piles of dirty dishes and the mess.
She grimaced and told herself it was more important to hone her skills, since cleaning and cooking wouldn’t earn them anything. If she couldn’t paint she’d draw. Rising, she found some chalk but no paper, then realised that Izare had taken the last of it with him. With a sigh, she sat by the window again.
Well, it’s not like there’s anything here I haven’t already drawn.
She felt a pang of guilt then. She had used most of his supply of paper without knowing it. Izare had brought some to her at the travellers’ house to fill the hours she’d spent hiding there. Later she’d practised by drawing him, the corners of his house and the view from the window. Though she’d known good paper was expensive, what he used was low-quality, cheap stock and he’d not said anything about her consumption of it. Too late she’d noticed that he often used a piece several times, dusting back the chalk and drawing over the top, and using both sides.
Is it possible to make paper at home? she wondered. Would it be cheaper than buying it? She resolved to find out, once she was free to leave the house.
A movement outside the window caught her eye, and her heart skipped as she saw one of Jonare’s boys running towards Izare’s door. Leaning closer to the glass, she saw his mother following, daughter and two nieces at her side and baby in a sling across her chest. The door below opened then slammed shut.
“‘Zar!” the boy called, thundering up the stairs. Rielle smiled as he reached the top and halted, searching the room.
“Izare is out finding new customers,” she told him, wishing she could remember the boy’s name.
The boy stared at her, caught by the revelation of someone strange in a familiar place. The door below opened again.
“Perri!” Jonare scolded. “I told you to wait!”
Perri spun around and hurried down the stairs. Rising, Rielle walked over to the railing.
“Hello, Jonare.”
The woman looked up and smiled. “We thought you might like some company.”
“Thank you.” Rielle beckoned. “Come up.”
Two of the girls were carrying a basket between them. Jonare took it from them, freeing them all to run up the stairs and into Izare’s studio. Rielle winced as they began to tear around, then hurried to catch the finished spiritual as one of them collided with the easel. She set it aside in what she hoped was a safe place.
Jonare moved to the chairs and sat down with a sigh. Guessing it was the woman’s turn to look after her sister’s twins, Rielle sat at the edge of a stool, ready to rescue anything else they might upset and thinking that, while she appreciated the company, the sudden introduction of five children was a bit of a shock after the isolation of the last few quarterdays.
“So he’s on the hunt for commissions,” Jonare said, nodding. “He hasn’t had to do that for a while. Usually people compete for his work.”
“Is that so?” Rielle asked. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as she’d been told to expect.
Jonare frowned. “Yes. People are more frugal after the festival, though. They spend too much.”
“Then it wasn’t good timing, me coming here.” Rielle sighed. “An extra mouth to feed when work is scarce. I’ve been trying to think of ways I can help.”
The baby had woken and was beginning to fuss. Jonare lifted her tunic and began to feed it. Averting her eyes, Rielle looked at the children instead, then leapt up and extracted a tube of paint from the mouth of one of the girls. Thankfully the twists hadn’t come apart at the ends yet.
“You mustn’t eat paint,” she told the child. “It’s poisonous, and could make you very sick.” She turned back to find Jonare looking surprised.
“Poisonous? Izare never said that.”
Rielle shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t know.” She caught the hands of the girl, who had reached towards more colourful things on the work table. “It might be safer for us to go downstairs.”
Jonare nodded, then rose and called the children to her. They all stomped down to the ground floor. The room below was slightly smaller than the studio and the only furniture it contained was a bed, a single rickety chair and a narrow work bench over by the stove. Though Rielle had made some attempts at tidying, all she had achieved was slightly more organised and less dusty piles of belongings. As the children began to jump all over the bed, she cast about in vain for a better chair to offer. This might be a safer place for children to play, but all the seating for adults was upstairs. Perhaps she could suggest Izare move some down.
“I guess I’ll have to sit on the bed,” she said, moving the chair over for Jonare.
Jonare shrugged and sat down. “Is paint really all that dangerous? Mele once got blue paint all over her face. We thought it was funny and called her an Angel.”
Rielle grimaced. “Well, it depends on the colour. The reds and greens are the worst. My family has strict rules on how to handle dyes and pigments. We – they – don’t want any of the workers getting sick or dying.”
“Izare has paint on his hands all the time.”
“It is hard to paint without getting a little messy. I’m trying to get him to clean up afterwards, but the oily paint requires soap and he says it’s cheaper to wipe your hands on rags.”
Jonare nodded. “Try ashes. It absorbs the oil, then you rinse it off.”
“Truly?” Rielle glanced towards the stove. “Do you know how to cook?”
“Of course. Nothing fancy, though.”
“Could you teach me?”
The woman looked amused. “You never had to, did you?”
Rielle shook her head. “Not beyond simple preparation for feasts. It looks to me like it would be cheaper to make food than pay others to.”
Jonare nodded. “It certainly is – and you’ll need to know how to feed a bub soon enough, I’d say.”
At the woman’s smile, Rielle looked away, feeling her face heat and her heart shrivel.
“Not until we’re married,” she mumbled.
“No?” Jonare laughed. “I don’t think you’ll have much choice about that!” But when Rielle said nothing, she reached forward and patted her on the knee. “Don’t worry. I’ve never seen him so besotted with someone, and he’s the sort of man who treats women fairly, but making it official isn’t cheap.”
Rielle frowned. “But you don’
t need money to get married.”
“You need a willing priest,” Jonare pointed out. “And in these parts, willing means well persuaded.”
“What? Truly?” Rielle shook her head. “I can’t believe how corrupt the priests have proven to be. Sa-Baro…” The old priest would surely not demand money from her. But he might refuse to do it, telling her to go home to her family instead.
Would he, if I was with child? He always said that parents should take responsibility for their children, even those born outside marriage. He wouldn’t want to split us up, if we became a family.
But she couldn’t have a child. At least, not without undoing what the corrupter had done to her. And that meant using magic.
The sound of a door opening and closing drew their attention, then steps going upward. Rielle rose and hurried over to the lower room’s door. She peered out to find Izare nearly at the top of the stairs.
“We’re down here,” she called.
“‘Zar!” a small voice yelled, then Rielle was shoved aside as four children pushed through and raced up the stairs. Izare grinned. Perri reached him first, and was rewarded by being lifted high in the air.
“You’re getting heavier, little man,” Izare told him before setting him down. Then he let the boy grab his hand and guide him back down. As he reached Rielle he kissed her firmly then moved on into the lower room. “Well, well. Two women in my bedroom. I could get to like this.”
Jonare snorted softly. “Not if you knew our plans. I’m going to teach Rielle how to cook.”
Izare’s eyebrows rose and he turned to regard her with a thoughtful expression. “Well, don’t go out and buy any pots and pans quite yet,” he told her. “It’s going to take a little longer to find work than I hoped.”
“What happened?” Jonare asked, her voice suddenly deep and serious. At her tone Rielle felt her stomach sink.
“Just the priests of the city letting me know how displeased they are with me,” he said, looking from Jonare to her. “They are refusing to give out my name to potential buyers, discouraging anyone from commissioning my work, and a certain family has insisted their local temple cover up and replace its wall painting.”
Rielle gasped. “They can’t do that! It would be a great waste of money and a loss of something beautiful and sacred. And … all that work you did.”
He smiled, then walked over and encircled her waist with his arms. “I don’t mind. They’ve paid me already, and I have something even more beautiful and sacred right here.”
She could not help but smile at that. The bubble of happiness returned. Until she remembered what Jonare had said about the priests demanding payment to perform marriages. If they could be persuaded by her family to replace an entire temple wall painting, she doubted any could be bribed into marrying her and Izare.
They could only hope the priests’ willingness to bow to her family’s wishes would weaken with time. The problem was what to do in the meantime, if Izare could get no work.
“Spirituals aren’t all I paint,” Izare reminded her, no doubt reading the worry in her face. “We will be fine.”
She nodded, feeling some of the tension leave her. Remembering his portrait of her and how it had revealed his weakness at painting cloth, she smiled. If he lets me, there is a way I can help. I just have to convince him I can do it.
CHAPTER 12
Looking at the piles of dirty dishes, paint-stained rags, soiled clothing, long-dead flowers and old vegetables covering the kitchen bench, Rielle considered where to start. Dividing it all into items worth keeping or to be thrown away would be a beginning. She considered separating the former based on whether the object needed to be cleaned or not but realised that there was nothing that didn’t.
She couldn’t venture outside to collect water, however. When Izare returned she would get him to do it. Then she would burn some of the rubbish in the stove to heat the water and use the ash, as Jonare had suggested, to help clean the dishes.
Yet she hesitated, afraid that if she disturbed one item the rest would topple over. Would that be such a bad thing? Most of the dishes looked chipped and cracked anyway. The trouble was, they could hardly afford to replace them.
Better start from the top, then, she told herself. Stepping forward, she began to lift an old shirt draped over half the mess. It peeled away, so stiffened with grime and oily paint that it retained some of the shape of the items beneath it. Underneath she found a plate of mouldy sunmelon slices. She sighed out a small prayer to the Angels. No wonder this corner of the room smelled so bad.
A knock came from the main door. Looking over her shoulder towards the sound, then back at the blue-crusted melon, she sighed and replaced the shirt. She hurried out of the room, hoping that whoever had come would fetch her some water.
The heavy main door swung inward to reveal a familiar, kind face set in a frown of sternness and determination.
“Ais Lazuli,” Sa-Baro said. “May I come in and speak with you?”
She could not answer for a moment, first because she had frozen with alarm, then because she was biting back a curse at her own stupidity at answering the door at all, and finally because she was unsure what she should do. He could have so easily forced his way in with magic, but he hadn’t. He had asked to come in.
Would he go away if she refused to talk to him? She was tempted, just to see what happened.
She thought of Narmah and the urge to rebel faded.
“Are you here to take me home?” she asked.
It might have been her imagination, but his expression appeared to soften a fraction. He shook his head.
“Why should I believe you?”
“I swear it is true,” he replied solemnly. “I swear it on the Angels’ names.”
She opened the door fully, gesturing for him to enter the lower room. He looked around as he entered, his gaze moving from the bed to the piles of mess, no doubt comparing it to the tastefully decorated receiving room in the dyeworks. She pushed a pile of dirty clothes off the old chair and waved at it, though she could not imagine him, in his perfect blue robes, looking anything but out of place. He shook his head.
“I won’t be staying long.” He turned to face her. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Is my family well?”
He nodded. “Anxious for your wellbeing, of course.”
“Of course.” By thinking of Narmah, not her mother, she managed to keep sarcasm from her voice.
He looked down at the floor, his brow furrowing, then regarded her directly.
“I apologise for my bluntness but … have you … is Izare your lover?”
She held his gaze, surprised at how easy it was. Perhaps because her answer would have been different if he had done what he had promised to.
“Yes,” she answered.
He looked away, shaking his head. “Foolish girl.”
A surge of anger went through her. “If my choice was foolish, then you are to blame for forcing it by betraying my trust.”
His eyes narrowed. “You dare to judge me, when you have been lying for so long?”
She shook her head. “I did not lie to anyone.”
“No? But you concealed the truth. From your family. From me. How was I to advise you well, if I did not know all that troubled you?”
She closed her mouth. He was right. Would he have told her parents of his suspicions about her and Izare if she’d admitted to him how fondly she had come to regard Izare? Perhaps he’d have guessed she might choose to leave her family, if faced with losing him.
He must have believed their relationship was a shallower thing. He hadn’t thought the prospect of being married off to one of the great families’ reject sons was enough to drive her into running away, because he’d assumed she had nowhere to go.
Or perhaps he’d assumed she wouldn’t give up the wealth of her upbringing to live with a poor artist.
Sa-Baro sighed. “Your aunt would like to see you. Will you meet her?”
Rielle’s heart leapt. “Yes.”
“She hopes to establish friendly relations,” he told her. “Make peace between yourself and your parents. Are you open to such a thing?”
“I am … with conditions.”
“I’m sure she will have some of her own.” He nodded. “I will let her know.”
He started for the door. She stepped aside and followed him out of the room. He let himself out, pausing once to look at her, his expression sad, before stepping outside.
After the door had closed, Rielle drew in a deep breath and let it out, willing the anger and regret to whoosh out with it. Hope warred with fear. It would be wonderful to see Narmah. So long as the meeting was with Narmah, and not some attempt by her family to capture her and take her home.
Abruptly, from out of nowhere, a thought sliced through all others.
I spoke with a priest and never once thought about how I’d learned magic.
She shivered. All she’d thought about was how Sa-Baro had betrayed her. Next time she might not be so lucky. It was going to be hard, meeting the eyes of a priest while thinking about what she had done. Hopefully, many years of hiding her ability to see Stain would help her keep this new secret.
But for now she had more pressing problems. Pushing the thought aside, she turned to look at the lower room, seeing it as Sa-Baro must have and feeling ashamed. Izare did not mind the mess and had no servants to do the work. Nothing would change here without her making it.
Since it was clear that the priests knew she was here and weren’t about to drag her home, she was free to fetch water for herself. Straightening her shoulders, she walked over and picked up the metal basin she and Izare used to wash themselves and their clothes. Setting it on the stove, she picked up the large pitcher Izare used to carry water in from the fountain and headed for the main door.