Elsabet winced. Sweet Catherine, so mild and calm for an elemental, with so little understanding of the other gifts. She meant no harm, but she often made everything worse.
“Holding the festival in the Volroy grounds will also allow the people a closer look at the construction of the towers. I can announce that the West Tower is nearly complete. And recount the history of the build so they will remember that it was not I who ordered such an expensive castle. I have heard enough of their grumbling when I pass through the marketplaces. They think I’m bankrupting them.”
“Preposterous,” said Gilbert, and smoothed his wispy yellow hair away from his forehead. “The flow of materials has been steady, near constant since before we were born.”
“I know that, and you know that, but the people forget.”
“The people are restless,” Sonia muttered. “They’ve been too long without war and raids. They are looking for things to grumble about.”
Elsabet pursed her lips. They were getting nowhere. “I have heard your objections to the festival feast and will consider them. But Midsummer is in two weeks, and we had best begin making the castle ready.” She pushed away from the council table and ignored their sour faces as she led the way to the Black Green for an afternoon of games and refreshment. Rosamund swung the door open, her face like a storm cloud, and bowed as Elsabet passed. Her bow was good, one hand hidden in the fold of her cape, and had the queen not been searching for it, she would not have seen the hilt of Rosamund’s drawn dagger.
“Walk with me, Rosamund,” she said, and dragged her along. “And sheathe that knife. I won’t have you slicing into Sonia Beaulin today, no matter what she said.”
They reached the Black Green without incident and dispersed onto the lawn, where tables had been set with food and drink. William was already there and greeted Elsabet with a kiss on the cheek. He had been attentive since their reconciliation. He came to her bed every night the first week after, and even corralled her in the castle halls, leaning her against a tapestry and tormenting her with kisses until she could hardly think. But his ardor faded, as she knew it would. As it must. She suspected he was sneaking out with girls from the capital again. He was certainly flirting again. But at least he curbed his impulses when she was right there watching.
The queen sat with Gilbert at a table in the shade, and Bess poured them cooled wine. Elsabet drank hers and nearly spat it out. It had been laced with Gilbert’s bitter tonic.
“Bleagh.”
“Apologies, my queen. It was by Gilbert’s order.”
Elsabet patted her foster brother’s hand. “And I appreciate it. But I have already taken a dose of tonic with my breakfast. So now, Bess, I would have plain, watered wine.”
“Yes, Queen Elsabet.” Bess curtsied. Gilbert frowned but did not argue.
“A few petitioners have come,” Bess said as she poured. “I think they hoped you would be sitting for petitions in the afternoon.”
“How many?”
“Only a few. None with contentious concerns. It is mostly about the festival. A baker with samples for the feast. A painter.”
“Send them to me, then.” Elsabet waved her hand toward the rear of the green, where she spied several figures lingering in the shadows. “The whole Black Council is here anyway.”
She was only half paying attention when the boy stepped in front of her and bowed. There was nothing remarkable about him. Nothing to catch the eye. It was not until Francesca Arron read his petition that Elsabet really looked at him. And then she could not stop staring.
It was the young man from her dream. From the mussed, dark blond hair to the paint smudges on his fingers. He was real. She could still hear the exact sound of his voice from that night, when she heard him say her name.
“Queen Elsabet, this is Jonathan Denton. An apprentice painter studying beneath a master in Prynn.” Francesca paused to look him over. Prynn was the poisoners’ city. No doubt she was trying to ascertain whether she knew him or whether he shared any Arron blood. “State your business to the queen.”
“Queen Elsabet,” he said, and she nearly gasped. “I would like to paint your portrait. For the Midsummer Festival.”
She made no response.
“The queen does not care for having her portrait painted,” Francesca said. “She was made to sit for one when she was first crowned. I see no reason to submit her to it again, certainly not so soon.”
“I would—” Jonathan Denton faltered. “I work very fast.”
“Thank you. But we do not need to pay for another portrait just so some young apprentice can make a name for himself.”
His mouth hung open. He nodded and bowed again, looking up helplessly into the queen’s wide eyes. “Thank you, my queen,” he said, and turned to go.
“Wait!” Elsabet half rose from her seat. Francesca Arron looked at her sharply. “I will sit for this painter. A portrait of the first Midsummer Festival held inside the castle grounds would be a welcome addition to the Tower walls.”
THE VOLROY
Elsabet truly did hate sitting for portraits. Her face had twitched nearly the entire time she sat for her first one, and she hated the finished piece, even if the artist had been kind and made her cheeks smooth and jawline delicate and softened the crook of her nose. So she did not know what she was doing when she met the painter Jonathan Denton in the bright, open courtyard that stretched before the Volroy’s western side. She knew only that she had seen him in a dream, and she was determined to discover why.
“Queen Elsabet.” He came as close to her as he dared and bowed. “I’m honored that you would sit for me. I promise that the portrait will be exactly as you wish. My renditions of buildings are very strong, I am told. The Volroy would make for a fine backdrop, with you seated in the foreground. Or perhaps—”
“That will be fine.”
He readied a chair for her and she sat, holding patiently still as he adjusted the fall of her gown and even touched her face, moving her this way and that, to better catch the light.
“How long will this take?”
“Not long.” He smiled, a little shyly. “If you are still.”
“Am I free to talk?”
“Of course! I—I’ll tell you when it comes time to work on your . . . expression.”
She watched him as he went about his business, readying brushes and cloths and paint.
“You seem nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“But you were bold enough to come to the queen and ask to paint a portrait for a special occasion.”
He smiled again, easier this time. “I suppose I am bold, for my art.”
Elsabet sighed. Her assessment of him remained unchanged. There was nothing extraordinary about him. He was a boy of average height and build. Her age perhaps or a few years younger. Could she have been mistaken? Was her recollection of the dream flawed? Or perhaps the dream had been only a dream. Perhaps she had seen him somewhere before, in the marketplace or in the square, and her mind had simply conjured his face from her memory, for no reason at all.
Except the dream had been so vivid. And she was not in the habit of dreaming of strangers.