Chapter 61: Three Hours Beneath the Autumn Sun
Chapter 60: Three Hours Beneath the Autumn Sun
Lyria’s POV
The first strokes began hesitantly.
It was almost amusing to witness.
One might imagine that fourteen noblemen, each determined to win the hand of a princess, would attack the canvas with great confidence the moment the bell rang.
That was not what happened.
For several long moments after the competition officially began, many of them simply stood before their easels as though the blank canvases had personally insulted them.
Brushes hovered uncertainly.
Palettes remained untouched.
Expressions of intense concentration settled across otherwise distinguished faces.
From my position in the old gatehouse, I watched everything unfold with quiet fascination.
Earl Hawthorne, for instance, appeared entirely at a loss.
At first, he stood before his canvas with the air of a man deeply contemplating something profound. His head tilted slightly to one side, one hand holding the paintbrush as he scratched an itch in his hair...a rather persistent itch, I must say.
He looked like he was studying a particularly complicated painting already completed.
Unfortunately for him, the canvas remained entirely blank.
Several minutes passed.
Then several more.
He shifted his weight where he stood and tapped the brush lightly against the edge of his palette. He was no longer scratching it, it would seem.
But even that action resulted in nothing.
Nearly an hour passed before it became impossible for him to ignore the progress of the others any longer. Several suitors had already begun layering colours upon their canvases with quiet focus.
And so, with what I could only describe as reluctant determination, Earl Hawthorne finally dipped his brush into the paint and began.
The result, from what I could see, looked... uncertain.
But at least he had started.
My attention soon shifted elsewhere.
Baron Redwick stood a few easels down from him, his entire posture altered now that he had begun his work. The careful reserve that usually governed his movements had been replaced by a precise, almost scholarly intensity.
He frowned slightly as he painted, a small crease between his brows.
I found myself watching him longer than I intended.
The first structure of his painting already looked quite impressive. Even from a distance, I could see the confident placement of colour and form.
His hand moved steadily, without hesitation.
And that faint frown remained in place.
For a man who often appeared so composed and distant, the expression was oddly... charming.
I quickly shook that thought away.
It would hardly do to sit here admiring the baron’s concentration like some idle court lady.
Still, I could not deny that his work looked excellent.
My gaze drifted further along the arc of easels.
Duke Thorncrest proved considerably more theatrical in his approach.
Each time he raised his brush, he paused dramatically to glance toward Jacinta as though drawing inspiration directly from her presence.
He would study her face with exaggerated seriousness, then turn back to his canvas and add a few careful strokes before repeating the process all over again.
His expression changed with each glance.
One moment thoughtful.
The next admiring.
Occasionally even tragic.
It was a wonder he did not place a hand over his heart for emphasis.
Still, despite the theatrics, his painting was not entirely terrible. And he did make people chuckle with his movements...me too.
The lines I could make out from my vantage point suggested some level of competence.
Not extraordinary, but certainly better than some of the others.
My gaze slid further down the row to the Duke of Blackmere.
If the purpose of the competition had been to determine which suitor possessed the greatest ability to nap in public, he would undoubtedly have been the clear favourite.
For nearly the first hour of the competition, the man had done very little beyond leaning slightly against his easel with half-lidded eyes.
He looked as though he might fall asleep at any moment.
Several times his head dipped forward slightly before jerking back upright.
I watched him with growing disbelief.
Surely he understood that the entire kingdom was observing this competition through the scrying mirrors.
And yet he appeared utterly indifferent.
Eventually, after what seemed to be a long internal battle against sleep itself, he straightened slightly and picked up his brush.
I leaned forward a little, curious to see what he would produce.
The answer arrived quickly.
And it was... deeply unfortunate.
It was a stick figure, a very poor one at that. I have never seen anyone fail at drawing a stick figure.
Atop the stick figure’s head sat what appeared to be a large W-shaped mark that, I assumed, was meant to represent a crown.
Two circles had been placed on the figure’s face.
Eyes, perhaps.
Or moons.
Or possibly both.
I stared at the canvas for several long seconds.
Then I leaned back slowly.
I could not even begin to imagine the Queen’s expression when she eventually saw it.
Surely he intended to adjust it. Maybe add a little detail...the only detail he added were two circles on each hand of the stick figure. Now...I was utterly confused as to what that could signify.
When he was done, he stepped back, examined his work briefly, and then placed his brush down as though entirely satisfied with the result.
That was it.
Nothing more.
I pressed my lips together to prevent a laugh from escaping.
My attention shifted again.
Marquess Hale stood several spaces away, working with clear confidence.
His movements were smooth, almost graceful as he layered colour upon his canvas. From the angle I occupied, I could not see the entire image clearly, but the portions visible suggested a painting constructed with impressive skill.
He looked very pleased with himself.
There was a certain proud tilt to his chin as he worked.
I rolled my eyes.
If anyone should feel proud of his artistic abilities, it ought to be me.
After all, I had been the one to teach him nearly everything he knew about drawing and painting when we were younger.
Sketching had once been something we shared.
Before everything changed. I wondered if perhaps learning to paint from me had also been part of his plans with Jacinta to destroy me.
I turned my attention elsewhere before that train of thought could linger any longer.
Another figure soon caught my eye.
Lucian.
Even if I had not intended to watch him, it would have been difficult not to notice him.
He stood with a relaxed ease before his canvas, one hand loosely holding the brush while the other rested casually against the edge of the easel.
His posture suggested a man entirely unbothered by the pressure surrounding him.
In fact, he looked almost bored.
Twice during the competition he yawned openly.
That alone made me wonder whether he had slept poorly the previous night.
Unlike the Duke of Blackmere, however, his apparent exhaustion did not prevent him from working.
When he finally began painting in earnest, the quality of his work became immediately apparent.
Even from a distance, I could see the confident strokes and careful blending of colour.
He worked quickly and efficiently, and with a skill that placed him easily among the better artists present.
Several other suitors demonstrated respectable talent as well.
Though not all of them.
Earl Hawthorne, despite his late start, appeared to be making a valiant effort to produce something respectable.
Unfortunately, the results remained questionable.
I was so caught up in observing the works that I was taken by shock when the bell rang.
Brushes stilled, and the candidates stepped back from their easels. The assembled nobles stirred from the particular suspended attention of people who had been watching something for a long time and had forgotten, briefly, to move.
Three hours had passed.
The first competition was over.
