CHAPTER 28
I wake up early the next morning with the bad taste of Marcella still lingering in my mouth. Tucked under my chamber door is one of her scribbled notes. I bet she’s firing me. I crawl out of bed and retrieve it.
J—Missing my emerald earring. Need it for tonight’s dinner party at The King’s palace. Check the shed; it could have fallen off there. Don’t bother coming back until you find it. And BTW, don’t tell The Prince about this.—M
I crumple the note in my fist. Yet another thing to do. Maybe Calla will be better off going to a boarding school faraway from her selfish, self-centered mother-to-be.
As I make my way out of the castle, the sun is rising. Its rays mingle with the early morning mist, creating the illusion of fairy dust.
Having no idea what shed Marcella’s referring to, I stumble upon a pebbled path and follow it. This is the first time I’m actually exploring the vast property on my own. I feel like an adventurer staking out a newly discovered land. It’s rather empowering and gets my mind off Marcella.
Following the meandering path, I’m awestruck by the beautiful gardens. The flowers and shrubs are artfully arranged—indeed, someone’s well thought out vision. Most likely, I bet, the handiwork of The Prince’s late wife. There are potted plants, flowers of all colors, grapevines, and orchards. The scents blend to form a fragrant chorus.
Further on, I pass by horse stables, a wishing well, and a carriage house. Shortly after crossing an olive grove, I come upon a small, shingled structure with several boarded up windows and a thatched roof. Maybe this is the place Marcella means.
The door is unlocked. I venture inside cautiously. My mouth drops. It’s not a shed. It’s a museum!
There are paintings everywhere. Landscapes, still-lifes, portraits, and more. Hanging on the walls. Stacked in corners. Standing on easels. If I had to guess, two hundred paintings, at least.
The paintings are astounding. You don’t have to be an art scholar to appreciate them. Each one is a masterpiece.
The artist has managed to breathe life into all his subjects with his masterful strokes and a subtle but beautiful use of light. I pause to admire a garden scene—a luminous patch of white lilies. The droplets of dew on the outstretched petals are so well done they seem touchable, practically real. Wait! They are real! What I mean is that I remember seeing this very patch of flowers in Gallant’s late wife’s garden.
Obviously, the artist must be someone in the service of The Prince. I recognize a portrait of his white stallion that’s so full of action the horse is practically leaping off the canvas. There’s another equally splendid portrait of The Prince himself. His blue eyes stand out, glistening with a vibrancy that’s missing now.
Rummaging through the stacked canvasses on the floor, I discover a charming portrait of a beautiful, brown-eyed infant with gilded curls. It’s unmistakably Calla. The artist has admirably succeeded in capturing her magic, even at this tender age.
In the far corner of the room, I come across what must be a large canvas propped on an easel. It’s hidden from view by a sheet of thick damask. Curious to see what lies beneath, I carefully edge down the fabric.
“STOP!”
I freeze, then wheel around. Gallant! His eyes are narrow; his lips tight.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I’m searching for one of Marcella’s earrings.” I act calm but inside my heart is racing. “I thought it might be here.” My question is: What is he doing here?
“This is my studio,” Gallant says solemnly.
The Prince painted all these works of art? I’m in awe. I had no idea he was so talented.
“I’m sorry to be intruding on your space and time,” I say humbly.
The Prince apologizes for his outburst. “Please continue your search. I only came by because one of the guards reported hearing a strange noise in here last night.”
“I’ll leave. I don’t want to distract you from painting.” He must be working on the covered canvas.
“I no longer paint,” he says wistfully.
He goes on to tell me that after the death of his wife, he could not bring himself to pick up a paintbrush. The world lost all its color. Everything seemed so futile.
The sadness in his voice moves me deeply. He lost both his true love and passion.
The Prince’s eyes grow distant. “After she died, I could no longer find the true meaning of beauty in the world.”
The true meaning of beauty. Shrink’s haunting words echo in my head. So, Gallant knows the answer. Or at least, once he did. Now, is he searching for it like me?
I yearn to ask him, but the words stay trapped in my throat. I pivot toward the door.
The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Jane, please stay.”
To my delight, his mood brightens, and he gives me a whirlwind tour of his studio. He springs to life as he talks about the inspiration behind each painting. Never having seen him so animated and passionate, I find myself engrossed in his every word. Stimulated. Sharing my reactions and interpretations. Asking him questions. Challenging him. Challenging myself.
“You’re a master,” I say, meaning it. “Your paintings belong in a museum for the world to behold, not hidden from the human eye.”
Finally, we come to the covered painting. “What’s under there?” I ask with curiosity.
The Prince takes a deep breath, then sweeps off the damask cloth. Before me stands a large canvas. It’s obviously a work in progress. A portrait of a woman picking flowers, still at the outline stage.
Gallant’s eyes, glimmering just moments ago, are laced with melancholy. He turns away from the canvas and remains silent.
“My last painting,” he says at last. “A portrait of my wife. I was going to surprise her with it on her twenty-first birthday. But she died before I could complete it. I have not been able to paint since then.”
So, grief shut him down. Is that what love does?
“My Lord, you should finish the painting. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Calla.” I stare at the unfinished portrait. “And you owe it to her.”
With a sigh, Gallant carefully re-covers the painting and changes the subject.
“Forgive me. What did you say you were doing here?” he asks as if we’ve just met up.
I tell him again about Marcella’s missing earring. Uh oh. I was supposed to keep this under wraps. Oh well. Whatever the consequences, I can’t undo what’s been done.
“I am sure it is not here,” says Gallant. “My studio is off limits to everyone, including Calla.
“Then I’d better get going.” Truthfully, I don’t want to leave him.
A mutual loss for words forces us to lower our eyes.
“Look!” We say it simultaneously. As if we had timed it.
There it is on the ground…Marcella’s emerald earring. Right under the easel holding the unfinished portrait of Gallant’s wife.
We squat down together. Meeting face-to-face, we’re very close—our eyes just a palm’s width apart. His warm, sweet breath blows on my face. My cheeks grow flush, and I’m getting tingly hot all over. My heart thuds so loudly I can hear it.
The Prince studies my face. I gaze at my reflection in his piercing blue eyes. What does he see in me?
With his long, skilled fingers, he delicately traces my features. It’s as if he’s drawing me. My skin prickles from his touch, but I don’t dare blink an eye.
His mouth curls into a smile that renders me breathless. “You are meant to be painted.”
I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not even my “magic” mirror.
We each reach for the sparkling earring. Our fingers touch; a spark flies between us, and then we quickly pull apart. I let Gallant pick it up. As he hands me the jewel, our fingers interlock. This time he doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve got to go,” I stammer, struggling to my feet before my knees give in.
“Jane, please do not leave yet,” he says, tightening his grip.
“Marcella will have my head if I don’t get back,” I force myself to say.
As I finally manage to pull away, a rustling sound distracts me. It’s coming from outside. Has someone been watching us?
I hurry to the door. Clutching Marcella’s earring, I sprint back to the castle and wonder—how did it end up where it did?