Prologue
They’d told him to arrive at night. At the far gate, where the livestock were let out and the only sources of light were the moon and stars.
He’d waited, wind rushing around him, turning his cheeks and hands red while the trees howled around him. Slung across his shoulders was a paint chest, new and fashioned with costly wood.
When it had seemed almost twenty minutes, Thomas saw a faint flicker of flame light slowly coming down the hill, where far above him loomed the palace pavilion—its shadow drawing large against the cold moon’s light.
“Thomas Wittham.” The soldier stated, lifting his torch to get a look at the man before him. The fire shook against the growing wind, causing flickers of shadow and light across both men.
“Tie this around your eyes.” The man said, handing Thomas a strip of cloth.
Taking a deep breath, Thomas did as was asked, and the soldier then double checked his work, pulling on the cloth before grabbing Thomas’ arms and beginning to lead him in a direction entirely different from the one the soldier had come from.
The cobblestone road crunched under Thomas’s stumbling feet, yet he made no attempt to figure out where they were going. It was knowledge he was too afraid to own.
It wasn’t long at least before they arrived at wherever the soldier had taken him.
The escort struck a door twice with the butt of his torch.
Silence, then a soft creak as the door was slightly opened.
No words were exchanged.
The door was then suddenly opened wide, and Thomas was quickly ushered into a warm room. Fire could be heard crackling somewhere to his left and heavy footsteps filled his ears—seeming to stop right in front of him.
“Master Thomas Wittham…”
Thomas flinched.
Thomas startled with how close the voice was to him. The solider still had a tight grip on his arm and farther away, to his right then, was another man.
“I commend your punctuality.”
“O-of course your Grace, I—“
“I will speak plainly before the cloth is removed.”
Thomas tensed, sweat beating down his temple as the soldier’s grip on him tightened.
_Was there someone in front of him as well? _
“If you refuse anytime from now or forfeiture to do as requested, I will kill you.”
Thomas’s lips trembled as he tried to open his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“If you make a mistake on any of the things I have requested, I will kill you.” The prince continued, seemingly unconcerned that Thomas had yet to speak.
“And if after you have finished what I have requested and you speak on what you saw here, I will kill you and your wife.”
A pause, then—
“Do I make myself clear?”
Thomas took a shaky breath, licking his dry lips as he whispered, “Yes.”
He knew what would be demanded of him—what he was putting himself into. But he could not resist the reward. The money had led him down this path.
To his shame, it had been money that had put him in his predicament in the first place.
The letter had been handed to him when he’d been kicked out of many a bar—his pockets once more empty from foolish bets.
How the prince knew Thomas was a painter—he had no idea. His work had been sold years ago, and ever since his gambling, his reputation had fallen.
He and his wife were in debt. And desperation had made him foolish.
He tensed, hands shaking as the blindfold was slowly removed, and he blinked rapidly in the dimming firelight—eyes scanning the rich room he stood in.
It was a hunting lodge. Numerous stag heads outlined the wooden walls while tapestry and drapery added warmth and color to the large room. Leather chairs draped with various fur blankets, and a much larger area with a long desk set up, with paints and materials neatly placed in the corner.
“She will come down soon. Cast your eyes away until I say so.”
Thomas looked at the prince—a young man he had only heard in gossip and rumor.
Prince Severin Corvinus of Albrath, was a dividing man. Many rumors ran over his head—some good, some bad, yet over the years, it had gotten worse.
They said he was mad. Insane. Over the sudden responsibility of heir to the throne, or his own troubled adolescence Thomas had not given it much thought.
Yet looking upon the young man who stood before him, he believed it.
The man’s eyes were wide with a look and feeling Thomas could not comprehend, as if he was far away, thinking of something no one in the room was able to join him in.
Shadows cast over his eyes and face as if he had not slept in days and despite his calm words and body, his fingers moved quick and light over his legs and arms-fidgeting as he waited- eyes locked onto the staircase tucked into the corner.
_Mad, indeed._
He felt the soldier grip his arm harder, and quickly averted his eyes—listening intently to the soft footsteps above them as they began their descent.
Instead, he watched the prince.
He every gesture seemed to soften, all tire leaving his eyes and replaced with tenderness. All threat, all wildfire had gone from him. He was not the same prince who had promised Thomas’ death upon failure. He was a man gazing at his beloved. A man in love.
She would be beautiful then—this woman—to be able to enchant a man who had held so many women.
Despite his fear, Thomas had a growing sense of anticipation for this hidden woman he was soon to paint. He waited as her soft footsteps finally landed on the thick wooden floor.
The prince moved out of his eyesight as he went to her. Her quiet words were softly spoken as she said, “He will not paint me well.” Prince Severin’s reply came soft, fervent.
“He will. Did you not see the copy of his work? I sent it to you. You did not like it?”
Thomas tensed in fear—afraid of this woman’s response that could certainly kill him. Yet he did not hear her response.
He felt the soldier behind him remove his hold and step back, and whoever the two other men who’d been positioned behind him were, he heard them back out through the door he’d come in and into the night air.
“You may lift your eyes, Master Thomas.”
Thomas quickly glanced up, but was met with yet another obstacle. The woman wore a veil.
The prince’s hand lingered on hers, his eyes following her movement and urging her gently, lovingly, to lift her veil.
At last, her hands rose.
Slow, hesitant, she pulled the cloth aside.
Golden curls tumbled free, shimmering in the firelight. Hair like spun gold. Certainly enough to drive a man to madness.
But then—her face.
Thomas remained passive, but inside, fear sparked larger than ever before as his eyes fell upon her.
The woman was deathly plain. More than plain—her skin bore deep scars of the pox, stretched across cheeks and throat.
Her eyes, a clear, piercing blue, met his for an instant before turning away, as though ashamed.
She was not beautiful. She was scarred, utterly ordinary.
And Thomas was supposed to paint her. How utterly impossible.
“Evangeline, this is Master Thomas,” His Grace said simply, “He will be staying here temporarily to paint you.”
Thomas took a deep breath, then smoothly bowed.
He looked up to look at Evangeline and smiled evenly.
“_It would behoove you to treat this lady with the utmost respect and to react as if you were meeting the Queen yourself. This will ensure you are paid for your services._”
_” And her? Is she aware of the dangers of this matter?” _
_…”There is certainly no one who is more aware.” _
“Then why paint her—this woman you seem to so love?” Thomas thought to himself as the woman smiled back, curtsing back to him in greeting.
“What do you need to begin?” Prince Severin said, facing Thomas who fumbled with his paint box as he stuttered.
“W-We would begin with placement a-and lighting, your Grace. I would then begin with a s-simply sketch.”
The prince nodded, and pointed to a point in the corner of the room behind Thomas. A window was at one wall—an expensive piece of colored glass, where moonlight was reflecting through. Furniture, that were meant to be placed in a palace, with silks and a lounge couch were carefully arranged and tucked in a way that wherever Evangeline sat, the moon would strike her.
The young prince had thought this carefully it seemed.
“Ah! Perfect placement your Grace,” Thomas said in relief, already seeing how he could have the shadows and moonlight flicker across the woman’s face to bring out her more beautiful features, but the boy’s next words discouraged him.
“Paint her in the afternoon hours. When the sun shines through. No matter what, do not let it be night. And it is a portrait. Have her face you.”
So not only would he paint in mid-daylight where any passerby could see them through the open window, but he would need to paint her facing him. A task he could not possibly deem worthy enough for this demanding man.
He tensed as the prince gestured for Evangeline to walk towards the couch, and he smiled at something she said before she sat down.
Thomas shook his head and began removing his pigments, setting them on the given table. He grabbed one of the many canvases offered and set it in its stand before sitting on the stool provided.
The prince moved to the side, and under the burning fireplace and candles, Thomas gently coached the young woman in moving positions until he finally settled on something he cared for.
As he began touching the expensive papers to begin his sketch he felt the eyes of the prince drift to him as he said, “Paint her as you see her, Thomas. That is all I ask.”
Thomas dared to look up at the powerful man, and was shocked to see just briefly, the face of utter fear.
And in that moment he told himself, he would make this his finest work.
