Love, Glory and Empire

I admire my perfect face in my pocket mirror. As usual, I take care of my appearance.

I’m wearing a beautiful iridescent yellow dress with a floral bustier.

My ears, hair, and neck are adorned with gold flowers, and I have put gold powder on my face, which highlights my complexion.

Briar always says he prefers me in golden hues that make me shine.

It is for him that I dress so beautifully.

Because i’m so centered on my contemplation, I can’t hear when my father calls me.

It’s when he pulls my mirror that I look up.

He sighs.

“Asra, you are like your brother. I didn’t raise you to obsess over your appearance. »

I smile.

“You didn’t educate my brother to be a debauchee and an alcoholic, and yet! »

He tenses. He hates it when people talk about the escapades of my brother Cardinal Oriel who has a string of scandals. Fortunately, it is not he who will inherit, it is our older brother Alistaire, the favorite son, who is serious and loves everything that his brother rejects: studies, work, the intrigues of the Court.

“Let’s not talk about your brother. Let’s talk about your artist, Briar Lendor. »

“He’s not my artist, Father. »

“You understand me.”

I mean he’s your favorite artist.

It’s because you always talk about him that I decided to commission an exhibition from him.

I hope it will be successful. »

We are going to see the art gallery built by my father where the exhibition will take place, to admire Briar Lendor’s the paintings.

My father, totally disinterested in art, music, literature, the instruments mastered by the nobility to assert their power, nevertheless knows that these things are indispensable for the influence of our family, and that a very rich man who does not invest in art is not a man who is part of high society.

That’s why he invests heavily in culture, employing artists who paint the family, musicians and actors who liven up our parties.

He participates in the interplay of influences of the aristocracy, who is the most cultured class , who has the most valuable paintings, who funds the work of the most famous artists, who makes and breaks fashions.

My father is an expert at this game. He always manages to find rare stones before others, artists who have a certain je ne sais quoi.

That’s why he built the art gallery, which attracts the cream of high society.

And that’s why he invited the emerging artist that I adore, without obviously knowing what binds Briar and i together.

“Believe me, Father.

He is one of the best artists of his generation. When you see his paintings in real life, you’ll understand why I love him. »

My father shrugs his shoulders, looking doubtful.

“Yes, we’ll see.”

As he looks out the window, I look at his outfit.

He is richly dressed, as usual.

He wears a green tunic embroidered with gold accompanied by a white frock coat where there are the motifs that are the symbol of our family, inlaid with precious stones.

Although he finds my brother and I too focused on appearance, he understands the power of clothing, the status of wealth that he must always show, whether he is at home or away, his clothes remain impeccable, always in the fashion of Elysia.

He is not like my mother, who, although goddaughter of the Emperor of Elysium, wears a lot of the clothes of my parents’ native country, Kushara.

Maybe it’s so that the people of Elysia will say that he is one of them, not the boy from the South born a slave. A significant minority considers the kusharian to be foreigners. But my father is not just anyone. He is the one who created paper cash when the economy of Elysium was bankrupt, one of the many causes being the lack of gold cash that dominated at the time. He created the Imperial Bank, where anyone could borrow, whether rich or poor, accredited by the emperor. Thanks to this bank, the lives of many little people have completely changed. Servants became nobles, workers were able to marry their children to nobles. The Imperial Bank created a real social revolution, and allowed my father to become Baron of Eranthe.

I look at the streets. Elysia is the magnificent port capital of the Elysium Empire.

Our carriage drives through the commercial district. I see people looking at the vehicle, feeling their astonishment and admiration. Our carriage, mechanical, drives automatically.

The merchant district is a labyrinth of tall, elegant buildings, built of white marble veined with gold. The columns that support the facades are slender, of ancient Elysian inspiration.

Gold, omnipresent, highlights the roofs, runs along the window frames, draws arabesques on the doors. Mosaics on the floor, made of mother-of-pearl and obsidian, tell the story of the kingdom. There are banks, trading posts, guild houses, tea houses.

The streets paved with light stone are lined with stalls covered with colored banners where merchants harangue and boast of their products.

The smells of fruits, fish, fish, meats and spices that come from the four corners of the Empire mix with the smell of the sea.

Children run in the streets, actors juggle and dance.

People are shouting, laughing and arguing.

It is one of the places where richly dressed aristocrats rub shoulders with the poor, who are dressed in patched, dull or torn clothes.

From the merchants’ quarter, you can see the large gate at the entrance to the capital.

Leaving the merchant district, we go to the Arts District, where most of the museums and cultural institutions are located.

It is much more luxurious than the elegant sobriety of the shopping district.

Every street is a gallery, every building a work of art.

The cobblestones are carved in iridescent opaline, vibrating with reflections changing according to the light.

Sculpted fountains and carefully pruned trees exhale divine perfumes.

In the center sits the Elysia Opera House, a monumental building with twisted columns of white marble and lapis lazuli. Its stained-glass dome catches the light, projecting it in colorful cascades over the square.

Exhibition halls, painters’ workshops, and fashion houses display their masterpieces in iridescent windows.

The passers-by are almost all richly dressed. The Arts district is frequented by those who have cash.

We arrive in front of my father’s art gallery.

The art gallery is a magnificent marble temple.

The décor personifies all the grandeur of Elysium.

The entrance is a marble staircase decorated with a red carpet with golden patterns.

It is in a castle of art that we enter.

When you enter, you smell a floral smell.

At every corner, there are flowers.

Large arched windows let in light, creating shadows and reflections on the immaculate walls. Crystal chandeliers, suspended from the high ceiling, diffuse a warm glow, highlighting the works.

The alleys are vast, paved with mosaics with geometric patterns, with the myths of the Empire.

Delicate pieces of mahogany furniture adorn the corners of the gallery: finely carved chairs, round tables topped with porcelain vases, gilded mirrors.

We head to one of the more remote rooms of the gallery, reserved for temporary exhibitions. Where the painter, Briar Lendor, must be waiting . My secret lover, whom my father would kill if he knew we were together.

These are women who are posed in bathtubs in light dresses, or covered with foam.

Or they are painted in the grass, lifting their sumptuous dresses to show off their legs.

They wink, smile, mischievous, burst laughing.

I recognize several of them. They are mainly artists, courtesans, and unmarried noble women. They are beautiful. They seem free, happy. They are magnificent, they are them. This is what caused a scandal.

They are not fixed figures, dolls.

Noble women are painted in a cold, austere way, they must wear modest smiles, full of restraint, and must always be painted in their most beautiful finery, representing the prestige of their families.

Whereas in his art, women are real women, have real emotions that you can feel when looking at the portraits.

Among them I see him. He wears a grey, austere, simple outfit, as usual. His curly brown hair is a mess, as usual. He stands up straight, looks straight ahead.

I don’t smile. I can’t show that I’m happy to see him. That I want to run into his arms and kiss him ,like every time I see him.

I remain impassive. I walk towards him, measuring my steps, my bearing haughty, graceful. Without hurrying. Like a real lady. When he sees me arrive, I see his brown eyes sparkle.

“My lady.”

He bows, kisses the hand I hold out to him.

When he gets up, his face is marble, letting nothing show.

He and my father shake hands.

They start talking about what is going to happen when the exhibition opens.

I don’t really listen to them. What if my father notices something?

I look at the paintings. When I hear my name, I turn to them.

“She was the one who convinced me to hire you.”

“So the lady has good taste. »

He smiled at me. I respond to his smile, smiling deceptively shy, before looking away from him/ Playing the holy virgin as if we didn’t know every corner of our bodies.

What a masquerade. I stifle a laugh.

My father, seeming to see nothing, invites me to come closer, smiling.

“Now that he’s here, you should talk to him.

Ask him the questions you want. »

I come to see them, asking the questions to which I know the answers.

I ask him when did you start painting.

I know that he has always painted.

He talks about his career, how he left his village to go to Elysia, accompanying a man to whom his parents sold him when they had no more cash to feed him.

By learning from the rich merchant who always welcomed artists and musicians into his home, he was inspired by them to paint.

Realizing that he had a prodigy, the man offered him the honor of decorating his house, showing visitors his paintings, sculptures, and mosaics. Exploiting his talent, he took all the money that visitors gave the boy, because he was his slave and he was within his rights.

So, he decided to run away when he realized that he was lying to him and did not intend to release him.

On the way to the escape, he met my mother.

Since my mother is known for her opposition to slavery, he thought he would take refuge in her home. She welcomed him with open arms, bought his freedom and took care of him.

It was while visiting my mother that I met him.

Of course, he doesn’t mention the fact that he met me there, and that we spent time together.

I see my father looking at him with a new look.

He who was a slave, I know that he feels a connection.

His face has softened, and when he smiles, it is no longer the calculating smile of the entrepreneur who has made an advantageous deal, it is the sincere smile of someone who recognizes himself in the other.

He gives the painter a slap on the shoulder , saying:

“What a story you have there! Hearing you speak and seeing your painting, I’m sure I’ve chosen my new protégé well! »

He bows, with a humble smile.

“Would you like to paint my Asra?”

“I should be delighted, sir.”

-It would be a classic painting, eh, not the extravagance of the paintings that are on display.

A classic portrait to send to her future husband. »