The Golden Key (71 page)

Her voice was soft and composed as she said, “I see the Count and Countess do’Alva have arrived.”

Gratitude for her calm glowed in Arrigo’s face—and admiration, too. “And almost late enough to be insulting. My father hates tardiness, especially when he gives a party.” With hardly a pause, he finished, “Would you care to dance, ‘Chella?”

She knew it for an offer of escape, and loved him for it. To spin gently in his arms, to forget the rapacious gaze of the Courtfolk, to postpone the inevitable meeting. …

No. She would sit right here and wait for the woman to exhibit her shabby compordotta for all the world to see by approaching her with some paltry excuse for being late. She let the crystal-embroidered shawl drop from her shoulders, revealing her own full breasts and the exquisite circle of tiny diamonds around her own throat, and smiled up at her husband. “Only if you’re willing to carry me!”

He grinned. “Father let Lizia stand on his boots when he was teaching her to dance. I’d do the same for you, but—”

“But the toes broken by do’Esquita’s sister would be crushed beyond repair!”

And so they were laughing when Tazia, Countess do’Alva, came to pay her respects with the whole Court watching. There was little to see. A curtsy, a few murmured words no one overhead, a graciously smiling Mechella, a perfectly composed Arrigo, and a coolly beautiful Tazia. Nothing more.

However, Grand Duchess Gizella was observed to sigh quietly and close her eyes in what was interpreted as a brief prayer of thanks. Lissina, Baroness do’Dregez and Cossimio’s former Mistress, glided unobtrusively to her cousin Mequel’s side, and mere moments later the Lord Limner was dancing with Tazia. The Grand Duke missed the whole thing in conversing with the Count do’Alva.

It was all a terrible letdown. The avidly anticipated meeting was over, and the only fireworks of the evening came that midnight.

The next day was another story.

In the do’Alva caza, situated in the newest and most fashionable quarter of Meya Suerta, Tazia was besieged with callers. Most remembered to congratulate her on her marriage before turning to eager discussion of the previous night’s ball. Count Garlo put in an hour’s dutiful attendance in his wife’s reception room. Lissina, who’d been through much the same thing years ago, kindly arrived early and stayed late to help Tazia fend off the more pointed verbal darts. She also let it be known that the Countess would henceforth be privileged to sit on charitable committees overseen by herself and the Grand Duchess. Nothing like Gizella’s name to squelch gossip.

But Tazia needed no assistance in once again frustrating those who had come to dine off her discomfort. By evening half Meya Suerta joined the Grand Duchess in a sigh of relief; the other half sighed for disappointment.

Publicly, Tazia was a model of modern compordotta, the elegant art of correct behavior. Privately—that evening, alone in the soundproofed room of her own now-empty little caza—she paced and wept and cursed both Arrigo and his pale, pregnant bride.

“Canna!” she raged. “Witless idiot! How dare that stupid cow simper at me!” She threw a silver box of sweets; the muffled thunk against the thick tapestry was distinctly unsatisfying. “And that condescending pig Arrigo!” A gilt wine cooler followed the box with equally ungratifying results. “I’ll carve that smirk off his face with a butcher knife!”

At last she collapsed on the sofa, exhausted, her nose running and her eyes burning and her head feeling as if it would explode like last night’s fireworks. After a time she rose and went upstairs to collect a few personal items—her excuse for visiting her old house. The mirror showed the damage wrought by tears; that, and the damage wrought by the years, succumbed to the cosmetics on her dressing table.

“A true Grijalva,” she told her reflection bitterly. “Paint is magic in our clever hands!”

But it would be such a long time before Rafeyo learned enough Grijalva magic to be of use to her. Until then, she was on her own.

A heavy crystal bottle of perfume smashed into the mirror, and at last she began to feel better.

A few days after Fuega Vesperra, Dona Teressa do’Verrada was born. The labor was surprisingly easy after the difficulty pregnancy, almost as if the baby was quick into the world to apologize.

Regretful as he was that the child was not a boy, Arrigo nevertheless was enchanted by his tiny fair-haired daughter. That evening he stood alone on the Appearance Balcony to announce the birth, the cheers of the populace ringing sweetly in his ears. When, ten days later, the child and her mother went to the Cathedral Imagos Brilliantos for the first time, the people of Meya Suerta turned out in even larger and louder numbers.

Palasso Verrada was inundated in gifts. Hothouses of flowers, orchards of fruit, baby clothes enough for an entire province, mountains of toys, libraries of books—one room and then two and then four were set aside for the display of presents from foreign rulers, the Courtfolk, the lesser nobility, merchants, ambassadors, craft guilds, and commoners from every corner of Tira Virte. One thing alone marred Teressa’s arrival: Lord Limner Mequel had taken ill, and could not paint her
Birth.
The task fell to Dioniso Grijalva by Arrigo’s specific request, and the portrait that came from his brushes was one of the loveliest ever done. At its completion, a small army of copyists went to work, reproducing every stroke to be sent to foreign courts and ranking nobles.

Mechella’s first venture outside after the Ecclesial ceremony was to visit Mequel at Palasso Grijalva. This caused a sensation, for no do’Verrada had set foot there since Duke Alejandro paid his respects after Lord Limner Sario’s death. Mechella’s concern for Mequel was seen as further evidence of a warmly affectionate heart, and her visit produced an immediate improvement in his condition.

She caused more amazement by asking to tour the workshops. Dioniso was her escort from classrooms to copy hall—where eighteen portraits of her daughter, all lined up and ready for crating, gave her a sudden fit of giggles.

“Regretto,” she apologized. “They’re beautiful, and I mean no insult. It just occurred to me how Teressa would feel, seeing all those babies that look exactly like her!”

The Limner smiled politely. “Perhaps you’d like to see the Galerria?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve stayed too long as it is, Teressa will miss me.” After a moment’s hesitation she went on, “I know your original will hang in our Galerria, to look at whenever I like. But babies grow up so quickly, and …”

Correctly interpreting her expression, he asked, “Would you like one of these copies for your private rooms, Your Grace?”

“Could I? Oh, but if I did, someone would have to paint yet another copy.”

“No importado. It’s good practice for our youngsters.”

She walked slowly among the easels, pausing here and there to look more closely at this painting or that. Finally she returned to a particular copy. “They’re all wonderful, but this one is closest to your original.”

“The artist will be honored, Your Grace.”

“I’d like him to deliver it personally, so I may thank him.”

“Cabral will attend you at your convenience.”

Dioniso escorted her from the workroom along a low, drafty corridor that he described as being one of the oldest parts of the Palasso, built before Duke Renayo’s bequest four hundred years ago. “The age of this section is seen in the barrel vaulting and blind arcades—so termed because the stone walls between each set of columns block the view. There are always two columns to honor the Mother and Son—” He broke off. “But I’m boring Your Grace.”

“Not at all,” she lied. “Who are the people in the portraits along the—what did you call it? Blind arcades? Shouldn’t the pictures be in your Galerria?”

He shrugged. “The people are of minor importance, or the paintings themselves are not up to standard.”

“Minor to whom, Dioniso?” she asked indignantly. “Certainly not to those who loved them! And whose standards? The limners who did the work surely did their best!”

He bowed sincerely. “It is the unique gift of Your Grace to see people, not politics and paint. I knew even in Aute-Ghillas that you would bring gifts to Tira Virte that have nothing to do with your lovely face, your dower, or your children.”

“It’s kind of you to say that,” Mechella said, surprised by the way he saw her. “But I wish I understood more about other things. I know nothing about your art, for example. You Grijalvas are so vital to our country, I want so much to know all I can about what you do.”

“When Cabral brings the painting, perhaps you can spare some time to walk with him through the Galerria Verrada. He’s quite knowledgeable, and a much better speaker than I!”

And so, several days later, Cabral Grijalva presented himself and his copy of
Birth of Teressa
at Palasso Verrada. After he directed
the hanging of the picture in Mechella’s sitting room, they went to the Galerria for her first lesson in art.

“… and here you see another example of chiaroscuro in the play of sunlight and shadow over Duchess Enricia’s wedding gown.”

“‘Chiaro—’? I should have brought a notebook,” Mechella sighed. “I’m afraid I’m terribly stupid about remembering all this.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Cabral replied instantly. “I’m the one at fault for trying to tell you all of it at once. No wonder the Viehos Fratos keep turning down my request to teach.”

She dimpled. “If you can teach me, you can teach anyone, and I’ll tell them so if you like! But why won’t they allow it?”

“I do not have the Gift,” he said simply.

“How can you say that? Ignorant as I am, I knew right away that your copy of Dioniso’s painting was the best of them all!”

“Your Grace’s praise is more than I deserve. I should explain that there are two sorts of Grijalva. The first are like me—a certain amount of ability in original work, and sufficient skill to mimic real talent.” He paused, then admitted diffidently, “I had the honor of copying your
Marriage
last year.”

“Did you? I’d love to see it.”

“It was sent to Merse. We don’t have much trade with that country, so true talent wasn’t required. The copy was only a courtesy. You see, the real Limners have an almost magical touch. See here, how Duchess Enricia’s skin looks as if you could feel the warm softness of her cheek? I can’t do that. And I could never teach anyone else how to do it either.”

“Have you tried?”

He seemed taken aback. “It isn’t permitted. I’m only a copyist. Oh, I do original work in my spare time, when I’m not needed elsewhere, but I’m not good enough to waste paint on.”

“You’re just as good as the rest of them—better!”

Cabral shook his head. “I do not have the Gift,” he repeated. “My friend Zevierin, for instance, is an extremely accomplished Limner. His copy of your charming little Teressa will be sent to Your Grace’s father, the King.” He smiled. “But
mine
will be seen by you every day, and to me this is the much greater honor.”

Mechella spread her hands in a gesture of helpless confusion. “I suppose you Grijalvas have your reasons for the way you do things, but it seems to me your talent is wasted, not the paint you use. May I ask one last question before you go?”

“I am at Your Grace’s service as long as you wish.”

“Two questions, then. First, how can anybody tell when one limner has this Gift and another doesn’t?”

“All Grijalva boys are tested. Those who succeed are taught differently from those who fail, according to the precepts laid down three hundred years ago by the great Lord Limner Sario.”

“Some of his pictures are here in the Galerria, are they not?”

“Yes. He did some excellent work, for his time. But his most important legacy is not in his paintings but in the system he devised for nurturing talented young Limners.”

“Of which you do not feel yourself to be one. Eiha, Cabral, I disagree. And my second question proves it, for I would like to ask if you’ll teach me about painting. The Grand Duchess is forever escorting guests through the Galerria. If I knew more, I could free her from having to repeat herself so often! She’s been so sweet to me, I want to help her however I can.”

Cabral bowed low. “It would be an honor and a pleasure, Your Grace. But I must warn you,” he went on with a quiet laugh, “that you’ll get a large dose of history along with art. All Tira Virte’s past is on these walls.”

“That’s another reason I want to learn,” she confided. “I’d remember the history so much better by hearing about the people and looking at their faces. Would twice a month be too often? Would it take you too much from your work?”

“I will be here every day if you wish it.”

“Oh, any more often than once a week and I’d never remember a thing! And next time I promise to take notes!”

  FORTY-ONE