Page 267 of Naughty Nelle

CHAPTER 28

Iwake 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.

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