Page 85 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

It no longer seemed strange to acknowledge just how much I liked my husband. He was a true friend, like I had always known him in my soul, and we were just working out a few details in the reality of now.

I finally climbed from the bed and began dressing, but only after taking a deep whiff of the pillow Bane had slept on.

Last night was a good first step, and today I would examine the Veladari hymn I’d found in one of the books. I was saving the altar book for last; my sixth sense about books was rarely wrong, and I had a gut feeling that one would be the one to consume all my waking thoughts, but I wanted enough material to be able to translate it first. Today was devoted entirely to the hymn, and to searching the other books for more sample texts.

And when Bane came to fetch me for dinner and we sat down like a proper couple, I would share my progress, and hopefully weasel a detail or two out of him about what he was studying.

But it was not to be.

Dressed and equipped with my journal and pen, I opened the door on Miro, whose hand was raised to knock.

“Good morning, Lady Cirrien.” To my surprise, he sketched a small bow, no hint of his usual cockiness or sly sidelong glances. “I was wondering where you’ve been. You’ve missed our portrait sessions.”

Oh. The damned portrait.

The last thing I wanted to do was sit and listen to Miro make crude jokes, and the books called my name with a silent siren song, but… Bane himself had commissioned the portrait.

He wouldn’t share his blood with me, because I wasn’t what he considered a true mate, but—I felt that we were becoming true friends, at least. We were on the first tentative steps to being lovers. Genuine companions.

If I wasn’t a mate… I could at least be someone he would remember. If he had the portrait, then a hundred years from now, two hundred, he could look back and think of me fondly.

I should stop thinking of it as a gravestone.

One day, it was going to be all that was left of me, and if a portrait was all Bane had left to remember me by, I wanted it to be a damn good one.

I managed to smile at Miro, and signed:I’m ready if you are.

A hint of puzzlement crept into his eyes, but he held out a hand. “After you, then, my lady. We’ll return to the Bloodgarden. I’m already set up there.”

His new, distant politeness was incredibly pleasant, and made it much easier to follow him to the Bloodgarden. The mist was thin today, allowing faint rays of actual sunlight to pierce the usual gloom.

A chair had been nestled against a background of thorny brambles and lush roses, and the canvas was set before it. I glanced at it as I passed, taking in the rough charcoal sketch and the overlaid wash of ochre paint.

“As I was looking at it, I thought the posed formality didn’t seem to suit you.” Miro pondered the sketch. “When I see you, you don’t behave like most of the noblewomen here. There’s more of a… a looseness to you, like you don’t want to be seen, but you can’t help but draw the eye. So I decided we’ll just paint you as you are now. No overdone dresses, no styled hair.”

I pulled my journal out of my bag, being very careful not to allow the back cover to droop open: I’d pressed the tiny rose Bane had left on my pillow yesterday between two pages in the back, where it would remain for eternity.

Then I wrote,I think that’s best. I never feel comfortable in formal clothes.

Although I didn’t agree with him about drawing eyes—it was probably just the color of my hair, which made me fade into the background easily enough when it was covered—I certainly agreed that overdone was not what I wanted this painting to be.

I wanted it to be as I was now, messy hair and ink stains on my hands, not an idealized memory of someone who had never existed.

Miro read my message and his shoulders relaxed. He smiled at me, running a hand through his dark hair and rumpling the curls. “There’s something we have in common. I don’t, either. Probably because… well, my motherwasa noblewoman, but I didn’t inherit the title. I was never expected to dress well or attend comportment classes.”

Oh?I wrote in an effort to be polite, watching him mix paints on a palette. He’d seated me close enough that he could glance over and read the page, even as he used a tiny trowel to mix colors.

Miro examined what he’d made, then picked up a stiff-bristled brush and began dabbing it on the canvas.

“As you know…” He gestured to his face with the brush. “I’ve a Forian father.”

His usual smile was small and twisted. I tapped my pen softly, debating what to say, and finally settled on:Many people have Forian fathers.

Miro let out a soft snort, his gaze flicking between me and the canvas. “The problem is when you live in a place where that’s what they see first,” he said softly. “In the Rift, they see a Forian.In Foria, they see a Veladari. When Mother died, the peacetime hadn’t yet begun—and nobody wanted a half-Forian bastard to inherit her title. Bane kept me on, as I was already her protégé, but my inheritance is long gone.”

It was far too early to be thinking of this, but a polite Miro was better than a crass Miro.

I’m sorry that happened to you, I wrote, thinking that it was a bit much to complain about it every time we met. He was still the court artist of Ravenscry, no small feat.

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