Page 42 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

“Why do you paint such a subject when you find it so abhorrent?” Clara asked, taking the cloth to add to the growing pile of laundry.

Alida gave her a withering look. “Same reason that any of us do anything besides indulging in pleasure,” she said, patting her flat stomacher. “I need to eat, and these paintings put food on the table. But,” she added, “I will always get the last word.”

Clara watched as Alida added a tulip head, nothing more than a hint of gleaming crimson in the shadowed corner of the painting. “What is that?”

“That,” Alida said, standing back and running an approving eye over the canvas, “is my secret signature.”

After the rest of the scene was filled in and the paint had dried, Alida would apply a thick, glossy varnish made of egg whites and resin, then the painting would cure, and finally she could send it off to its eager benefactors.

Alida turned to Clara and gave her an inscrutable look. “Would you like to try?”

Clara frowned, certain that she was misunderstanding. “Painting?”

Without answering, Alida rummaged for a spare canvas on stretchers among the many that lined the slanted walls. “Here,” she said, planting it on the easel. “This was a commission that never paid. No use in it going to waste. Paint anything you like, and I will paint over whatever you do later.”

The honor to use one of the precious canvases was not lost on Clara, even if it had been already used. Taking the brush from Alida’s outstretched hand, she tested the weight of it in her own. Aside from cleaning them or arranging them, Clara had never held one just for the sake of it before. “I don’t know what to paint,” she admitted to Alida.

“Don’t you?”

Clara gave a sharp look to her mistress, who was watching her right back with equal interest.

“I never ask about your life before you came to the city, and I don’t expect you to tell me. You owe no one your story. But,” Alida said, tapping her finger on her chin, “there is something that haunts you. I can see it in your eyes when you’re working, the weight that keeps your shoulders bunched as if you are always ready to run.” She gestured to the brush in Clara’s hand, then to the canvas. “In my experience, puttingbad memories on canvas helps. It takes them out of your mind, gives them a home where they can’t hurt you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clara said, stiffening. She didn’t care for the sensation of someone being able to see all her troubles and nightmares written so clearly on her face. Nonetheless, she found herself lifting the brush and giving a tentative stroke of blue paint across the canvas.

Alida made herself busy tidying up the other side of the room, wiping up pigment dust and sorting brushes, things that were really Clara’s job. Applying another stroke, Clara added to her blue streak with a thread of green. The sweep of hog hair against canvas made a satisfyingshhhwp.

Soon she was experimenting with more colors, blending them, playing with them, filling every inch of the canvas. The studio was quiet, the only sounds the distant rumble of a cart or horse hooves clipping on the cobblestones. The light, which had been shafting in through glittering dust motes, was growing thinner, weaker. Clara didn’t know how long she had been painting, or when exactly Alida had come up quietly to stand behind her.

Clara slanted herself protectively toward the canvas, but it was too late; Alida had seen her work.

“There it is,” her mistress said, her usually husky voice tinged with gentle admiration. “How do you feel?”

Finally allowing herself to set down the brush, Clara flexed her stiff fingers as she gazed at her work. Aside from the occasional sketch—and of course, the cursed embroidery—she had never pursued any artistic venture before. She had none of the training of a painter, no idea what colors ought to be blended to achieve different effects, nor how to compose a scene that would be pleasing to the eye. Yet none of that seemed to matter as she took in the great swathes of blues and greens crested with white sea foam, the dark and angry clouds that roiled above. If the waves also happened to be thesame color as a certain pair of eyes, well, then that was surely just coincidence.

Alida’s question was still hanging in the air. How did she feel? She felt as if she had released a breath that she had been holding for a long time, an eternity. She felt as if she was seeing a glimmer of her own soul reflected back at her. But the pigments on the canvas didn’t change anything, not fundamentally. She was still an orphan, a widow, a young woman without anything to her name. The painting did not give her all of the comforts of her old life back.

As if sensing these unspoken thoughts, Alida broke the silence. “Whatever you left behind, or are still running from, you owe it at least some debt of thanks. It has given you a deep well of inspiration.” She began gathering up the paintbrushes, moving around the studio with quiet efficiency. “From now on, you are to spend an hour every evening in the studio, practicing your technique. In the mornings, I will look over your work and critique it.”

From the way Alida said it, Clara knew that this was as good as an order. But she couldn’t help asking, “Why? Why would you allow me to use your supplies?”

Alida paused, brushes in hand, and smiled at her. “Because you are going to be my apprentice.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

There were many things about the land that Maurits missed whenever he was confined to the water: hot food, the clear notes of a spinet, paintings showing canny scenes of life, the scent of freshly baked bread carrying on a breeze. But there was something about the water that land would never have: it was home.

Oh, he’d taken it for granted all of his life. After the wonders of childhood, the pearls lost their luster, the secret caves and the illuminated creatures that glowed within them their magic. But now that he was confined to this dreary prison, he found that he missed it all, even the fucking basilisks. Missed it terribly. No sparkling light shafted down from above, illuminating the kelp forests. No schools of brightly colored fish darted by. It was just cold, brackish water, with only a small gap for air when he required it.

The worst part was that it was his own damned fault he was stuck here, his voice and any powers he possessed gone. He had been a crown prince, and he hadn’t spent any time in his kingdom, listening to the concerns of his people. Instead, he’d let a coup occur right under his nose.

The softest slither from the darkness pulled him from his dreary thoughts. He tensed, keenly aware that he had no means to protect himself. There were plenty of creatures that lurked in this part of the sea, some of which would bemore than happy to have a fresh meal. Without any power or even the use of his hands, he did not stand much of a chance against them.

But the shape that wriggled itself through the gap near the stone ceiling and then materialized in front of him was no enemy. Neese. He let his head loll back in relief.

Looking about the chamber, she gave a sigh and slipped into the water. Though she was blessed with legs, his friend had never been comfortable with them, walking like a jagged marionette whenever she was on solid ground. “So, it is true then,” she said, swimming slowly and taking her time inspecting the walls of the crevice. She did not seem particularly concerned that her friend was shackled and bruised from the guards handling him roughly. For a horrible moment, Maurits wondered if she wasn’t one of his brother’s sympathizers, or worse, spies.

But she quickly put his fears to rest. “I heard that Thade finally had enough of your shiftlessness,” she said. “Though I didn’t think he would go quite so far as to lock you away.”

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