Page 149 of Insolence
The stalls and bustling shoppers are rendered in fine detail. As are the colorful pennants strung overhead. The complex's soaring spires, gabled roofs, and covered walkways. Stately facades clad in veridian banners emblazoned with Nehel’s golden bee. It’s all painstakingly depicted, and I’m proud.
Very proud.
I’ve been readying the finishing touches. Preparing to push contrast. The ultramarine will give depth to the sky, which I’ve left washed in periwinkle up to this point.
“Such precise attention to detail, and your angles are impeccable,” she says with the poise of someone older. More worldly. “How much?”
“Uhh,” I drawl. She ismagnificent. And way too young for you, El, so get your head out of your ass.“It isn’t finished yet.”
“I see that. I’m offering to buy it under the assumption itwillbe by the time money changes hands.” There’s a glint in her eye. A slight upturn of one corner of her mouth. “That’s somewhat the point of all this, yeah? You paint, I buy?”
Both challenge and sly invitation, her attitude annoys and intrigues me at once.
Shrugging, I pick up my brush. Drag the bristles through my palette. Swipe rich blue onto the canvas.
She steps to the side, eyes narrowing on my booth’s sign. “Asher’s Specialty Print Shop is renowned in Aronya Dar. High-quality books. Good ink and paper. And I believe his wife runs a small atelier out of the back.” Those captivating eyes flick to me again. “It’s not your shop’s first year at the festival,” she says, pleased with herself.
It is in fact my third. And gods know how long Ma and Pop were coming before me.
“R-right…” I scratch my neck, suddenly off-kilter.
“Does that make you their daughter?”
Daughter. My hand drops. Hot and cold flash through me, my chest bound too tight all of a sudden. I glance around, every muscle tensing, feeling like I’m living in someone else’s skin. As I often do during these days.
The shame of getting caught out like this.Gods. Even though I haven’t done a damn thing wrong.
All of this because the word isn’t accurate on this particular day.
“El,” I finally offer.
Halfway between cryptic and curious, her gaze moves over my newly cropped hair and canvas trousers. The paint-flecked smock over my flattened chest. My work shirt’s rolled sleeves. “Itissa.”
I’ve been passing since Ma and I arrived in Nehel. Until now.
Trouble is, most folks either pity or scorn those of us who fall outside of gender conventions. On good days, people like me are begrudgingly tolerated. So long as we’re discreet and don’t cause trouble.
Same as those of us attracted to our own sex.
On bad days? Well. There are reasons I haven’t tried passing back home yet.
Exposed and so, so vulnerable, my first instinct is to lash out. Make hergo awayand leave me the fuck alone.
So when she repeats, “How much for the painting, El?”
I reply, “I can’t price it without knowing how much paint it’ll take, Itissa.” Leaning forward, I pretend to be absorbed in my work. “Not that you’d know, but ounce for ounce, this blue is more expensive than gold.”
“Ultramarine, right? Isn’t it something like eight times the cost of the raw stones required to make it?”
I lower my brush. Glance over.
“They say your mother’s pigment is unmatched in caliber, even by large workshops. Specifically the ultramarine.” She turns to run her fingers over the stacked books. Pages through a hardcover. “Something to do with the lapis she manages to source. But you’re right. What do I know?” Turning to face me, she replaces the book on a different stack.
“Impressive. For someone so young. Sadly, I have no time to entertain dilettantes today.”
She prickles. Purses her pretty pink lips into a perfectly formed rosebud. “I’m eighteen. And aconnoisseur.”
Damn near twelve years younger. Brush in hand, I snort and lean forward again.
