Page 40 of Spearcrest Prince

Because my dick is stupid and, lately, intent on leading me into disaster.

Chapter 15

La Chasse

Anaïs

Thismightbethemost surprising discovery I’ve made since leaving France: Séverin Montcroix actually has talent.

My impression of Séverin before I arrived in Spearcrest was that of a rich, vapid playboy. The type of guy to make bottles of Moët and a fat Rolex his personality and use that personality to surround himself with clout-chasers and sycophants.

And he sort of is those things. But his photography is a revelation, like realising a smooth gem has facets to it.

His photographs exhibit a good eye for composition and a preference for crowded, moody shots. His style is very much like him: ostentatious, almost sullen, needlessly emotive. I don’t say any of this to him as I peer at his work, but he suddenly snatches his camera out of my hands.

“Well?” He glares at me as if I’ve just mortally insulted him. “What do you think, then?”

I nod. “They’re good shots.”

“Enoughdisclosurefor you?” His tone drips with mockery.

“Just because you’ve captured what you can see doesn’t mean you’ve captured what’s truly there.”

“What does that even mean?” He takes my sketchbook out of my hands to glare at my sketch. “What the hell am I looking at?” He flips my sketchbook around to show me my own sketches, an indignant expression on his face. “You’re just drawing made-up shit!”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. For such a talented photographer, he severely lacks imagination.

“It’s not made up,” I try to explain. “If I was just drawing what I can see, it wouldn’t exactly be truthful, it would just be a cheap imitation. I’m trying to capture the essence of the place, what it feels like, what it might mean to me.”

“That’s the most pretentious shit I’ve ever heard.” He flips through the pages. “Do you really think this is truthful?”

He brandishes a page from my sketchbook. A drawing of a boy with his skin sprouting birds, his eyes wide with horror, his hands clutching branches and twigs.

“It’s truthful to me. It’s truthful to what I felt when I drew it.” I reach for my sketchbook, but he steps slightly back, leafing through the pages. “You don’t have to like it,” I add. “You don’t even have to look at it. Just give it back to me.”

“No, no”—he looks at me, a sudden glint of wickedness in his eyes—“isn’t that the point of this assignment? To debate the meaning of truth in art and photography?”

“I don’t think the teachers set the assignment with the intention of us tearing each other down.”

He smirks. “I’m not tearing you down. If I was tearing you down, you’d feel it, trésor.”

It sounds like a veiled threat, but since I doubt Séverin is in the business of making idle threats, I don’t push it.

“Alright,” I say, getting up to my feet. “You win the debate. We’ll say photography is the most truthful art form in the assignment.”

I reach for my sketchbook, but Séverin hides it behind him with a smirk. Even though I’m not normally violent, I have the sudden urge to slap the smirk off his face. To shove him down, grab my sketchbook and run away. I take a deep breath, reminding myself how far away and cold the stars are.

“Don’t patronise me,” Séverin says. “You don’t have to let me win. I’m willing to debate this with you.”

He doesn’t sound angry like he normally does, and a wicked glint shines in his green eyes. With the pale daylight reaching him in green dapples through the canopy of the trees, he looks more like a capricious fairy prince than ever, and I’m reminded of the stories of fairy tricks and games.

Séverin is in the mood to play.

But I don’t like games.

“Debate requires good listening skills,” I say tartly, “which I’m not sure you’ve developed yet.”

Pushing myself off the fallen tree I’ve been sitting on, I step towards Séverin.

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