Page 120 of Spearcrest Prince

He leans to speak against my ear. “You’re the one giving me bedroom eyes.”

I laugh and push him away. “I wasn’t!”

“Well, you’re giving me eyes like you want me to kiss you.”

“Am I?”

He nods. His hand still around my waist, he pulls me into him. My fingers curl in his sleeve as I grip him for balance. His lips ghost over mine. Around us, students murmur and turn to watch. I find it impossible to care. We kiss.

“Mr Montcroix!” Miss Imez’s voice booms, making the students around her jump. “You should be in the gallery with Mr Ambrose, not seducing art students!”

“Sorry, Miss Imez,” Sev says. “I just came to wish my fiancée good luck.”

Then he gives me one more kiss, winks, and runs off.

Whenwefinallyenterthe exhibition, the gallery looks completely different from the last time I saw it.

The paint buckets and paintbrushes are gone, the spare screens dismissed. Dusk is already falling outside the tall windows, and the long hall of marble is lit by the spotlights set into the ceiling.

A crowd gathers at the entrance, the kind of crowd that reminds me of the parties my parents forced me to attend all my life: women in expensive couture, men in tuxedos. The easy sparkle of wealth lights them up, glittering on their throats, their wrists, in their eyes.

I follow the rest of the students into the gallery, and we stand behind Miss Imez and Mr Ambrose, who flank Sev. Mr Ambrose greets the waiting audience and introduces Sev, who turns quickly and scans the crowd of students.

Then his eyes meet mine, and his gaze softens. I shape my fingers into a heart. He flashes me a smile and turns back to the crowd.

Despite all his talk about being nervous, his voice is clear and confident when he speaks.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, parents, alumni and guests, and thank you for coming from all corners of the world to attend this year’s annual Arts Department Exhibition. My name is Séverin Montcroix, and the honour has befallen me to introduce this year’s exhibition—an honour I never dreamt of or felt prepared for. One might even say an honour that was bestowed upon me unwillingly.” He pauses to a murmur of laughter and glances at Mr Ambrose. “I’m sorry, Mr Ambrose—an unnecessary aside, I know. Well, regardless of how this opportunity came about, I am honoured. I’ve seen firsthand how hard everybody’s worked to put this exhibition together, and I hope I do it justice.

“The theme of this year’s exhibition isAletheia. This is a philosophical concept of truth—or disclosure. Our displays seek to explore our very own definition of truth. When I first learned of this theme, I must admit I didn’t quite understand it. As a student of photography, it seemed to me as though the very act of photographing something—of capturing an image on film—is as truthful as it’s possible to get. I didn’t bother asking myself what the truth actually is, how it can actually be disclosed because I believed truth to simply mean reality. Whatever I could see, whatever was there in front of me, had to be the truth.

“I didn’t choose to challenge my own ideas. I didn’t feel it was necessary. In a way, I had chosen reality to be my truth and made my truth to be reality. Whatever I believe had to be right—no?”

Sev pauses and swallows.

“I didn’t choose to challenge my own ideas, but I was lucky enough to have my ideas challenged. By an artist, of all people. Artists, who paint what they feel instead of what they see. Artists, who, unlike photographers, take so many liberties with their representation of the truth. Well, it was an artist who challenged my perception. An artist who showed me that truth is more than what’s there, what we can see, what’s real. Truth, as I’ve had to learn, is in the eye of the beholder. It’s not what’s there—it’s how we perceive what’s there, how we experience it, how it feels.

“I didn’t just realise my interpretation of truth—ofAletheia—was incorrect. I realised, to my complete and utter surprise, that I had been lying to myself. Everything around me had alwaysfelttruthful because I’d always been, to an extent, in control of it. I could choose what the truth was. But that’s not reality, that’s not life, and that’s certainly notAletheia.

“So, for my exhibition, I’ve chosen to show the truth by shedding my lies. Every lie I held on to and disguised as truth, I’ve tried to let go of. Letting go of lies was harder than it should be because so much of who I knew myself to be was rooted in those lies. And so I learned that the truth isn’t simple and easy. The truth is complex, beautiful and, sometimes, difficult.

“My truth is that I’m not in control the way I always thought I was. My truth is that my place in this world isn’t defined by the power I might believe I hold. My truth is that I’ve been naïve, arrogant and cowardly, that I’ve placed too much value on what others thought of me and not enough value on knowing myself. Most importantly of all, my truth is that I’m hopelessly, devotedly, embarrassingly in love.”

He turns slightly, opening his arm to gesture to me. His eyes meet mine, and my heart seizes as he continues to speak.

“Over there, in the blue dress, is Anaïs Nishihara—the artist from my story.Aletheia—the truth—is what I see when I look into her eyes.Aletheiais the feeling in my chest when I see her, when I’m around her, when I think about her.Aletheiais my love for her.”

The gaze of the crowd prods me like a hundred arrows, but my eyes are fixed on Sev. He gives me a cheeky grin and turns away, facing the crowd once more.

“So that was my journey with the theme ofAletheia—my disclosure to you. I suspect most of my peers will have come to their own conclusions more easily than me. I suspect not everybody lies to themselves the way I’ve done for a long time. So without further ado, I would like to invite you all to shed your lies, open your minds to the truth, and, of course, enjoy the exhibition.”

Applause greets him and keeps going. Then the lights brighten, and the crowd slowly disperses, students breaking off to greet their parents before leading them off to the displays.

Keeping to the edges of the gallery, I try to make a beeline for my display, but a voice stops me in my tracks.

“Il est quand même trop mignon, ton Roi Soleil.”

Chapter 42

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