“Declare victory about what?” Seliora asked as I slipped my arm around her waist and began to dance with her, ignoring the fact that the waltz seemed a bit fast to me.
“The Caenenans . . . politics, again.” I really didn’t want to talk about it. I supposed I could be conscripted if the Council declared war, but they usually didn’t conscript journeymen artisans or crafters. Apprentices were often conscripted, as were journeymen without masters.
“Dolemis always talks politics. Yvette said he even mumbled about them in his sleep.”
“She actually listened?”
“I think that was the trouble.”
“Well, he can’t do anything about it, not unless he works and becomes a craftmaster, because the Council is elected from the guilds, the factors’ associations, and the High Holders, and you have to be a craftmaster to be eligible, and he never will be because he spends too much time talking about politics rather than crafting cabinets for Sasol,” I added with a laugh.
For a time, I did not speak, just enjoyed dancing and holding Seliora. She wasn’t slender, but certainly not heavy, rather muscular. I enjoyed seeing her smile. Over the past year, we had talked and danced occasionally, and I knew she was interested in me . . . at least a little bit.
When the musicians stopped, so did we, but she didn’t move away, and neither did I.
She looked up at me. “Everyone says you think you’re too good to have a girl who might have actually lived within a few streets of the taudis or the Pharsis.”
I had to laugh. “The first girl that I fell in love with was a Pharsi.”
“How old were you? Five?” Seliora quipped back.
“More like thirteen.”
“And I suppose you threw her over for some factor’s twit?”
“No. She threw me over for some factor’s twit, rather quickly. She married my younger brother almost two years ago. She said that when she saw him, it had to be.”
Seliora looked hard at me. “Is that a joke?”
“No. They’re expecting their first child this summer. They live in Kherseilles now.”
The musicians began again, this time a fast variana, and Seliora took my hand. “Another dance.” Her words weren’t a request, but I was happy to comply, and she said nothing more as we moved to the beat of the music.
When the musicians stopped, I was breathing a little faster than usual.
“You shouldn’t let that spoil things,” she said. “You’re good-looking. Rogaris says your work is good enough that before all that long you’ll be a master artist with your own studio.”
“At least three more years, and he’s being kind.”
“Rogaris?” Seliora laughed.
She had a point, but I shook my head. “It’s not just that. I’m just beginning to get commissions, and they’re still not all that frequent. How could I support a wife or a family?”
“Some women do make more than a few coins in honest work.” She smiled warmly.
“I’m most certain you do.”
“And being married doesn’t mean you have to have a family right away.”
“That’s true.” I grinned at her. “Are you asking me to propose to you?”
Seliora actually lowered her eyes, if only for a moment. “I am part Pharsi, if that helps. My grandmother was one. She came to L’Excelsis as a servant.”
“If you take after her, I doubt she stayed one very long.”
“No, she didn’t. She was the one who started the business.”
“You . . . your family . . .?” I hadn’t realized that.
“Papa and Aunt Aegina are the master crafters. They make the chairs and the settees. Mama and I choose the fabrics and do the additional embroidery designs.”
I had wondered about the fact that Seliora was usually better dressed than the other young women, but I’d learned that some women spent every last copper on clothes.
I inclined my head. “I’m-”
“Please don’t tell anyone, especially Dolemis. He’s a terrible gossip.”
The music resumed, another waltz, a slower one, and I turned to her. “I still would have asked for another dance.”
She smiled. “I know. I do foretell more than I say.”
We spent most of the evening dancing, and I did walk her and two of her friends home, even if it meant an even longer and colder walk back out the Boulevard D’Este to Master Caliostrus’s establishment. The entire way, I wondered what she had foretold that she hadn’t said.
12
755 A.L.
Flattery is almost always perceived as either accurate
or justified.
On Jeudi afternoon, I was in the work shed powdering red ochre, using the ancient mortar and pestle that looked as though they had been in Master Caliostrus’s family for generations. Despite the sunlight outside, a chill breeze seeped through the bare plank walls. Powdering hard red ochre was sweaty work. The chill made it even less pleasant, especially if I crushed it and twisted the pestle too hard, because then some of the powder seeped into the air and then stuck to my sweat. Later, it got cold and itchy, and scratching just made it worse.
I consoled myself that the situation was only temporary because Stanus had finally run off, after throwing a bucket of hot ivory-black scraps at Ostrius. The scraps had burned holes in Ostrius’s shirt and given him several welts on his neck, but it would have been worse had not Ostrius been wearing a leather working vest. If the civic patrollers caught poor Stanus, he’d spend at least a year in the mines, but, in the interim, assuming that Master Caliostrus could find and accept another apprentice, everyone expected me to do all the apprentice chores as well as my own, not to mention painting whatever commissions might come my way, not that I had any at the moment.
Still . . . the Scheorzyl portrait had turned out well, and I’d even gotten a half-gold bonus. I had to wonder how much extra the Scheorzyls had paid Caliostrus. But my name was getting around-at least to families with daughters who liked cats.
Everyone in the household was edgy that morning. As I’d left the table after breakfast, Madame Caliostrus had murmured something to her husband that had sounded like “your worthless brother skulking around here again.” I’d known Caliostrus had a brother, and I’d even seen him a few times over the years-and smelled him, reeking of plonk so cheap that not even the poorest apprentice would have drunk it. That morning, Caliostrus had snapped back, but I hadn’t heard what he’d said. I’d just wanted to get away before Ostrius made another comment about my lack of foresight, especially since it was really his shortsightedness, not that he’d ever admit it.
I checked the powder. Still too coarse, but getting closer to what was necessary to mix with the oil and wax that were melting over the small iron mixing stove in the corner. I went back to grinding, wishing that Stanus were still around, or that Caliostrus would get another apprentice so that I didn’t have to do everything.
The shed door opened, and a gust of wind swirled ochre powder up around me, and I began to sneeze.
Ostrius stood there, glowering at me. “How long will it be before you can mix up the pigment?”
After I could stop sneezing, I just looked at him, noticing that he’d replaced the dressing covering the burn on his neck.
“Answer me. When will we have red ochre pigment?”
“Not until tomorrow. I won’t have enough powder until later today, and then it will have to be blended and cooled . . .”
“You should have gotten to this earlier.” He glared at me. “We’re both waiting for the pigment.”
“No one told me until this morning.” I didn’t point out that talking to him slowed me down-or that he’d been the one to use all the red ochre pigment for his portrait of High Chorister Thalyt and that he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone that there hadn’t been more than a palette knife’s worth of it remaining.