yrae | Vermilion ~ Twenty: Artist (Reply)

Sunset flowed over the landscape, a golden liquid that soaked the world in warmth. The already red and gold leaves of the candlewood behind the castle flared like the flames for which they were named, delicate black branches their wicks and straight white trunks their wax. Other patches of forest stuck out of the hills, vibrant drops of molten metal against this sea of rolling liquid sunlight.

The artist had sketched the forms onto her canvas earlier in the day, and now sat on the castle’s flat roof, pallet and brush in hand. She splashed the oils over her canvas as quickly as she could, watching the rapidly changing landscape more than her painting. Glowing embers of the forests grew from a flick of her brush, coming to life as she drew in their lavender shadows stretching long away from the sun. The candlewood sprung up in cadmium and buttercup, orange chrome and deep vermilion, a touch of white to add artificial to their blinding glow. A touch of lime green here, a daub of chartreuse there to soothe the eye from all that fire, and the essence of the scene was ready.

The artist sat back, watching her magnificent view dull to the silvers and purples that came after sunset. The valleys were in full shadow now, deep blue like the midnight sky. The sun hadn’t yet fully set, but the moment had passed. All that was left now was to enjoy the view.

Tomorrow, she would sit back up here in the daylight to refine the painting. As she was painting a sunset, the colours on her canvas always looked brighter than when she returned to them the next day, where they were instead lit by the draining white light of day. As golden as her landscape looked now, doubtless it would pale by tomorrow morning. Still, she was pleased enough with this one. She could tidy it up tomorrow, detail in the leaves and branches of the candlewood and bring back some of that vibrancy.

Only then did she realise she was being watched. She turned with a bashful smile to her small crowd of onlookers, who applauded her efforts as they gazed, not at the view of nature but of the view she had created not moments ago.

‘It’s breathtaking,’ Lady Candlewood said, moving closer to peer at the painting.

The artist shrugged modestly. ‘It isn’t finished yet. I’ll want to look at it in the daylight to know where next to take it.’

‘But those colours!’ the lady went on. ‘However do you get them so vibrant?’

The artist gave an enigmatic smile and picked up her box of paints, a battered old iron tray she had inherited from her grandfather. ‘They’re new paints,’ she said proudly. ‘I’m working with a number of artists at home to develop these colours. We’re taking a number of them from the wilds of tropical Kazin, where they use such colours as fabric dyes, and we’re adapting them as best we can to painting.’

‘Glorious,’ the lady said, her gaze lost in the painting.

‘Thank you, my lady.’

The lady straightened, the group of half a dozen onlookers scattered to their chairs, and the spell was broken. The artist wiped her hands clean and picked up her sketch pad and charcoal pencil, then moved to join the group. One of their number, Master Candlewood, stood apart from them all by the rooftop’s ramparts, just watching the last of the sunset. The artist took in the scene, one man standing apart to appreciate nature, and began to quickly sketch in the lines that might later become a painting.

‘I always love visiting Candlewood just for evenings like this,’ Mistress Greendale praised as she gazed out towards the sinking sun. ‘We have autumn trees at home, of course, but nothing quite so spectacular as this. You’ve chosen just the right time for such a gathering, my lady.’

Lady Candlewood bowed her head with a modest smile. ‘Thank you, my dear, but it was my darling son who chose this week for our gathering. He has quite taken charge of all the celebrations this week.’ She looked up at the artist then. ‘Have you met my son yet, dear?’

The artist looked up from her sketch. ‘Hmm? Oh, yes, we spoke briefly at luncheon today.’ She didn’t dare disturb him now, though, not until she had the feel of her sketch down. Her focus was still too cleanly set on the group. She wanted it to be set solidly on the one apart. She sketched a box into the picture to reframe it, but still it didn’t seem to achieve what she intended. She flipped the page and started again, this time keeping stronger lines on the figure alone.

‘How delightful,’ the lady continued. ‘What did you speak of?’

The artist shrugged and smiled politely as she made all those in the group look much the same, the same monochrome expressions and gestures. ‘Of the best vantage points around the town, mostly,’ she replied absently. It hadn’t been much of a conversation, if truth be told. He had seemed distracted, and she knew she was herself, but it was plain his mother wished to hear more of it. ‘He says you gain the most beautiful view of the town and the vineyards from that hill behind us, with the sheep.’

The sketch still wasn’t working. Resisting the urge to frown in frustration at her sketch, knowing a frown in such company could be taken quite the wrong way, she flipped the page again. When she looked up, however, Master Candlewood had moved. He stood with his back to the sunset now, arms folded as he smiled on over the small gathering, quite a different aspect from when he was watching the landscape. The artist’s shoulders dropped a little at her lost opportunity.

‘I figured you’d find this point on your own,’ he said with a languid smile. He pushed himself from the ramparts and crossed over to her. He seemed more interesting to her when he wasn’t posing and posturing for the assembled masses. When he was lost in the view that he must surely wake up to every morning and yet never lose appreciation for. ‘Would you mind if I had a look?’ he asked.

‘Ah, well.’ She blushed furiously. She caught a small smile from Lady Candlewood at her flustered appearance, but for the artist it was nothing to do with the proximity of Master Candlewood to her person. Paintings of landscapes were one thing. Showing her unfinished inspiration sketches—particularly to the very subject of a number of the sketches—made her feel like she was bearing her soul.

Master Candlewood seemed to sense her unease and held his hands up. ‘Only if you don’t mind, you understand. I’ll back off.’

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. ‘It’s only my sketches I feel uncomfortable showing. My paintings are made to be seen. I’ve dressed them, applied their makeup, fixed their hair. My sketches…’

‘Sketches are naked,’ Master Candlewood finished with a nod of understanding. ‘I apologise.’ He gave her an apologetic smile, apparently realising what he had asked of her, then turned back to the sunset. The glowing orb of the sun was perfectly balanced in the crook between two hills, each edge just touching the slope of the hill.

‘Your mother mentioned how you’ve organised much of this party,’ the artist said, feeling compelled to make conversation. Where normally the lull in conversation might have been peaceful, she felt now as though all the eyes on her were expecting her to say something. She needed to cover up again after so nearly bearing her sketches to the world. ‘Is there some occasion I should be aware of? I feel almost as though I’m missing some grand secret.’

‘Quite so!’ Mistress Greendale agreed with a light titter. ‘It seems a lavish expense to spend for all our humble sakes.’

Master Candlewood crossed one leg over the other and cast his languid smile over his companions. ‘As well it may,’ he agreed. ‘It’s no occasion yet, but I should like to make it one. Just as the kingdom flocks to Cherry Wood for its spring blossoms, I would love for my Candlewood to be the town the kingdom thinks of for autumn leaves. My ladies, you may consider yourself the inaugural guests to what I hope will become a grand occasion in autumns to come.’

‘Modest, isn’t he?’ Lady Candlewood giggled, but she looked fondly on her son.

‘With an aspect such as this,’ the artist said dreamily, ‘I don’t believe he has any need to be. I think you both have every right to be proud of your town. I shall certainly spread the word of its beauty—not to mention your own hospitality—when I return home.’

Master Candlewood bowed his head to her. ‘Many thanks, my dear. I think I should like to purchase one of your paintings by week’s end, if they’re all to turn out as this masterpiece here. Truly, I have seen many a painting of this aspect, but none with the life in them that your work exhibits.’

She smiled and accepted his praise, even though she could see plainly how unfinished the painting was. ‘Yes, I’m quite satisfied with these new paints myself.’

‘It’s far more than just the paints,’ the young master told her.

‘Absolutely,’ Mistress Greendale agreed, almost forcing herself into what was beginning to feel like quite an intimate conversation. ‘As Master Candlewood noted, there’s life in your work. You’ve set the landscape afire.’

The artist glanced at the canvas still balanced on its easel, wishing not for the first time that she might view her work through less critical eyes. She sighed and closed her sketchbook, glancing down at the red and yellow paint staining her hands. ‘Well, with everyone looking so splendid up here, I should go and clean myself up for dinner.’

She stood and dropped into a curtsey, and just caught Lady Candlewood giving her son a cheeky smile before she turned and excused herself. The artist had no desire for the man, though. He tried so hard to be liked by everyone that it was almost embarrassing to watch him.

She wondered then, briefly, if perhaps that was the true reason for this party, for the twenty-seven-year-old bachelor to finally find a partner. Now she thought on it, he did spend the majority of his time—and his efforts—on the young ladies he had invited.

She shook her head as she descended the stairs. His initial explanation, that he wanted to show off his town to the world, seemed much more to his style.