Page 11 of The Artist and the Dragon

“Oh, yes.” Wynni waved her fan. “They may keep a few for their permanent collection, but this exhibit is meant to feature the artists and help them gain notoriety among the elites. Why, everyone who is anyone in society will be there.”

A fragile laugh slipped from Bronwyn’s lips. Everyone. Great. What if people hated them? What if not one painting sold? They hadn’t been meant for commercial success—just simple set pieces that she’d expected Wynni to use and discard after the spring show.

“Now, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll make sure you get the money from any sales. I won’t even take a cut. And I’ll let you know if there are any inquiries about more of your work.”

“I … I don’t need the money.” It was the first thing she could think of.

“Nonsense.” Wynni whacked her on the shoulder with her fan, and Bronwyn flinched back at the sudden reprimand. “It’s good for a woman to have some money of her own. And I like to see a woman, an artist no less, become successful at her trade.” She leaned in and winked. “Consider it payback for not letting me pay you. And who knows, maybe you’ll find some gentleman admirers, too? I can think of at least one who will probably be there.”

Chapter 6

Bronwyn

Waitingbythecarriageoutside the opera house were Bronwyn’s bodyguards—or herentourage, as Wynni called the men Drystan had assigned to follow her every footstep after the wedding. Initially, he’d forbidden her to leave at all out of fear for her safety, but Ceridwen had convinced him otherwise. Good thing, since the castle already felt more like a prison than a home. Before that horrid day, one or two guards might accompany her when she ventured out on her own. It was only proper for the sister of the future queen, after all. But now they constituted a small procession through the streets of the capital.

More gossip. More whispers. At least she didn’t have to hear the words people spoke to one another as her carriage passed by.

Thoughts of the countryside filled her with longing. A life far from all this nonsense. Soon, very soon, she’d tell Ceridwen her plans to leave. After their wedding moon … if she could finally convince them to set their worries aside and go on one. Yes, then she could leave.

As they passed through the castle’s main gate and entered the bailey, the entourage broke off. It was safer in the castle, relatively. There were already guards on regular patrols in the halls, ones partially overseen by Adair. The massive entry hall may well have been a cell for the way it closed in around Bronwyn, though she had to admit it was a beautiful prison. Famous works of art hung in gilt frames; lush carpets painted stripes over decorated tile. If she could be alone, without the swarm of servants and guards, she might enjoy it.

“Miss Bronwyn.”

Reluctantly, she tore her gaze from the painted ceiling. The stiffness that gripped her at the sound of her name eased as she recognized the owner of the voice. “Jackoby.”

The demeanor of Drystan’s butler was as stiff and starched as his flawless attire, but she’d seen the heart he hid deep beneath. He had served Drystan in Teneboure when so many had abandoned him, and he’d followed his master to the capital after he claimed the throne.

The barest hint of a smile touched Jackoby’s lips. “Queen Ceridwen is having tea in the gardens. I thought you might wish to join her.”

A sigh stole the stiffness from her. “Tea would be lovely.”

“Very good.” He nodded. “Also, you received a letter while you were out.” He held it out, the unbroken wax seal face up.

“Oh?” Her stomach sank as she took it. The thick cream paper hinted at wealth, the neat yet artful calligraphy of her name across the front at someone of status. An invitation from a noble lady, most likely, one she’d have to find a way to refuse. There had been a flood of them at first, though Bronwyn made excuses for most, only attending events when Ceridwen either forced her to or begged for a companion. The invitations had dwindled since, but they still managed to trickle in like a light rain that just wouldn’t cease.

“May I make a suggestion, my lady?”

“Hm?” She blinked at Jackoby, holding the letter by its corner like a soiled rag.

“If you’d prefer not to receive correspondence”—he glanced at the letter for emphasis—“I could read them and send any regrets on your behalf. Only if it would aid you, of course.”

Her chest swelled with gratitude. The man’s kindness really knew no bounds, but she couldn’t add to his already heavy burden. “I appreciate the offer, but you have more than enough to do without worrying about such unimportant things.” She waved the letter back and forth.

“Perhaps a maid could assist you, then?” He raised one careful brow.

Bronwyn shook her head. “I can address my own mail.” However loathsome the task, shedidhave the time for it, whereas many others were already far too busy.

“The offer stands if you change your mind,” Jackoby said. “Shall I escort you to tea?”

The courtyard was full of life—of the non-human variety, anyway. Verdant trees dotted the grounds, a few of them heavy with fruit. Neat beds of flowers stood in full bloom. The bushes were trimmed into artful designs, and a fountain gurgled at the intersection of the stone pathways. Normally, it was bustling with people, too, but this afternoon, it was serene and peaceful as the countryside. A few guards monitored the doors and perimeter, watching after their charge, who sat at a shaded table.

Ceridwen looked up as Bronwyn approached, her pinched brow smoothing, a blinding smile taking shape on her mouth. “Bronwyn! I’m so glad you could make it. Thank you for bringing her, Jackoby.”

The butler gave a bow and retreated, most likely off to attend some other, far more important matter. Drawings on draft paper were spread across much of Ceridwen’s table. A tiered tray of pastries and small sandwiches clung dangerously close to one edge, the steaming teapot and cups off to the other side. Two open chairs lingered, and Bronwyn claimed the nearest of them.

“No footmen available to serve today?” Bronwyn teased, eyeing the teapot.

Ceridwen rolled her eyes and gave a little sigh. “I quite prefer pouring my own tea, and I know you do as well.”

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