Page 64 of Song of the Shadow Prince
“I don’t know if it’s possible, but it’s worth a try,” Garrick said just as Maeve turned and started walking back to us. “Whatever you do,nevermention Klaus’s name to anyone. Understand?” I nodded.
“All set!” Maeve said with a cheery smile. “We’ll stop by Garrick’s place to drop him off first before heading to the Northern District.”
“There is no need for that.” Garrick waved her off. “My home is not far from here. You ladies get home safely. I’ll be in touch.” With a wave over his shoulder, he turned and started walking down the winding path.
Maeve frowned. “Oh… okay, then. I guess we can go home.” She took my hand. “Ready?”
I watched Garrick’s retreating figure until he disappeared in the distance. “Ready.”
I stayed indoorsfor the next few days and valiantly tried not to run into any more trouble, much less encounter anyone I knew. After my little trip to Faelight Forest and learning who Klaus was, I felt sick. Notactuallysick where I needed a doctor, but more like a heavy knot of dread coiled in my stomach. It wasn’t like I wanted a doctor to check me out anyway, because if Garrick could tell I made a deal with one of the fae simply by checking my pulse, then so could anyone else.
I wasn’t the type to hide from my problems, but I also wasn’t afraid to admit when I needed some time to regroup and formulate a new game plan. I’d foolishly hoped I could walk into Faelight Forest and waltz back out with the answers I needed. Now I realized how naïve that was.
“My lady?” Maeve knocked on the door and let herself in before I could answer. “You’ve been quiet these last few days and Lord Zacharia is starting to worry.” She carefully shut the door behind her.
Damnit. I kept forgetting I was supposed to be Arya, which required me to live Arya’s life to avoid suspicion.
“Right,” I mumbled. “What would Arya be doing right now?”
“Well, she would be getting ready for her art lessons,” Maeve said shyly.
“Art lessons?” I repeated. I dimly remembered hearing this before, but I hadn’t paid it much attention. “What kind of art does she do? Like, pottery?”
Maeve shook her head. “No, my lady. Lady Arya paints, and she paints well. The next time you walk around the Ryder residence, look at the artwork. They were all painted by my lady,” she boasted.
My eyes widened at that admission. I had noticed the paintings, and I had to admit they were really nice. Definitely not amateur hour. No wonder those vampires were after me. What the hell was Arya doing with her skills? And how the hell had she done it without Maeve noticing?
I tapped my chin and narrowed my eyes at my dutiful servant. “Maeve? Are you with Arya during these lessons?”
“Sort of,” she muttered. “Lady Arya pays for me to take lessons, but since I’m such a beginner, we’re in different classes.”
I furrowed my brows. “And how does Arya pay for your class? I thought the Ryders were borderline broke?”
Maeve frowned and scratched the side of her head. “Hmm… I don’t know. I never asked,” she murmured, deep in thought.
Arya had been playing Maeve this whole time. I would bet my left tit that Arya wasn’t taking any lessons, and she was paying for Maeve to go to class as a distraction to get her out of the way. But forwhat, was the question. The only way to find out was by attending this so-called art lesson.
“Well, then.” I stood from the bed. “I guess we should get ready for our art lessons.”
Resolvedto untangle the mysteries Arya left behind, Maeve and I walked to the art school nestled in an aged quarter of the Northern District. Autumn’s crisp whisper mingled with the rustic charm of cobblestone streets. The school, housed in a venerable stone building that once might have been a guild hall, stood solid and imposing among rows of ancient, timber-framed shops. Its façade was a canvas in itself, festooned withivy that turned fiery red and gold in the fall, complementing the sprawling murals that adorned its massive wooden doors.
“You would think this place would be located in the Southern District,” I muttered to Maeve.
She chuckled. “You might think so, but all the high born come here.” She nodded toward the door. “Come on, or we’ll be late.”
A chill from the stone floors seeped through my boots, mingling with the scent of linseed oil and aged wood that permeated the air. The hushed echoes of our footsteps joined the distant clatter of brushes and murmurs from concentrated artists. The interior was a grand hall converted into a vast studio space, lit by shafts of sunlight pouring through high, stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the scattered canvases and the students absorbed in their craft.
The ambiance was a blend of old-world austerity and creative chaos, with large wooden easels arranged in meticulous rows and artists draped in cloaks or shawls against the autumn chill. The pungence of freshly crushed pigments and the sound of rustling parchment added layers to the room's rich, historical tapestry.
Upon reaching the main classroom, a space dominated by a soaring, vaulted ceiling and walls lined with tapestries depicting historic artistic achievements, the one I assumed was the headmistress, a woman with sharp eyes and a hawkish posture, noted our arrival with a start. Her gaze, sharp and calculating, fixed on me as she approached with brisk steps that echoed authoritatively on the stone floor.
“Lady Arya!” she said with surprise. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” I said. “I am… uh…”
“Headmistress Mirabel,” Maeve said quickly as she turned to the woman. “Apologies, Headmistress. My lady was in an accident a couple of weeks ago. She is unwell.”
“Oh, my!” Mirabel clutched her chest. “I hope you’re doing better?”
