Page 48 of The Promised Queen
Her cheeks flush, a soft pink blooming over her skin. She immediately turns her gaze away, pretending to examine the painter’s brushes, as if the smudged bristles are suddenly fascinating. My lips twitch into a smile. She has no idea how beautiful she looks when she’s flustered—unguarded, real.
The artist clears his throat, reminding us of his presence. “If you could both remain still, please. Maharaj, a little more upright. Maharani, chin slightly higher.”
Meher obeys reluctantly, raising her chin with all the enthusiasm of someone being marched to the gallows. I suppress another laugh, but my shoulders shake faintly with the effort.
Without moving her lips, she mutters, “I feel ridiculous.”
“You look regal,” I counter smoothly. “Exactly as you are meant to.”
Her eyes flick toward me, quick and disbelieving. “Regal? I feel like a mannequin.”
“Then a very lovely mannequin,” I tease, leaning just enough that my words graze her ear. “One I would happily keep in my palace forever.”
She stiffens, her breath hitching just slightly, then turns her head a fraction—earning a sharpahemfrom the artist. I can’t help but chuckle. She makes it too easy.
Minutes stretch long and slow. The artist’s brush moves against canvas, scratching faintly, capturing details we cannot see. My palm grows warm where it rests on her shoulder, and Ibecome acutely aware of the rise and fall of her breath. She sits straighter now, though every so often her hands clench in her lap as if she longs to flee.
And I… I find myself studying her more than I should. The curve of her neck. The loose tendril of hair that refuses to stay pinned. The quiet strength in the way she endures discomfort without complaint. She doesn't want to do this, yet she is here for my sake. I am grateful for that. Shebelongs here, even if she doesn’t yet believe it.
“Raja-sa…” she whispers suddenly, almost too low to catch.
“Hmm?”
Her lips curl, and she whispers, “If this portrait turns out terrible, I’m blaming you.”
I bite back a laugh, forcing my expression to remain calm for the painter’s sake. “If it turns out terrible, Rani-sa, then we shall have another made. As many as you like. Until you are satisfied.”
“Or until you run out of walls to hang them on.”
Her sarcasm only makes my smile widen. This—this is what I like most. Not the stiff politeness. Not the hesitant deference. But this unfiltered Meher, unafraid to poke at me, unafraid to break through the layers of tradition with one wry comment.
We fall into silence again, but it feels different this time. Softer. Easier. She shifts slightly, leaning back just enough that her shoulder presses more firmly into my hand. The contact is small, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but to me it feels deliberate. Grounding.
The artist pauses to change brushes, rinsing one in a jar of cloudy water. Meher seizes the moment to whisper again, hertone laced with genuine curiosity. “Do you… actually like this tradition?”
I think about it. Truly think. The portraits I grew up walking past in the gallery were cold, distant things. Faces of ancestors I never knew, expressions frozen in dignity and detachment. “As a boy, I thought it was silly,” I admit. “All those serious faces staring down from the walls. I used to wonder why no one ever smiled.”
She tilts her head, eyes wide with interest. “And now?”
“Now…” I pause, feeling the weight of the moment settle around us. “…now I think perhaps they misunderstood what it meant to be remembered. If this painting captures even a fraction of this—” my fingers tighten slightly on her shoulder, “—then it will not be silly. It will be precious.”
Her lips part, and I see the words hovering there, unspoken. Instead, her gaze softens, and something warm flickers in her expression. For a moment, the silence between us hums, charged, as though the air itself leans closer to listen.
The painter’s voice slices through it with brisk authority. “Maharani, eyes forward, please. Maharaj, steady your hand.”
She snaps her attention forward, flustered. I straighten, carefully masking my amusement.
Time drifts again, marked only by the scratch of bristles on canvas and the occasional scrape of palette knife. I can almost feel her impatience vibrating through the air. She’s trying to be composed, but I know her too well already. Her foot taps softly against the floor once, twice. Then, when she thinks I’m not watching, she lets out the faintest sigh.
I lean down, close enough that my words are a secret. “Bored already, Rani-sa?”
She cuts me a side-eye, her lips twitching. “You mean you’re not?”
“No,” I answer simply, truthfully. “Because you are here.”
The pink on her cheeks deepens instantly, and she looks forward again, stubborn as ever. Victory curls through me, warm and satisfying.
At last, the artist steps back with a satisfied hum. “We have enough for today. I will continue the details on my own. You may move now.”
