Crazy Duke and Fallen Queen

Sometimes, fate is so mean.

Some people just have all the lucks. Like, for example, my husband.

He's not just good at drawing: he's even better at painting.

I have to admit that only a few artworks on the walls, shattered in the whole castle, can be considered on par. Not lady Lyana, nor the painters that sometimes visited to show me their techniques and teach me a trick or two can be compared.

I was ready to teach Alexander how to mix colours. Yet, his eyes must be better than mine because he creates the perfect shade without the struggle to try it on the canvas. It's difficult to predict how a colour will look on a painting before trying it, but my husband just knows.

The scenery he painted is a view from the Palace in Polis. I could recognise the harbour in the distance and the mountains reflecting themselves in the sea.

Oh, the sea was a piece of art by itself. Alexander found colours I've never noticed, making me feel like I was looking at the real thing and not a canvas.

The green plants on the terrace where I used to gaze at night were so familiar that a tear left my eye. I wiped it away before my husband could see it. It's in the past. I don't need to feel nostalgic about it.

The curtains are white and flow in the wind. The shadows give me the impression of actual movement, and the light in the painting tells me that it's a hot summer day. One when even walking around felt like a useless waste of energy and accumulation of unwanted heat.

I would pass those days closed in my office, with the curtains closed to shield the light. It was the coolest place in the Palace, made of stone and marble, directed towards the north. I could see only the mountains and part of the city from there, as the sea was on the other side.

The rest of the Palace was as hot as the streets during the middle of summer. Fresh juices were always ready to hydrate an overworking Queen, and Kate would also sneak in the kitchens to get some snacks for the afternoon.

When the weather was unbearable even in my office, one of the servants would wave a huge fan or a palm leaf to create a light breeze that dried the sweat from my forehead. In that condition, I was able to work while the rest of Polis was hiding in the shadows and gasping for air.

«It's pretty,» I say, returning to Alexander's painting after minutes of wandering in my memories.

Regardless of my plain tone or my untouched face, he smiles happily after my couple of words.

A few days after his first artwork, Alexander decides to finally paint again. He has already drawn the canvas during one of his lazy moments.

His fingers are steady while he moves the brush on the drawing.

He didn't want to let me see the subject of his art. It's probably me, but I wanted to check what I'm doing. I don't need a shameless portrait, nor an embarrassing one.

Also, I'm convinced he didn't draw Queen Theodora this time either. Maybe, it's my selfish desire, but I don't think Alexander would dare show me her.

Not yet, at least.

«Why do you keep so much secrecy around your work?» I inquire, lying on the couch with my arms crossed and my legs lifted. Pillows are sustaining my back so that it doesn't ache. The baby is still little, but I can now feel its presence at all times.

Even when it doesn't move, my whole being is conscious about it.

«It's not like you're some great master of painting, famous in the whole continent. Why are you putting up such a pretence?»

Alexander moves his eyes away from the painting just for a moment. He smiles at me and returns to work.

This simple activity is draining his whole focus, so he can't summon up enough brain to answer me. There's no point in feeling upset, so I just reach out for a book and read for the rest of the afternoon.

Something else unfairly unjust about Alexander's talent is that he needs so little time to finish. A single afternoon.

«Let it dry, now,» he murmurs, sitting next to me.

His hands are covered by paint, and his shirt is stained here and there. Which isn't as disgusting as it should be.

I'm not too bothered when he reaches out for my hand. The paint on his skin isn't wet anymore, so it doesn't transfer to mine.

«You should wash your hands before touching your wife like this,» I say. Even though my hand squeezes his in fear he runs away.

«I've already done it!» he protests, squeezing my hand back.

Oh, dear. We're just like children!

«But the paint doesn't want to fade off!»

«Mhm... Then, I might let you... hold my hand... like this...» I stutter, my voice low and my breath unstable.

What is happening to me?

When my husband bows over to peck my cheek, I notice that he's stained his face as well.

«Wait,» I mutter and get up to reach the corner with a bowl of scented water. I pour some lemon juice into it and soak a cloth.

After walking back to the couch, I lift Alexander's chin with a finger and clean the stain on his cheek, paying attention not to make the sour water get in contact with his eye.

He stares at me the whole time and doesn't even blink to keep looking at me.

«Here,» I say, showing him how the pain shall be removed with the solution and not plain water.

He widens his eyes in surprise, seeing the colours fading from his hands and transferring to the cloth. In the process, I stain my fingers as well, but I'll clean them later.

Instead of taking the cloth and continuing on his own, Alexander makes me rub his hand until they're clean.

Almost clean. There still are traces of paint under the nails.

«Lemon helps clean the paint, and it also leaves your hands soft and scented,» I explain. «Simple water can't wash away oil colours.»

«I'll remember for next time,» he nods, «but my wife is for certain more efficient at cleaning my hands than me.»

«You spoiled fool.»

«Am I?»

«Just a bit,» I sigh. I bring his hand on my cheek and lean my face on it, like a cat in search of cuddles. Indeed, his hands now have the scent of lemon.

So much that I consider making some lemonade. It would be nice, but now with cold water. I'd like some with hot water and honey...

«I'm thirsty,» I declare while walking towards the door. I open it just for the time to ask for warm water and lemon juice, and I return back to the sofa.

I could have never imagined that people in Kyre use so much lemon, by the way. I thought they used vinegar to clean their hands, to begin with. Yet, lemon is literally flooding Stoneyard.

I can find some whenever I ask for tea.

«Can I look at the painting, now?»

«You're so curious,» he murmurs, tilting his head. «What if you don't like it?»

«You won't hear the end of it.»

«Then, I'm not sure I want you to look at it.»

«Ah,» I gasp. He's so cute while pretending to feel uncertain about himself. «Let me see at once.»

He holds my hand while walking to the corner where he stood for the whole time, and I step closer to take a look.

In the end, it is me. Once again, Alexander painted me and not Queen Theodora.

This time, I'm sitting on a sofa. I can recognise it: it's the one in his office. I'm crooking my lips while passing the needle in my clumsy embroidery work.

I can see just part of my face as the painter is standing behind me, I guess at his working desk. Oh, so this is what he saw while we spent days together after the attempts on my life.

I couldn't see his expression, I was forced to turn away, but I couldn't imagine he had time to look at me this closely.

The stitches are so precise, the figure is familiar. Alexander memorised such a useless detail. And he reproduced it without flaws.

My hair is braided, only a couple of locks frame my face. My eyes are focused, my expression solemn.

I didn't know this is how I look when I work until I started dreaming about Alexander's first life. And now, I see that expression again but on my current self.

«I thought you were working, but you were gazing at your wife!» I exclaim, remembering the weird face Anne Mary had when she visited me at that time. «You shameless husband!»

«Yes,» Alexander admits. He nods as if there wasn't anything wrong with it.

«I thought you were protecting me from danger, but you were just taking advantage of it to stare at me for days,» I continue, crossing my arms.

Well, I should have figured it out. I'm a bit slow when it comes to Alexander.

«No, that's not true.»

«Not true?» I question, tilting my head by a degree or two.

«No, I was protecting you. But then, since you were there, I decided to look at you too. But that wasn't my first intention, I swear.»

This painting is just so beautiful, by the way. Even more than the scenery. But I don't have to tell this to my husband.

I'll just make him paint something every time he seems in the right mood, and then I'll sell the paintings and make money. Oh, I'll give him part of the sum and consider it a contract.

But it won't work if he paints only me. Who would buy that?

«Husband...» I start, leaning my head on his chest. «Do you think you can paint Stoneyard too? Maybe, from some distance. Like when we arrived here, do you remember?»

He thinks about it for a moment or two, and then he nods.

«I can try, wife.»