Chapter 41 – An Afternoon Out / The Royal Conservatory of Art and Antiquities

Chapter 41

An Afternoon Out / The Royal Conservatory of Art and Antiquities

            By the time we return to the estate, the lingering tension from my encounter with Catalina has dulled into something quieter.  Mary meets us at the door and, after a brief exchange with my mother, ushers me back to my room to prepare for the afternoon.  She lays out several dresses for me to choose from, each more elegant than the last, but I find myself drawn to something simpler.  A soft powder blue.  The fabric is light, flowing just enough to move comfortably without feeling restrictive, it is practical more than anything else.

            “Do you expect you’ll be on your feet, My Lady?” Mary asks, watching me consider it.

            “Most likely,” I say, nodding in confirmation.

            She hums softly in understanding and produces a pair of matching flats, setting them beside the dress without needing to be told.

            Lunch is… uneventful.  Conversation drifts easily between topics, none of them particularly important, and for once, I find myself grateful for that.  I don’t realize how much time has passed until Mary quietly informs me that Prince Angus has arrived.

            My heart skips a beat from anticipation.

            By the time I make my way down to the front hall, I can already hear voices carrying faintly from the entryway.

            “…you have my thanks for allowing me to borrow her for the afternoon.”

            Angus.

            My steps slow just slightly as I round the corner.

            He stands near the door, posture straight but not stiff, dressed far more simply than I’ve seen him before.  No formal attire, no courtly embellishment, just clean lines and practical fabrics that somehow still manage to look regal on him.  Maybe it’s because he’s a prince… or maybe I just find myself more attracted to him every time I see him.

            My mother stands across from him, composed as ever.

            “Ah,” she says as she notices me. “There you are.”

            Angus turns… and just like that, whatever he had been saying disappears.  His gaze settles on me, and for a moment, he just… looks.

            Heat creeps up the back of my neck.

            “Y-you’re staring,” I say before I can stop myself.

            He blinks, then lets out a quiet laugh.

            “Can you blame me?” he asks.

            I look away, suddenly very interested in the floor.

            “You both will be back before evening,” my mother says, cutting cleanly through the moment.

            “Of course, Duchess,” Angus replies immediately, all composure once more.

            I can feel her eyes on me, making me straighten slightly.

            “We will.” I say, glancing up just long enough to meet her gaze.  There’s the faintest shift in her expression… approval, subtle but unmistakable.

            “See that you do,” she says, nodding before turning to walk away.

            Angus steps forward and offers his hand.  I hesitate for only a fraction of a second before placing mine in his.  His grip is warm and steady, providing grounding against the fluttering in my stomach.

            Together, we step out of the doors and into the afternoon light where a rather plain, nondescript carriage awaits, which surprises me.  I must have had a look on my face because a moment later, Angus explains.

            “I thought that being a bit more discreet might be better for getting around today,” he says as he offers his hand for me to climb into the open door.  “I know our faces are known, but this lessens the chances our standing out… er, not that you don’t stand out.  You’re lovely today, by the way.”

            “Thank you,” I say as I feel the heat rising in my face again.

            ‘Thank you’?  That’s all you can say?  I mentally berate myself for a moment as I take his hand and enter the carriage with him following closely behind.

            The carriage ride begins in silence.  Not the uncomfortable kind, just… quiet.

            I sit across from Angus; my hands folded loosely in my lap as the city passes by outside the window.  The noise of the busy streets doesn’t really penetrate to the inside of the carriage, instead it becomes a soft comforting clatter in the background. 

            Occasionally I glance out the window and wonder what these people would do if they knew that one of the royal family was seated only a few feet away from where they stand.  It always surprised me at how calm people were regarding Angus when we were back in Lochavria, walking the streets that day.  Even the appearance of my father seemed to cause little fuss.  I had asked my father about that and, according to him, most people in the duchy were far too polite to acknowledge us publicly on the streets, pretending not to notice to afford us the privacy they knew we would lack elsewhere.

            Somehow, I get the feeling that might not be the case in the royal capitol.

            “You’re over-thinking,” Angus says after a moment.

            “I-is it that obvious?” I say, glancing up.

            “Only when you go quiet like that,” he says, smiling faintly.

            “It was a long morning,” I admit with a slight chuckle.

            His expression shifts not to concern, exactly, but something close.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

            I hesitate, Catalina’s voice lingering in the back of my mind.  I look forward to seeing how you… readjust, Lady Beira.  I cringe inwardly, not looking forward to finding out what exactly she meant.

            “No… I think I’d rather just enjoy the afternoon.” I say, shaking my head.

            “Then we will,” he says simply, offering a soft smile.

            A short while later, the carriage rolls to a stop and the door opens.  I had actually missed the scenery passing us by for the last leg of our trip because I had found myself studying every little detail of Angus’s face and body.  It really is criminal how good-looking he is, especially today where he isn’t clean shaven and has a small amount of scruff showing.  It makes me want to know what it would feel like beneath my fingertips, so I have been keeping them politely folded in my lap in order to fight the impulse. 

            I wouldn’t be opposed to if he decided to grow a beard out…  Though I think if it was as full and thick as my father's, I wouldn’t like that, but a nice short beard, just long enough to be soft?  Now that would suit him perfectly.

            “Beira.”

            I hear someone say, snapping me back out of my thoughts.  I look towards the voice and see that Angus has already exited the carriage and is standing, hand extended, waiting on me.

            I offer what I hope is a grateful smile as I take his hand and exit the carriage and receive a bright smile in return.

            I look at the building in front of us and am immediately reminded of the Palais des Beaux-Arts de la Ville de Paris.  From the front, it looks almost identical, even down to the placements of the statues beside the rounded top of the ornately carved arch leading in.  To the left and right of the stairs are groupings of multiple figures clustered together.  The sheer beauty of the outside of this building alone is almost overwhelming, just like the first time I was at the Petit Palais.  For a very brief moment, I feel as though I am back on earth.

            The lettering above the front entrance declares the building to be The Royal Conservatory of Art and Antiquities.  As we near the entryway, I glance up at the name, then over to Angus.

            “The R-Royal Conservatory?” I ask. “That sounds… official.”

            Angus glances up at the lettering and nods.

            “It is,” he says. “The royal family funds it directly. Officially, it preserves art, historical artifacts, and culturally significant works from across the kingdom.”

            I look back up at the building.

            “Officially?” I ask.

            A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

            “Unofficially, it is also how the Crown keeps an eye on emerging talent,” he says.

            That gets my attention.

            He slows slightly as we approach the steps.

            “Every year, the Conservatory acquires works from promising artists across Elgoss. Some are already established, but many are new—painters, sculptors, restorers, even historians with a talent for preservation. If their work is selected, the Crown sponsors them,” he explains.

            “Sponsors them?” I ask.

            “They are given stipends, commissions, and access to resources most artists would never otherwise have. It allows them to focus on their work instead of survival,” he says with a nod.

            I glance at him.

            “Th-that’s… surprisingly practical,” I say, impressed.

            Angus lets out a quiet laugh.

            “The Crown has long understood that culture is as much a show of power as military strength. Art shapes how a kingdom is remembered,” he replies.

            I look back toward the entrance, the carved letters gleaming in the afternoon light.

            “And s-some of the works inside are from those artists?” I ask.

            “About a quarter,” he says.  “The rest are older acquisitions, noble donations, historical collections, and royal commissions. Every year they add more.”

            “T-two or three?” I ask.

            His brows lift slightly.

            “You remember that?” he asks.

            I shrug and reply, “I was listening.”

            That earns me a small smile as he offers me his hand to help me up the stairs.

            The moment we step inside, the noise of the city falls away.

            The air is cooler within the museum, touched faintly by the scent of old varnish, polished stone, and parchment.  Our footsteps soften against the gleaming floor, swallowed by the quiet murmur of distant voices and the hush that seems to settle naturally over the space.

            It is peaceful, not silent, not empty, just reverent.

             Angus says something to the attendant at the front while I take in the entry hall, my eyes tracing the sweeping curve of the staircase ahead and the high painted ceiling above.  Light filters in through the upper windows in pale shafts, catching against marble and gilt in a way that makes the entire space feel almost dreamlike. 

            For a moment, I simply stand there and breathe.

            When Angus rejoins me, he doesn’t immediately speak.  He just watches me for a moment, the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

            “You look happier already,” he says quietly.

            Heat rises faintly in my face, but I can’t deny it.

            “Is it that obvious?” I ask.

            “A little,” he says, offering his arm with a small smile.  “Come on. Let’s see if your taste has improved.”

            I huff softly and take it.

            He leads me through the first gallery at an unhurried pace, though it doesn’t take long for the rhythm between us to shift.  At first, Angus guides, pointing out artists by name and the occasional piece he thinks I might enjoy.  Before long, though, I find myself drifting, drawn more by instinct than intention.  A sunlit countryside.  A marble bust with one broken hand.  A painting of a storm rolling over a distant sea.  I pause before each just long enough to take them in, and each time Angus pauses with me, patient and quiet.

            At some point, I realize he has stopped explaining the art entirely.

            He is watching me look at it instead.

            We walk in relative silence through the museum, the soft echo of our footsteps swallowed by high ceilings and polished stone floors, moving from one display to another.  Paintings line the walls in careful order, each one framed in gold or dark wood, each one holding a world of its own.  I try to focus on them… on the colors, the technique, the subjects, but my mind keeps drifting, remembering.

            Until one of them stops me.

            I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking at first.

            “Beira?” Angus’s voice comes from just behind me.

            I don’t answer.

            My eyes are fixed on the painting in front of me.  It’s… simple.  A woman dressed in black stands beside a casket, her head bowed slightly.  The room around her is filled with muted shapes, flowers, figures, shadows, but none of them matter.  The focus of the piece is unmistakable.  Her.  And the casket.  My chest tightens.  

            I’ve seen this before… haven’t I?

            My gaze drifts slowly across the painting, taking in the details without meaning to.  The arrangement of the flowers.  The dim lighting.  The way the figures in the background blur into nothing, as if they were never meant to be remembered.  And then I see it.  In the back of the room, partially obscured behind a cluster of wreaths… a figure.  Sitting on the floor, small, hidden, crying.  

            My breath catches.  

            That’s… no, it isn’t.  It can’t be.  

            I take a step closer without realizing it, my eyes drawn back to the woman at the front of the painting.  Her face is turned just enough to obscure the finer details, shadowed in a way that makes it impossible to truly see her expression.  But there is something about her posture, the way her shoulders are held, they are too rigid.  The way one hand curls slightly at her side, her fingers tight as if holding something back…  It makes my chest ache.  

            I thought she didn’t care.  The thought comes unbidden.  I thought she had just… ignored me.

            My gaze flicks back to the hidden figure in the corner.  It is out of sight of the other figures in the painting, just like I had been.  

            “…Beira?” Angus says again, closer this time.

            The sound of his voice feels distant, like it’s coming from somewhere far away.  My head throbs suddenly, a dull pressure building behind my eyes.  

            I sway slightly.

            “I-I…” my voice falters. “I just…”

            I press a hand lightly to my temple, trying to steady myself. 

            “I n-need a moment.” I finally manage to say.

            Angus doesn’t hesitate.

            “Sit,” he says quietly, guiding me toward a nearby bench.

            I lower myself onto it, my legs feeling unsteady in a way I don’t quite understand.

            The museum feels quieter here.  Or maybe it’s just me.  I stare down at my hands, trying to make sense of the twisting feeling in my chest.  I thought I understood that memory.  I thought I knew what it meant.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” Angus asks after a moment, his voice soft.

            I shake my head slightly. 

            “It just… reminded me of s-something,” I say quietly.

            There’s a brief pause.

            “Your grandfather?” he asks gently.

            I hesitate.

            “It’s similar,” I reply after a moment.  It’s not a lie; it’s just not the truth.

            “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

            He doesn’t press further.  He just sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, steady and real against the quiet unease still twisting inside me.  After a moment, I let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. 

            “We should k-keep going,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

            Angus studies me for a moment, then nods.

            “Of course,” he says, his voice reassuring. 

            As we stand, I can’t help but glance back one last time. The figure in the corner is still there, hidden, but somehow, he doesn’t feel quite as alone as I remember.