The Painter's Apprentice

Chapter 1

"I will get these dirty," I say to the grey woman, pointing to the gypsum white ruffles that dangle dangerously close to my hands.

"Then we will replace them." The matter is settled and she throws a white, quilted petticoat over my head.

If I'm to join Morel at court I will wear what they tell me and do as they say. I won't let him down. I resist every urge to protest, even though it seems a waste of a fine chemise.

My outfit is finished with yet another skirt — this one with pale blue and cream ticking, a matching stomacher, and a gown that laces in the front.

The stiff silks of my dress rustle around me as I follow a pair of footmen in the blue livery. We leave the stables and join the throngs of people who stream through the gates of Versailles. My heart races as we make our way through the grand courtyards and into the palace hallways full of marble and gilded mirrors, chandeliers and paned windows overlooking gardens that might stretch on for miles in every direction. The decadence is like nothing I've seen in my life. In the symmetry of every window, the patterns in the foil papered walls, the lines and rich colors that flow between each hallway and room, my painter's eyes see beauty. The palace has been designed and decorated by the most skilled craftsmen in France. I can't take in every detail at our hurried pace, but every fiber of my being wants to.

The guards stop at a set of double doors and move aside for me to enter. I hope Morel is waiting for me beyond so he can explain why he brought me here — and why now. The tightening knot in my gut ignites my singular hope. Deep down it's always the same: I hope he's brought me here because, finally, he thinks my art is ready.

"Enter," an unfamiliar voice calls from within and I step through the doors.

A man looks up from his desk. He has pale green eyes and skin so white it bleeds into the greys of his powdered wig. He wears outdated cosmetics but they accentuate the elegant features of his aging face to enchanting effect. "Mademoiselle Florette, welcome. My name is Lord Gardet." He dips into a graceful bow.

For a man so comically painted, I sense something strange about him. His voice is cold and hollow, belying his toothy smile.

"Where is Morel?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend it to, but I blame it on the man's cold gaze.

Surprise flickers on Lord Gardet's face. "I hate to bring you here under such unfortunate circumstances—"

"Unfortunate circumstances?" I cut him off and something darker replaces his surprise. When I remember myself, I sink my teeth into my lower lips so I won't make things any worse for myself.

Lord Gardet schools his features into a look of sympathy. Or at least the illusion of it. "Yes. All of us here at court consider Edmond Morel's death a great loss."

Morel? Dead? Shock claws at my lungs and makes it hard to breathe. I can't form words.

"My apologies, Mademoiselle Florette. I did not know I was breaking this news to you."

I clear my throat. "When?" It's the only word I can choke out.

"He's been gone a week's time, I thought you would have known."

Morel has been dead for a week and I've been left ignorant all this time? I want to yell at this callous, unfeeling man, but I doubt it wouldn't help me get the answer I seek. "How did he die?" Was he executed? My silent question hangs heavy in the air.

"An accident," Lord Gardet says. His posture shifts and his tone is more guarded. "He drowned in the canal when his boat overturned during one of the naval displays." I get the sense that he isn't telling me the full truth, but I don't know which part is the lie. That he drowned. Or that it was an accident. "I would have sent word sooner if I had known about your relationship to Morel."