When Destan's portrait is dried, framed, and on proud display in the queen's personal salon, demand increases for my work. Even though I hate the piece, which feels like a betrayal to Morel's legacy, I have passed my first test as the court painter. I can stay. I can lavish this court with more sycophantic, soulless art in the Royal Academy's style and perhaps if I keep my head long enough, I will find a way to live with myself.

With no excuse to be in the studio, Destan and I become strangers again, but that doesn't mean I see any less of him. Much goes on in the palace at all hours. There's a frivolous ceremony for everything during the king's day, then the evenings are filled with parties, concerts, operas, and all manner of leisurely distractions. Anytime I venture from my studio, I seem to see Destan, but I can never get close enough to speak to him.

At first, I thought it was just bad luck that we could never seem to connect with each other, but as his avoidance of me quickly became more obvious. If I have done something to offend him, he gives me no opportunity to apologize. My hot temper urges me to corner him and scold him for befriending me then pretending I don't exist, but I can't even catch his eye anymore. There was no misinterpreting his genuine kindness — I'm not sure how I could have misread him in those long hours he sat for his portrait, but the rejection stings.

Without Destan to confide in, my friends at the palace are few and far between. So when Lavernia asks me to do a painting for her, I gladly accept. To my surprise, she doesn't want one of the posed portraits that fit into the Royal Academy's approved style.

"Do you want a historical painting then?" I ask her over dinner.

"Certainly not!"

"A still life?"

"What use have I for painted flowers when I have fresh flowers delivered to my apartment daily?"

"Then what do you want?" I ask, exasperated.

She swirls the burgundy wine in her glass as she watches me. "I want you to paint something you want to paint."

"What I want to paint?" The foreign notion catches me off-guard.

Lavernia knows the irony of what she has asked me to do just as well. She laughs and the sound echoes through the Grand Salon over the ambient clatter of silverware on china and hushed conversation. A few heads turn at the sound of our mutual amusement. Destan sits as far away from us as possible, but not out of my view. He eats surrounded by some of Queen Henriette's most beautiful ladies-in-waiting — all of them noble and dressed in the finest of court robes to show it. I let myself sneak a glance at him and I'm reminded how he's been bred for court life. To bow and scrape for any scrap of power, for a favor from someone a rung above. My stomach sickens when a dark-haired girl laughs at something he says and clutches the sleeve of his frac coat.

I tear my eyes away and return my attention to Lavernia. The corner of her pouty lips turns up and I suspect she caught me staring at Destan. "I want you to paint something that is wholly your style," she says and takes a sip of her wine. Knowing, green eyes watch me over the crystal goblet.

"Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?" I say. "Morel taught me to match his style — the Academy's style."

She snorts. "Master Morel had his talents, but I already have a painting of his. I want to see what you make when you are inspired."

"That's quite dangerous, Lavernia," I say and lean in so anyone attuned to our conversation can't overhear. "The Royal Academy sets the artistic style for all of France. Rejection of that style is tantamount to rejection of the king and the monarchy."

"Fine then," Lavernia says. "Don't commit treason, but can you stretch the boundaries a little bit — create something less fussy — more personal?"

"Inspired," I confirm, as I'm simultaneously bombarded with all the things I could paint. Only when Morel was away and I'd finished the work he left for me did I have the rare luxury of making things on the whims of inspiration.

"Nothing Roman, though," Lavernia says. "I've had enough of Italians."

"It might take me some time to think of something." I'm almost embarrassed as I say it.

"It will come to you," Lavernia says with a flippant wave of her hand.

Starting from nothing is harder than I expect. I have the entire palace and gardens at my fingertips, so it takes a week before I come up with an idea for how to fill the blank canvas in the studio I've set aside for Lavernia. The thought, of course, comes to me in the middle of the night and I almost forget it when I wake in the morning.

When I rap my knuckles violently on Lavernia's door, she opens it with a wicked grin. "I knew you'd think of something."

We roll up a rug from her chambers, and with the help of a pair of servants and a favor sent into the kitchen, we gather all the makings for a picturesque picnic out in the gardens. We place the rug under a willow tree that sits on the bank of one of the reflecting pools that dapple the many acres of Versailles' gardens. Lavernia wears a white silk Robe a la Reine with a wide, green satin sash at her waist. We share the prepared lunch, after which I remove myself from the tableau and set up a low easel so I can paint Lavernia where she rests against the tree in repose after a truly delightful afternoon.

It's a sincere moment. From my place in the grass, I am truly a part of this scene and I can barely mix the paints fast enough in my excitement to put this second in time into oils. "Don't be afraid to move. Eat more if you want," I tell her.

Lavernia takes me at my word and reaches for the stem of grapes we were working our way through. She pops one into her mouth. As I watch her chew, her face softens as she delights in this quiet moment. It's hard to find scenes like these at court when there is a raucous party of some sort happening every night. I can't bring myself to attend many of them, but I know they are part of Lavernia's duty as a courtesan. There's something besides joy in her face. I'm not sure what it is, but it looks like some worry has crept into her mind. In a split second, I know I need to capture it.

With Morel's fundamental techniques at my disposal, it doesn't take long to finish sketching the painting, and I'm too afraid to try and recreate this scene on another day. I start with Lavernia first in the hopes that I can catch the way she looks almost forlornly across the pond.

I finish her face and start in on the rest of the scene. When I look up, a figure catches me off guard and fear claws at my throat.

Lord Gardet strides down the allée of clipped trees in an unyielding path towards our spot beside the pond. Before he can get too close, I remember Destan's advice and school my panicked features into an uninterested mask. I take a steadying breath when Lavernia stiffens too. It seems Lord Gardet makes everyone uneasy.

We both ignore him when he stops behind me to examine my unfinished painting.

"Good day, Ladies," he says with his oily voice. "A picnic seems a splendid idea for such a lovely day."

"It is lovely to find such moments of uninterrupted bliss," Lavernia says, matching his insincere tone.

"Which makes it all the more disagreeable when they come to an end," Lord Gardet returns. "I shall not intrude on you long, I only diverted from my course to check on Mademoiselle Florette. I am certain taking up residence at Versailles has been quite the adjustment."

I turn my gaze from the painting to the man who towers above me. He looks down at me like I'm a mouse and he's the cat.

"Versailles is like no place else," I say diplomatically. "But I am fully adjusted to the way life moves here."

"I see," Lord Gardet says. I'm not certain he likes my answer. "Monsieur Morel was a dear member of our court. It was such a shame to lose him — and a shame he didn't show you the ways of life at Versailles himself... but perhaps that was for the best."

I don't know if Gardet means offense, but something hot flares in my chest and I can't resist the urge to protect Morel. "I'm sure if he meant to keep me away it was for good reason."

"Perhaps," Gardet says thoughtfully. "Though, I only meant that it was better for you to be away because of his frequent outbursts. We feared he had finally broken with sanity."

His words hit me like a fist in the chest. I look to Lavernia for confirmation, but her gaze is turned away.

"That is an interesting composition," Gardet says as he looks down at my canvas. "Do they teach such large brushstrokes in the academy these days?"

I'm still in shock over Morel's strange behavior so it takes me a few seconds to properly form words. "It is just an experiment," I sputter. "Something for Lavernia to do with as she pleases."

Lord Gardet's brows raise. "I see." He pauses. "You should know, and I feel it is my duty as a friend of Monsieur Morel's, to warn you that the king does not like any deviation from the academy's style."

My blood runs cold. "I understand," I say. He's not as bold as to threaten me with removal or an accusation of treason in front of Lavernia, but there's still an air about Versailles that reminds you where the power of France lies. It commands you not to step out of line.

"And as it is my painting, I'll make sure the king never sees it," Lavernia adds with venom dripping from each word.

Lord Gardet replies with a bow. "I am only offering some friendly advice. I hope to see you both at tonight's ball."

Lavernia and I both nod, but neither of us returns the sentiment.

When Lord Gardet has left and is far out of sight, Lavernia shudders. "I can't stand that slippery eel."
"Me neither."

"Just watch out. He is as calculating as he is beautiful."

I return to the painting, but the pleasure of the afternoon has a shadow over it. Lavernia appears uneasy and I feel it too. I set about blocking in the scene around Lavernia and as my thoughts drift back to Lord Gardet, my brush strays to the darker colors on my palette. I turn the sky from an idyllic blue to a deep grey. Something prompts me to add a black carrion bird to the branches over Lavernia's head. It's a dark, ugly splotch above our beautiful picnic, but it feels right. And dangerous.

It cocks its head towards her. Watching. Waiting. Morel would hate it.

The dark watcher taints the beauty of the scene, but I think this might be my best painting yet.