Lyla Borelia slipped through the doorway, hoisting her skirts up to keep them from getting caught on anything. She spun around, Giordi following her and he did the same, peering through the opening back into the feasting room.

  “Is he following me?” She asked breathlessly over his shoulder.

  “I don’t think he can work out where you went…” Giordi chuckled, able to see the man in question looking around with a bemused expression on his ruddy complexion.

  “That is because he was distracted by the new platter of desserts that just came out.” Lyla muttered.

  “Give the young man some credit…it takes a lot of food to fill that girth.” Giordi tapped his teeth, the young man turning on the spot, spying the door. “He’s looking…he’s looking…he’s coming this way!”

  “What?”

  “Run!” They turned and darted down the corridor, around a bend and through a set of doors, turning and closing them, holding their breath and waiting to hear if they had been followed.

  “Is he gone?” Lyla whispered.

  “Somehow I doubt he would be willing to part from the dessert table for as long as it would take to find you.” Giordi stood up and exhaled.

  “Typical, a man shows interest and yet I am trumped by dessert.”

  “Ah yes, but it was baked sweet buns filled with custard.” Giordi chortled. “Besides, who was it that had to be shooed away from the melted chocolate?”

  “That was you!” Lyla laughed.

  “Not going by the smear of chocolate on your face.”

  Lyla’s complexion flamed red and her hands went up to her cheeks. “Oh no…is it bad?”

  “Well…a flirtatious suitor might pretend he was licking it away and accidentally get your lips instead.” Giordi realised he might have taken his joviality a little too far going by the look of mortification on Lyla’s face. She seemed to possess a light hearted sense of humour which Giordi had enjoyed immensely but should have reminded himself that there was a large difference between making merry with his male friends and making merry with a lady. “Here,” he tried to repair the damage he had done by taking a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her, “this side.” He tapped his face then gestured to her.

  Lyla attempted to dab the small streak of chocolate away but only succeeded in smudging it.

  “Gone?” Giordi pulled a face and Lyla closed her eyes and hung her head. “Who am I fooling…”

  “Just…allow me?” He took it from her hand and gently wiped her cheek clear. “There…wow…” He breathed. “You have the most amazing blue eyes.”

  Lyla gave a small laugh, possibly a huff of protestation and stepped back from him. “They are just eyes.”

  “Well…then they are just about the loveliest eyes I have ever seen.”

  Lyla looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a droll look on her face that was vaguely familiar. “Is that really your best line?”

  Giordi sighed and shook his head. “No…I’ve given up on lines. I only end up tangling my legs in them.” Lyla smiled and handed the handkerchief back to him. “Oh, no…keep it.”

  “I thought ladies were supposed to give men handkerchiefs as tokens of their affection.” Lyla remarked, moving away. Giordi followed with his hands in his pockets.

  “Only when we’re going into battle.” They walked down the corridor they had entered which was lit with sporadic torches in case guests for the feast became lost in what seemed to be an unused part of the fort. Giordi glanced sideways at Lyla, her black ringlets sitting part way down her neck but allowing some of the elegant length of it to be exposed, the fabric of her neckline resting against the warm hue of her skin. Giordi realised he was staring and coughed, jolting himself out of it. “Were you here for the, almost disastrous, battle in the Arena?”

  “I was.”

  “Huh…I didn’t see you there.”

  Lyla gave a small shrug. “Perhaps that is because you were valiantly leaping into the Arena to protect Judd LaMogre.”

  “Valiant…I like it.” Giordi sighed. “Unfortunately, I am almost anything other than valiant.”

  “Noble?”

  “I said ‘almost’ anything.”

  “Do you have any idea where we are going?”

  “We’re about to rejoin the main corridor.” Giordi said with more confidence than he felt and was relieved when his navigation instincts had not led him astray as they entered the antechamber where the doors into the feasting hall were open wide, golden light spilling onto the grey stone. “Shall we?” He went to escort Lyla in when he noticed she had her arms about herself, her expression wary. “Miss Borelia?”

  “Do I have to?” She asked softly.

  “Uh…well, no, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Giordi couldn’t fathom the small huff of derision she made as though his words were amusing and foolish, “but if you are worried about that young man’s advances, I promise to remain by your side.”

  “It is not him,” Lyla paused, “it is not just him,” she sighed, “the whole thing…”

  “I know,” Giordi sighed, “after the Arena today…it just feels wrong.”

  Lyla looked at her hands then tucked them behind her back at his perusal. “Maybe…maybe I should just leave…”

  “What about your cloak?”

  “Oh…”

  “I’ll get it.” Giordi went to the door and inquired with the servant there who hastened to fetch it. He kept looking back at Lyla who remained in the shadows, half expecting her to disappear. When the servant returned, Giordi took it and held it out to Lyla. “May I?”

  She was tall but only just as tall as him. Giordi swung the cloak around her shoulders and she pulled it firmly about herself. “Thank you. It is not mine and I would hate to lose it.” She licked her lips. “So…”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “So…” Giordi cleared his throat. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Borelia.”

  “Likewise, Giordi Gavoli.” She curtseyed with what he was interpreting as a mild reluctance before she turned to leave.

  “They have a gallery!” Lyla stopped and looked back at him. Giordi pointed like a fool. “With paintings and things…if you wanted to take a look?”

  Lyla’s face creased into a shy smile. “I would like that.”

  Verne was kicking herself. Why oh why had she agreed to go with Giordi to the gallery? She had an out, a way of escaping that infernal feast and the posturing guests and the mindless conversation, not to mention prying herself out of the blue gown yet instead, she was following him through the fort, heading in the direction of the gallery after a waylaid servant was able to give them directions.

  Verne glanced at Giordi who seemed a little disgruntled. “Are you unhappy that I insisted we ask for directions?”

  “I knew where we were going.” He responded grumpily then brightened. “And here we are!” Verne had to try not to laugh as he muttered something about ‘turn right at the statue of the angelic being’ and opened the doors for her. Verne was expecting a spiderwebbed chamber filled with rusting armour and dusty paintings but it seemed Lady Jocasa had anticipated some of her guests might be of the cultural variety and cleaned it up as best as a frantic dust and sweep could manage.

  There were large statues of scantily clad women reaching overhead, their fingertips touching forming the five archways that broke the gallery into segments. From their fingertips hung chandeliers which were unfortunately unlit however the wall torches were thankfully bright and blazing and able to chase away some of the eternal chilliness of the stone. Down the centre of the gallery were suits of armour, ranging from archaic to as modern as a hundred years before. Between them were stone pews so that visitors could sit and peruse the paintings hanging from the walls in each of the five segments. The paintings and the golden light from the torches were the only colour in the room. Everything else was grey, black or white.

  “Cold.” Verne remarked.

  “The cloak isn’t keeping you warm?”

  Verne shook her head, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of her neck being battered with her ringlets. “No, I mean the atmosphere in here is cold.”

  “I would have to agree with you there.” Giordi gasped. “Look, an original Ovali!” He admired the painting with a shake of his head though Verne struggled to see what was so fascinating about the smeared canvas. “He was the first to use paint to imply shapes, rather than outline them like drawings.”

  “I think it could use a little outline.” Verne admitted, tilting her head, trying to work out what it was that the artist had attempted to depict.

  “Perhaps a little.” Giordi sighed. “Still…only a half dozen of his pieces have survived over the years and I have the pleasure of seeing one in person…”

  Verne smiled at his enthusiasm and moved on, spying a painting with a great deal more colour in it. It was of a sunset, golds, pinks and purples all streaked across the sky, a few sketchy trees in the foreground but for the rest, just ample sky. Verne folded her arms beneath the cloak, recalling a time when she had stopped and stared at a sunset.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Giordi came up alongside her.

  “Beautiful…”

  “You don’t think so?”

  Verne shrugged which was mostly hidden by the fur cloak. “I just wonder how many sunsets the artist missed out on because he was so busy trying to capture one.” She turned and looked at the painting directly opposite the sunset.

  “That’s exactly what I tried to explain to Verne.”

  Verne stiffened. “Verne? Who is Verne?” She asked, sure Giordi was about to figure her ruse out.

  “Verne Sachon, the archer who joined Judd’s party before I did. Solemn and lacking in appreciation for the beauty of the world.”

  Verne swallowed, positive that Giordi knew who she was and was making fun. “Is that really fair?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because Verne wouldn’t look at a sky without seeing a bird in it to shoot down to kill for supper. And I won’t criticise him for it. I mean, let’s face it, that’s a much more practical skill than art appreciation.” Giordi ran his hand through his golden curls, dislodging them into charming disarray. “I am sure he thinks I am little more than a few smears on a canvas, like that Ovali back there, than a painting worth hanging.” Giordi sighed. “I mean…that was a metaphor for…”

  “I get it.” Verne assured him then moved on. “You might be surprised. Maybe this Verne understood more than you give him credit for.”

  “Well…he’s taught me much more than I’ve ever taught him so if I’ve left him with something of value…” Giordi whistled. “Look at that.”

  Verne rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “Why am I not surprised?”

  The painting was of a naked woman reclined upon a bed of leaves and petals, several of them doing a poor attempt at concealing her curvaceous qualities, her long fair hair in dramatic locks cascading to the ground. Around her were eight men, each fawning over her with gifts in their hands, slack jawed and wide eyed.

  “It’s quite striking.”

  Verne sighed, thinking that striking was the right word for it as she felt like Giordi had just smacked her over the back of the head with reality. “You do not think it is a little…obscene?”

  “I think it makes a statement.” Verne rolled her eyes and turned away. “I mean, it is called ‘The folly of man’.”

  Verne turned back. “It is?”

  “No.” She glared at him and Giordi chuckled. “You seem irritated.”

  “Well…I am.” Verne retorted. “Look at them, all…drooling over her.”

  “Is there anything wrong with appreciating a beautiful woman?”

  “That’s appreciating?” Verne could hear her voice changing and had to rein in her emotion, seeing Giordi’s eyebrows raise as though hearing something familiar.

  “Are you,” Verne cringed, waiting for the question she would not be able to lie to, “jealous?”

  “J…jealous?” Giordi nodded. “Of…a painting? Or of the way you are the ninth fool?” She spun on her heel and began to stalk out of the galley.

  “Miss Borelia…she is nothing like you!”

  Verne turned back to him. “You said she was beautiful!”

  “And?” Verne gaped at him, dumbfounded. Giordi put his hands up. “Wait, wait…I can explain.” Verne folded her arms, her mouth turned down and her heart, hard. Giordi breathed in and out and she waited for his polished excuse for his insult. “There are many types of women in the world and every single one of them is different to the others…just because you are told you are nothing like another woman, does not mean you are less than she.”

  “But you just said…”

  “Look at her, Lyla,” Giordi urged and coaxed Verne back to standing in front of the painting, “just…look.”

  “I am.” She grouched through barred teeth, unable to see anything other than the painted woman’s voluptuous curves and how she felt like a washboard in comparison.

  “Look at the way she is smiling at the affections of all these men…yes she is beautiful in appearance but the way she is welcoming all these men to her, their gifts and adoration…maybe she doesn’t know it. Maybe, for all her curves, hills and valleys…”

  “Move along…”

  “Right, maybe, in spite of all these things and a lovely face and hair…maybe she needs all these men to make her feel better about herself.” Verne blinked and turned to Giordi who gazed at the painting, not with the bug-eyed lust in his eyes that she expected but rather, with sympathy. “When I look at this painting…I see a woman who needs to be defined by a man…and not just one man but many. And she would forever be worried about not living up to their expectations, becoming obsessed with their opinions rather than finding peace in her own beauty, even one that changes with the progression of time.”

  Verne’s heart was twisting into a tight spiral and her throat was closing over. “I…had not thought of it like that.” She said softly. “I suppose…I saw it through my own insecurities.”

  “Well, if you are worried that she is considered beautiful and you are not,” Giordi turned to Verne, “then I am afraid, Lyla Borelia, you are astonishingly mistaken.”

  Verne licked her lips and looked down. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before.” She whispered. “Giordi…I…”

  Her words stopped abruptly when they heard music. An orchestral melody filtered into the galley.

  “Great acoustics in here.” Giordi chuckled then bowed. “Would you care to take a turn about, Miss Borelia?”

  “I am not much of a dancer.”

  “There is no one here to mock you and I have been prewarned.” Giordi held his hands out. “Shall we?”

  Verne uncurled her fingers tentatively, more frightened that Giordi would comment on her ‘masculine’ grip than of her lack of dancing experience. But Giordi didn’t pay her hand any heed that rested over the top of his own, tucking his right hand into the small of his back. Verne used her left hand to take up some of her excess skirt and, with the slightest fumble at the start, they began to dance. Step after step, turn after turn, around and around they went, moving steadily with the music with only the unmoving eyes in the painted faces of the portraits around them looking on.