The value of art was closely tied to how the connoisseurs viewed the piece more so than the technical talent behind it or other such considerations. In the days of Isabella’s father, Edgar the Great had proven a patron of artists that made pieces enshrining the crown and the pantheon for the sole purpose of furthering his legitimacy and public image. He had been a master of building a reputation for himself. His preferences naturally disseminated to all those that served underneath him, as each wished to curry his favor.

  But that era had passed.

  Isabella followed Randolph’s lead in helping her find the artists that she’d pointed out to him. It had been easy to remember their names because the success of their art had been inextricably tied to her escape from Duke Albert. She was grateful that they’d done what they had before. In this life, she hoped to make success come to them a little sooner.

  “I’m going to be choosing artwork for an event that’s occurring soon,” Isabella told the artist that she sat across.

  Edward of Lonlily, a disheveled looking painter, regarded her evenly as they sat in his cramped workshop. “I have a collection of some pieces, but they’re largely owned by Duke Albert,” he answered. “You’d have to deal with him, unfortunately.”

  “I’m not looking for something in a typical style,” Isabella continued. “Do you have any personal paintings you prize?”

  “Personal paintings, my lady?” Edward repeated.

  “Things that you believe are excellent, but that haven’t been received well by Duke Albert or the managers of his auction house,” Isabella elaborated.

  “I… do have some pieces, but…” Edward crossed his arms defensively. “They’re somewhat… unorthodox.”

  Isabella smiled. “I’d like to see them.”

  Edward went into the back, leaving Randolph and Isabella alone in this room.

  “This stuff seems bloody hollow, soulless,” Randolph said, looking at some of the half-finished pieces. “The words ‘servile imitator’ come to mind. He’s just copying what others have done.”

  Isabella looked back at her guard. “That’s because he did. For these pieces, at least.”

  “Why are we here, then?”

  Isabella explained patiently, “Because Edward is terrible at painting things that don’t speak to his style.”

  “Ah, yes… eternal artistic adolescence,” Randolph said. “If my mum had listened to that piss poor excuse, I’d still be living at home waiting for my discovery instead of earning a living.”

  Edward returned with a painting in tow, and Randolph went quiet. Isabella waited patiently as he held it in front of her, then removed the cloth covering it.

  In this workshop of somber, muted tones—grays, blacks, whites, flecked by the occasional dull gold or silver—the painting that Edward held seemed like a gleaming gemstone. The forest was a vivid green, the dress the woman wore was a bright pink, and the flowers in bloom all around shone with rich, bright colors. The noblewoman had thrown off her dainty heels and dipped her feet into a hot spring, lounging against a fluffy dog.

  It was a simple, pleasurable piece, depicting none of the grandeur of the gods or the crown. It had such intense focus and focus to detail that the unfinished pieces around seemed to have come from a different artist. Edward certainly couldn’t feign interest… but when he had interest already, few artists were better.

  “This is probably ill-suited for an event hosted by a lady such as yourself, I imagine,” Edward said self-deprecatingly. “They refused to display it at the auction house. Deemed it far too frivolous and unserious.”

  Isabella smiled brightly. “I think it’s perfect.”

  In her past life, a great many had agreed on the value of this painting, called The Serene Reverie. So many agreed, in fact, that it sold at an auction house that wasn’t Albert’s for a price in the range of two thousand gold. While not yet comparable to the most expensive pieces sold in Albert’s auction house, it marked the transition between the two clashing art styles.

  “Let’s work out an arrangement,” Isabella said decisively.

  ***

  By the end of the day, Isabella had managed introductions with several people that had become celebrated painters in her prior life, but languished in obscurity presently. Many of their most famous pieces had long ago been painted and were simply collecting dust in their personal workshop. All that she needed to focus on was setting the stage for them to shine.

  Isabella might’ve purchased the paintings for cheap outright, but instead she inquired if the artists would be amenable to displaying their pieces in an upcoming event. Isabella would only receive a ten-percentage take of the sale if indeed such a sale happened. It was much fairer for the artists, and moreover, would help encourage people to shift away from Albert’s auction houses.

  Now, however… she sat across from Duke Valerio, who enjoyed a sponge cake topped with some strange brown syrupy liquid that she’d never seen before. She enjoyed the pear fruit tart that he’d told her about. She ate slowly. Frankly, she didn’t want to return to the royal palace. Every second that she was away from it was one that was enjoyable.

  “Duke Albert came to me last night,” Valerio said suddenly.

  Isabella tensed, looking up at him without a word.

  “He offered quite a grand assortment of things to end the engagement,” Valerio continued, cutting a slice off of his cake.

  Isabella realized why he’d invited her to this place. He wanted to extract maximum value, so he was giving her a chance to put what she could on the table. His true colors reveal themselves, she thought.

  “I told him no, and then threatened to kill him.” Valerio popped the cake in his mouth.

  Isabella blinked, processing what he’d said. Her face flushed, feeling a little foolish for her knee-jerk suspicion. The tension drained away, but some anger remained.

  She squinted at him. “What do you want from me?”

  “A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss,” Valerio answered simply once he’d finished chewing.

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  “Of course I’m thankful,” she said heavily, looking down at her tart. “But please don’t treat that matter lightly. I don’t like being jerked down and up like that.

  Valerio nodded. “You’re right. I apologize.”

  “No, I…” Isabella trailed off. “You don’t need to apologize. I don’t know how else you could’ve said it. I simply… can’t get comfortable like this.”

  “Like what?” Valerio asked.

  “With you standing strong for me, while you don’t ask anything of me in return,” Isabella said bluntly and forcefully. “I’d prefer to repay you now, rather than have the rug pulled out from beneath me later.”

  “I’ve done what I have because I wanted to help you,” Valerio outlined clearly, and Isabella couldn’t meet his gaze after. “There doesn’t need to be a transaction behind everything, or an expectation of reciprocation for every gesture. Sometimes a gift is a gift, and a helping hand is nothing more than what it seems.”

  Isabella knew that he was right, but felt great resistance when she tried to accept it.

  “I thought I had someone like that,” she eventually said, staring at the table. “I would tell her everything, and she would listen. I would ask for her help, and she would give it. I thought I could count on her, always. And she tried to kill me,” Isabella said, her voice faltering as she said it.

  She’d never talked about Bernadetta before—rather, she’d been avoiding it like the plague. She hadn’t even seen her, or thought about her. That was by design. Frankly, she didn’t know how to deal with it.

  Valerio pushed aside his cake and listened to her closely. “Go on,” he encouraged.

  “You’ve been kind. More than kind. But I can’t afford to think something of it,” Isabella insisted. “I can’t…”

  “You think you can’t trust your own judgment,” Valerio filled in, and Isabella looked up at him in surprise for reading her thoughts. “You blame yourself for not seeing it. You think that it’s your own ineptitude, rather than their treachery.” He nodded. “I know the feeling.”

  “You do?” she asked him quietly.

  “I’ve been betrayed like that more than once,” he admitted. “I’ll tell you about the one that’s… easier to talk about.” He pointed at her. “I allied with your father, as you remember, at the height of my power as a pirate. He was…” Valerio chose his words carefully. “…a terrible force of nature.”

  “And he betrayed you,” Isabella said from memory.

  “Not him,” Valerio shook his head. “I knew that he didn’t care about me, didn’t care about my fate. But I didn’t think he’d be able to get at the people that served underneath me. I underestimated just how fearsome he could be, and like many others, your father chewed me up and spat me out.”

  Isabella had no particular affection for her father. She’d barely known him. She knew more about him from the words of others, so she listened closely.

  “We were up against the warships of the Noors, in the narrow sea to the north of here,” Valerio continued. “Their longships had been quite effective at coastal raids. They were slavers, and I didn’t have any problem fighting them. There was a great deal of money in it for me, and the Noors themselves had some loot that my men and I were interested in.”

  Valerio paused, his eyes going distant.

  “My first mate… during the battle, he set fire to my whole fleet at Edgar’s instruction. He used oil and the help of a cabal of mages. We became flaming balls of misery that fell upon the Noors, wiping them out to the last. A fleet that I had built up over years burnt into nothing overnight. Nearly died myself, but I swam nine miles to the coast, my leg burnt up badly.” He flashed a bitter smile at her. “Still have the scar.”

  “Nine miles?” Isabella repeated. “I can’t imagine. And… what happened to the…?”

  “My first mate?” Valerio guessed. “He was going to be named Duke of the Isles. Suffice to say I wasn’t satisfied with that arrangement, and elected to take matters into my own hands.” He picked up the knife he’d been using to cut the cake, and twirled it. “And by ‘matters,’ I mean I took his neck into my own hands.”

  Isabella thought of Bernadetta, then asked genuinely, “Did that make you feel better?”

  “For three minutes, I felt like the king of kings.” Valerio put the knife down. “Then it was like it’d never happened. You never forget a betrayal like that. It’s always there, nagging you. He was like a brother to me. I would’ve taken a sword to the stomach for him, and he actually had taken one for me.”

  Isabella looked down at her pastry, much of her appetite gone.

  “I won’t ask for your story. But this person, whoever she is… they already took away a great deal from you. My advice, if you want it, would be to make sure they don’t deprive you of anything else. Your own happiness, friends, connections… whatever.” He moved his plate back in front of him, prepared to continue eating. “Learn to trust in yourself first—your judgment. Once you’re ready… consider trusting others. That’s what worked for me, anyway.”

  Isabella considered his words. They were insightful, measured. What sort of life had he led, to be so at ease both pirating on the open seas, or moving throughout the high society of Dovhain? He had apparently explored as a navigator, too.

  Isabella looked at him. “You’re bizarre.”

  Valerio laughed, but didn’t bother responding.

  “What is that cake?” she finally asked.

  Valerio looked at it, then at her. “Chocolate. It’s from overseas.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Isabella said.

  “It’s not particularly popular, partially because it’s in very limited supply. But… I think it could be one day,” he said, then looked at her thoughtfully. “Would you like some?”

  Isabella said nothing for a while, then nodded. At that, Valerio smiled and gracefully cut off a slice, placing it on her plate. Isabella took a small bite. It had a rich, smooth, and slightly sweet flavor with a balance of bitterness and creaminess. It was beyond good, and she looked at the duke with somewhat wide eyes.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Valerio asked.

  Isabella didn’t answer him, instead turning back to her own tart. She couldn’t say that she was quite at ease with him yet, but… she was certainly glad that she’d come here.

  ***

  “It’s one thing to enjoy an outing with my daughter. For us to speak directly…” Archduke Felix said somewhat hesitantly as they sat in a parlor of the royal palace.

  “I’ve been thinking about how we can approach His Highness in a highly favorable way, and I wanted to discuss that matter with you,” Isabella said.

  “Alright.” Felix held his hands out. “Go on.”

  “I believe that it’s time for Lady Abigail’s debutante ball,” Isabella said confidently. “I’m quite certain that I can guarantee the king’s attendance.”

  “Is that right?” Felix said with a raised brow. “Do tell.”

  “I know that you have no love with Duke Albert,” Isabella continued. “As I recall, he’s interfered with your efforts multiple times.”

  “He’s poached very valuable artists from me, yes,” the archduke agreed. “Why is his name coming up?”

  “Albert buys favor with the king from exhibits of artistry,” Isabella continued. “Edgar very much enjoys the finer arts. Abigail may struggle on some fronts, but her knowledge of art is far more substantial than most noble ladies. For that reason, I’d like to take a two-pronged approach.” She held her hands out like a scale. “We’ll have both an exhibit of fine art and Abigail’s debutante ball in one. The king will attend… without doubt.”

  The archduke stood up and walked around the parlor. “That’s… unconventional. And highly expensive. Duke Albert’s service fees…”

  “On the contrary,” Isabella said. “If you leave it to me, Your Grace, the entire hall can be filled with eye-catching masterpieces at no charge to you.”

  “That’d be no different than declaring war on Duke Albert’s dominance over the arts,” the archduke pointed out.

  “Duke Albert is a large man,” Isabella said. “Push him out of the way, and there’s plenty of room to stand beside the king. There are few ways to move a man like that without a war.”

  The archduke gave a slow, malevolent smile. “Tell me more.”