Page 75 of Lost Moon

A clear glass door reaches out to her balcony. The view from here shows the left side of the palace rather than the front courtyard visible from her own bedchamber. The view of the garden from this angle is unclear, though the path below reveals the knights, guards, and gardeners working, gathering their equipment and gear.

“It is beautiful,” Elara smiles, turning to Kaera, who is now sitting on the left side of her bed, waiting for her. “You truly do adore art. The painting on the ceiling makes it evident.”

“Yes, I took the habit from Cael,” she says with reddening cheeks. “I saw how he used to paint this one girl all the time with dark brown hair and green eyes. It was rather confusing, but I focused more on his skills and persistence.” She swallows to stabilize her voice. “Knowing I needed to find what I love, I asked him to teach me, despite him not having enough time. But he did teach me, and after a week, I learned my own style and rhythm.”

Elara’s smile fades, catching only one phrase of what Kaera said. “A girl with dark brown hair and green eyes?”

“Yes, and I still wonder to this day who she is,” Kaera says with a chuckle. “She looks a lot like you, but younger. He was thirteen while I was eight, and curious. I recall asking him about her when I found those specific portraits hidden among his landscapes. He paints many subjects, but he kept those pieces tucked away. Of course, he never replied and brushed the questions off.”

Elara’s fingers reach for her pink and white dress under the coat, which she has decided to wear again, grasping the skirt tightly.

“Though I doubt he still paints, let alone remembers whoever that girl was. Each time, he would paint her on a canvas with a pink floral dress, and the background was entirely green,” Kaera says, shaking her head with a smile. “Cael will never tell me who she is.”

Elara does not answer immediately. Her fingers remain curled around the fabric of her skirt. Her gaze drifts back toward the paintings on the wall, searching the memory of those descriptions as though the answer might be hidden somewhere within the chamber. Brown hair, green eyes, a pink floral dress, and greenery surrounding her. She has worn dresses like that before. She has stood among trees before, wandering places where no court attendant followed her and no one cared enough to ask where she had gone.

Her heart aches as though something sharp has lodged beneath her ribs, leaving Elara unable to draw a full breath. She had worn many pink floral dresses when she was younger, and now the details Kaera has given her seem to follow the shape of memories she has never examined closely. She cannot be certain if they ever truly crossed paths, but the possibility refuses to leave her.

“What else did she have?” Elara finds her voice, asking until her desperate need for answers is satisfied.

Kaera hums, her gaze drifting ahead to the clear doors as she tries to recall the memories. “Perhaps a nice smile. I have only seen Cael paint and draw her three times. It mainly focuses on her face and a greenery background with pink flowers.”

Elara remembers a small forest pathway in Veyrenn, an old, specific location that is now entirely soil, replaced with a newer tailoring shop that has not succeeded in its trade due to King Eric’s demand for the owner to work exclusively for him. Recalling the space, it was a location where she would sneak away to find solace from the judgment of the court, avoiding her mother’s long shopping trips and her father’s harsh duties.

She remembers the trees, the flowers, and the warmth of the afternoon sun upon her skin, but not a boy standing among them. If Cael had seen her there, she should remember him. She searches through the memory again and finds only fragments, each one dissolving before she can hold it firmly enough to understand.

“I see,” is all she manages, though her fingers remain curled around the fabric of her skirt.

Kaera does not press her. Instead, she brings a small black wooden board, smooth and thick, onto her lap. It serves as a portable table, holding multiple worn, crumpled papers and quills with different colored inks. The blue ink has the least amount left compared to the rest, and Elara assumes it must be her favorite color.

Taking a few steps forward to sit beside Kaera on the right side of the bed, she looks over the previous drawings where the ink is dry. Her hands lift one to study it. It is a drawing of a rose in the top corner, sharp in its details with deliberate, messy lines.

Elara swallows and quickly places it back onto the wooden board. “You are very skilled,” she says with a smile. Turning her head to continue studying the details of the bedchamber, she finds a stack of white canvases placed over each other on a small table in the far corner. “Do you paint usually? I would love to see them.”

Kaera inclines her head enthusiastically, rushing toward the table of canvases to carry all fifteen of them over, laying them in front of Elara. She takes the one on top, noting the precise details along the edges. It is a man, she realizes, with pale skin and golden hair. Tilting her head, she notes the simple details resemble the angel reaching for Kaera on the ceiling painting. She catches Kaera’s smile fading and pauses.

Resuming her inspection of the paintings, Elara only finds more of the same subject. A pale man with golden hair, wearing a pointed hat with golden bells, the traditional hat of a jester, dyed in white and light blue. None of his facial features are painted, and Elara assumes it is because Kaera is having trouble capturing them or the work remains unfinished.

“You also paint one person.”

Kaera inclines her head. “It is a man I met once while on duty with father and Cael. His wrists were tied with a light blue ribbon, looking young, almost like me, and he was juggling. People laughed, but I found him majestic. I asked father to search for him or have him come again, only to realize he is not from this kingdom.”

“That is sad,” Elara’s eyebrows furrow, her thumb caressing the dry paint of this hidden figure. “Was he wearing such a hat?”

“Yes, he was a young boy in a light blue and white jester costume,” Kaera admits, sitting back down against the mattress. “The treatment he endured was cruel. He performed in the middle of Raeverbend while Cael and I were on duty to practice our titles. I felt deep remorse.”

Shaking her head, Elara brings her hand over Kaera’s shoulder comfortingly. “It is not your fault. Perhaps he is happy now.”

“I hope,” Kaera’s fingers tighten around one of the canvases.

Elara looks down at the unfinished face again. The absence of its features makes the painting strangely intimate. Kaera remembers his clothes, his hands, the ribbon around his wrists, and the way he had been made to perform, but the face remains untouched.

“You never finished him.”

Kaera’s fingers loosen around the canvas. “I could never decide what his face looked like.”

“Because you do not remember?” Elara tilts her head.

“Because I remember how he looked at everyone else,” Kaera replies, her gaze lowering to the painted hands. “I never saw enough of him to know what he looked like when no one was watching.”