She wondered if she had grown taller.
When she walked, her limbs stretched longer with each stride. She was stronger and more agile, riding the stallions with more boldness than ever.
She breathed deeply, the smoky air tingling her nose and throat.
The trees seemed on fire when breezes swayed the branches and ruffled the leaves.
She relished the layers of herbs and spices in food that now seemed to have more taste.
When she listened to music, the notes vibrated through her, trilling along sinew and bone.
Everything around the girl pulsed with life and she couldn’t get enough.
She fell out of the habit of breakfast because of her long nights in the Caverns, sleeping until lunch.
The girl found she preferred to start her day without her father. She always went numb in his presence and his silence was oppressive.
Yet they always came together for dinner.
The table was covered with white linen, laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters, the parlor illuminated by triads of candles along the buffet.
Dressed in finery, the Patron and his daughter met at opposite ends of the long table.
The girl curtseyed with a long sweep of silken skirts and her father bowed, the abyss between them hidden by the trappings of formal dining.
They took their seats the same moment a troupe of musicians struck the first notes.
Every night was a different melody as the violinists, flutists, mandolin players, and minstrels of the village made rounds at the manor, filling the air with music and song.
One day, the girl was startled to see her father standing at his chair waiting for her when she came into the dining parlor for lunch.
Then she remembered he always worked in his study as the season drew to a close.
She lifted her skirts and curtseyed, frowning at the empty place at her end of the table.
A servant pulled a chair to the right of the Patron and he waved his hand to indicate where she should take her seat.
But she hesitated before accepting, suddenly alarmed.
Did he suspect?
The Patron gave no indication he knew any of her secrets. He was quiet as always while they ate, yet he peered at her with curiosity in his light brown eyes.
His scrutiny made the girl uneasy.
She avoided glancing at him while they ate, only facing him after her plate and bowl were empty.
The girl held her breath while her father looked at her for what seemed an eternity.
Then he finally nodded and excused her from the table.
She almost sighed with relief when she curtseyed and took leave, but she restrained herself in time.
****
Something wasn’t right.
The Patron couldn’t find a reason for the disturbance niggling in the back of his mind, but concentration had become impossible.
His restlessness often sent him pacing around the house until one day he settled at the portico on the backside of the house.
This was his daughter’s favorite vantage point on those days she was inclined to paint, and he could understand why.
The panorama of the rolling fields and the forest to the east was lovely, especially with the foliage rich in the warm light of the sun falling west, the deep blue sky slowly giving way to evening.
The Patron grew calm as he listened to the river twining through the distant trees and breathed in the smoky sweet of autumn. It was a pity his daughter wasn’t here to paint this scene.
Her easel stood ready for her with a fresh canvas, the palette and brushes resting on the shelf, her finished work stacked on a small table.
He glanced from the easel to the settee nestled between its legs.
The watercolors she’d done that summer were face-down, secured from the breezes with a stone.
The more the Patron thought about it, the more peculiar he found it that his daughter ever started painting again. Art had never been a pastime she cared for and she had complained about the subject more than once.
Her duenna had been adamant she learn, for highborn young ladies were expected to be accomplished in all the arts. But once her instructor left, the girl never practiced again.
What muse could have changed her mind?
The disturbance niggled away in the back of his mind, enough to disrupt the soothing effect of the eastern fields and the forest beyond.
The Patron reached for the rock and hesitated, hating himself for intruding on his daughter’s privacy.
But something was wrong and his daughter couldn’t object too much if she left her watercolors where anybody could see them.
After another moment’s pause, he set the rock aside and turned over the top canvas.
His hand started to shake when he saw the image painted there.
His daughter’s duenna had been the most respected matron in her profession, so much that he had had to wait several months before he could hire her.
He flipped through the pile of watercolors and saw her reputation had been well deserved.
His daughter had hated this subject, but her learning was so thorough she could pick up a brush several years later and do a fine job of bringing the Horse Trainer back to life.
Every painting was of him.
He looked through them all.
There was no mistaking the cause behind the smoldering eyes and the collapsed features.
The Patron knew the look of a lover when he saw one.
