Summer, 1505
Valley of Maury, France
Mira
Lord and Lady de Berral sat in gilt-covered armchairs, staring in Mira’s direction. They were dressed in silk, he in a short yellow doublet and matching hose, she in a dress of brilliant blue, its white sleeves adorned with black ribbons. Her hands were laden with rings; her throat ornamented with pearls as big as chickpeas.
The windows were open to let in the morning breeze, which was scant and warm. A servant hovered nearby, blotting the couples’ faces wherever beads of sweat formed.
Mira wiped her hands on a rag and assessed the wooden panel before her. The artist who had begun this work was highly skilled. The brushstrokes were reminiscent of Sebastian de Scolna’s.
She struggled to match the blue of the lady’s dress. She suspected lapis lazuli was needed, but none was in the supplies she had been given. There was no simple solution. She would either have to paint the entire dress again with the inferior blue she had managed to mix, or hunt down a different type of pigment.
“My lord, my lady...?” Mira ventured.
The lord’s eyes settled on her. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“One of the colors your artist achieved is not possible with the pigments at my disposal. Perhaps she has materials tucked away that I might use.”
He let out a barely perceptible sigh.
“Madame Van der Zee is very ill. But we shall send a servant to inquire.”
“I would not dare to hope if I were you,” his wife said through thin, cherry-colored lips. “The poor woman is rumored to be near death.”
“And yet she lives on,” her husband said in mock surprise. “She eats, she breathes. If death comes for her, it has been delayed.”
The lady looked at Mira. “Do not fret on your child’s account. Our own physician assures us the woman’s illness cannot pass to others. She simply wastes away from the inside. She has always been frail, her husband told me. Those cold Northern winters, I suppose. Flanders.”
“You trained in Flanders, did you not?” her husband asked Mira.
“No, my lord. My teacher was from Flanders, but I trained in an abbey in Béarn.”
“Interesting,” he mused. “How did you procure your first commissions?”
“I traveled to a nearby market town called Nay.”
“You’ve a patron there, then?”
“Yes.”
“What is his name?”
“Carlo Sacazar.”
“Ah. And do you intend to return to Béarn one day?”
“I do, my lord. It is our hope to settle in the west, closer to family.”
“How unfortunate,” said Lady de Berral, frowning at the open windows. “We have lost our breeze.” She narrowed her eyes at Mira. “Can you not continue? It is simply too tedious, sitting here of a morning.”
“Of course.” Mira picked up her brush again.
The servant led Mira across the great central courtyard of the manor house, through a back wing, and out again to a field of lavender. On the edge of the field was a modest house of sand-colored stone, its shutters painted blue. They approached it through a small garden planted with vegetables and edged with rose bushes.
“Ever since she got sick, they’ve lived here,” the servant said. “The husband, he plays in the evenings with the other musicians. That’s why they’ve allowed them to stay, I suppose.” She rapped on the door. “Poor thing—”
“Thank you,” Mira said sharply to the woman, whose hopeful expression turned sour. “You can go back now.”
The servant turned away reluctantly.
Gossips, Mira thought. Always eager for a story.
The door creaked open. A man of middle age stood in the doorway, wisps of pale thinning hair crowning his bony skull, his face twisted in an expression of either worry or annoyance.
“You’re the new artist?” He gestured at her to come inside.
“Yes, Mira...Mira de Luz,” she said, stumbling over her name. Why did the word Oto suddenly press against her tongue, threatening to slip out once again?
“Today is better than most for my wife. You’re fortunate.”
He led her into a bright room that faced the lavender field. A gaunt woman lay on a bed near the window, which was flung open to allow the sunshine inside.
“Cornelia, your visitor is here.”
He busied himself for a moment tucking cushions behind his wife’s back to prop her up. She turned her head slightly and eyed Mira.
“Ah. Sit, please.”
Cornelia’s husband left the room as Mira sank into the chair next to the bed.
“Thank you for receiving me,” Mira said. “You are the first woman painter I have had the honor to meet.”
“There are a few of us about.” Cornelia’s lips twitched in a faint approximation of a smile. “Mostly lurking in the shadows, I’m afraid.”
Mira realized the artist’s voice had the same inflections as Sebastian’s, which made sense because they were both Flemish.
“The shadows?”
“We learn at the knee of an artist father, or by the grace of a brother or husband. We train in their shadows.”
“Ah. I learned from Sebastian de Scolna.”
“That is what I was told. A fine master. A good man, too.”
Mira nodded. “I miss him.”
“You nursed him back to health, I heard.”
“I was trained as a nurse in a convent along the pilgrim’s way, and he came to us nearly dead. He was attacked by a bear—that is what we believed, anyway. I did what I could, but God saved him in the end.”
Cornelia shifted her position and a low moan escaped her.
“Do you have anything for the pain?” Mira asked.
“Yes, the odd tincture. Mysterious syrups and pastes. Nothing helps much.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
Cornelia’s eyes were sunken into her skull, the skin around them dark and puffy. Her forehead was creased with lines and her lips were nearly as pale as her skin. A faint aroma of disease emanated from her. Mira recognized the scent from her days in the abbey’s infirmary.
“The pain began in my stomach,” Cornelia said weakly. “And there it remains. But it journeys up and down each of my limbs and settles in my head most nights.”
“How long have you felt it?”
“It began soon after we moved here from Flanders.”
Without thinking, Mira reached forward and laid a hand on Cornelia’s brow. The skin was cool to touch.
“No fever, anyway. That is good.”
“Once a nurse, always a nurse, is that it?”
“I suppose.” Mira was embarrassed to have been so forward.
“Before I lose strength to speak, tell me what you wished to ask.”
“The blue of Lady de Berral’s dress. I cannot replicate it with the pigments in your palette. What am I missing?”
“Ah yes. Ground lapis. I have more in that drawer.” Cornelia pointed at a small walnut desk that had two deep drawers on either end.
Mira stood. “May I?”
“Please.”
Mira opened the drawer and found a black velvet bag cinched with a silken cord. She loosened the cord and drew out a Venetian glass jar filled with brilliant blue powder.
Cornelia nodded. “There should be more than enough for the dress.”
“I am grateful.” Mira put the jar back in the bag. “You are a fine artist. I hope I can do justice to your work.”
“If you were trained by Sebastian de Scolna, I imagine you are a finer artist than I.”
“Do you sign your work? I could do it for you, if you show me your mark.”
“I signed the back of the panels at my lord’s command. That is always the way. I am no celebrated painter, and no man. You should sign them on the back as well, next to my name.”
“Me? No, I am only finishing what you began.”
Cornelia smiled. “What is a half-finished painting worth? Nothing. You must sign it. I insist. Two women conscripted to paint the same portrait. A rarer occurrence is hard to imagine. Or try the trick I do sometimes. Paint yourself into the portrait.”
“How do you manage that?”
“In a reflection. A vase, a silver plate, a window. It is not so difficult. The key is to make it well hidden, impossible to see unless you know exactly where to look.”
Mira smiled. “I have done the same in prayer books I illuminated.”
“Ah?”
She nodded. “I conceal my name in a thicket of pen strokes, or I use my face in an illustration. Only I know that my mark and my image is there. But there is always the chance that one day, someone else will find them.”
“Then you know exactly how I feel.”
“Does anyone ever discover what you have done?”
“Of course. And my patrons are always amused by it. They find it clever, charming. An artist should leave her mark upon her work, whether she signs it or not.”
Mira smiled. Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she eyed the bottles lined up on a low table by the bed.
“Do you have bark of the willow there? Lavender oil? Poppy milk?”
“Yes, all of those things and more. Truly, the lord is a generous patron. He has spared no expense to care for me. He installed us in this home away from the household so I can rest in tranquillity. I only wish I had been able to complete my work.”
“Perhaps you will recover your strength,” Mira said encouragingly.
Cornelia raised her eyes to Mira’s. “Only God knows. But I am weary of this pain. Each day brings new torment, and the nights are interminable. If I could hasten my own death, I would.”
Mira held her gaze, remembering the day so long ago when Elena showed her how to harvest death caps in the forest. Sometimes it was merciful to take a life, Elena had said. Mira could still remember the rage that consumed her at Elena’s words.
For the first time, she understood the compassion behind them.