Chapter 18
The Power of Art
Sinta
“That wasn’t a workout. That was torture.” Kenya tries to moan, but it comes out more of a husky whisper.
I’m too busy trying to breathe to respond, sitting on a bench in the women’s changing room with my head between my knees.
I’d always been physically fit – considering my former career I’d had to look a certain way – but doing CrossFit twice a week and a yoga workout every other day was nothing compared to the army drills we’d just been forced to do.
“Are you alive?” Kenya demands, dropping onto the bench next to me.
I manage a grunt.
“That was embarrassing.” She mumbles, trying to put her sweaty hair into a ponytail. “I mean, not being able to keep up with the boys I could have lived with – they play sports! But getting my ass whooped by Grande?! She didn’t even look like she was sweating.”
“Beauty spells.” I mumble, sitting up just so I could lean against the wall. “My…. Coworkers used to use them. Basically an illusion – you can be sweating and flushed and gross underneath, but the spell makes you look fresh as a daisy.”
“Really?”
I nod my confirmation, tugging at my T-shirt to try and cool down.
“That bitch!” Kenya groans. “Of course she has beauty spells. Meanwhile us peons look like we survived a holiday in Tartarus.”
I don’t know why Kenya was surprised. She seemed to know a lot about them.
Meanwhile I’d seen enough of the princesses to expect that kind of thing.
“And you! If I’d known you were one of those girls that like fitness I would have reconsidered our friendship. I’m warning you now, morning jogs are out of the question – forever.”
I snort a raspy laugh and sit up, feeling restored enough to start getting changed.
Around us other females are chatting and changing, some of them having a shower behind the wall of lockers.
I wasn’t sure where the Princesses and their retinue had gone.
Perhaps they had a private changing room.
“I’ve got Art next. You?” Digging my bag out of a locker and pulling my jeans, sweatshirt, underwear, and jacket back out, I start to get changed.
“Mathematical theory.” She sighs.
“Now that sounds like torture.” I laugh.
Standing with a dramatic groan, Kenya starts to get changed as well.
“I’ve got ten minutes to get to class.” I mutter when I check the time on my phone. “My art class is here in West Hall. You?”
“I need to go over to East Hall. Math Theory ends at noon, and I don’t have another class until 1pm, want to meet up for lunch?”
“Art finishes at 11:45. I’ll head to the cafeteria and save you a seat?” I offer.
“Perfect.” She beams.
“I’ll see you then. Good luck with the math thing.” I wait until she’s pulled her shirt on and decide to give her a quick hug.
I was being different this year. Casual affection was something I wanted to be familiar with.
“Have fun with the art thing.” She cackles.
We wave, and I make my way out into the hall, which is once again flowing with people.
Trying to go with the crush this time, I make it down several hallways and further into West Hall without an elbow to the ribs.
My art class is this huge studio-like space. It looks like it might’ve once been a sun room, with huge arching windows and a tall ceiling with exposed beams.
There are drying wracks, shelves full of paints and utensils, creative jars of brush bouquets, large sheets laid out to cover the white stone floor, easels set out everywhere with stools set before them, tables for clay moulding, a huge walk-in kiln in the back of the room, and every manner of medium you could think of.
It was heaven.
Some people were already here, seated before an easel, and some Fae were speaking with a female wearing stylish overalls and nude heels at the front of the room.
I stepped further inside, people filing in behind me, and the female glances up and smiles.
“Everybody come on in, choose an easel, and get settled.” She orders.
I watch her as I move towards the easels set out by a window, liking her style.
She was older than us, but didn’t look it. She had this mature feel, with her auburn afro of tight curls and her mocha skin, her paint-stained overalls and strappy nude heels.
I could see Markings on her neck, what looked like stylish leopard spots.
It wouldn’t surprise me if she were a big cat shifter, she certainly moved like one.
I settled myself onto a stool, then let my gaze drift outside to the courtyard while I waited for instruction.
The storm hadn’t exactly hit us yet, it was hovering along the coast line for now, leaving us with passing showers and light sprinkles.
My weather app said it would hit us late Friday night, maybe early Sunday morning.
But the cloud still made the day magnificently gloomy.
The courtyard was empty of life, but the grass was bright with moisture and shone against the white pavement.
The rain made everything more beautiful, in my opinion.
My phone dinged, vibrating in my pocket.
I hesitated before I pulled it out, not really sure what the rules about phones were.
A message notification flashed, saying it was from Mr Orichalcum.
Unlocking my phone, I click on the message.
Mr Orichalcum
Good morning, Sinta. I have good news. Would you be able to attend a meeting today at 2:30pm? My Office.
Me
Yes, I can do that. Do I need to bring anything?
Mr Orichalcum
Not at all. I hope your classes are going well, I will see you this afternoon.
Me
Yes, sir. See you then.
Tucking my phone away, I think on what his good news might be.
He’d mentioned getting me help and setting me up for more courses. Maybe he and the Headmistress had sorted that for me already?
While I had been distracted with everything else going on, I hadn’t forgotten the elephant looming over my shoulder.
This Shifting Fever.
I’d never been particularly mad about being denied the chance to study Fae heritage in High School, mostly because I didn’t know what I was missing out on, but now I was mad I hadn’t been given the chance simply because of bias.
Would they have taught me about Shifting Fever in those classes? Or talked about dragons?
I’d never know now.
“Do you mind?” Someone murmurs.
Looking up, I just about fell off my stool in shock.
Imelda Skail stood before me, her expensive fur coat slung over an arm, her pacific blue eyes calm as they regarded me.
Standing slightly behind her with a grumpy expression was Yelana Rathom, wearing a white tank top and a red leather jacket, the red scales of her dragon Marking her chest.
“Oh, I’ll,” Reaching down for my backpack, stooping into an awkward bow, I try not to stare at her. “I’ll sit somewhere else.”
“No, no, please. You can stop that.” She gestures to the easel beside mine. “I meant can I sit here?”
I’d chosen to sit at the back of the class, sort of positioned myself into a corner.
It'd been an instinctual move, I generally liked privacy when I did my art and people seemed to gravitate to the front of the classroom.
It wasn’t like I could say no to a princess, though. Especially with her guard dissecting me with her eyes.
“No.” I answer, then shake my head. “I mean, no, I don’t mind. Go ahead.” I mutter and sit back down.
She regally inclines her head and slides onto the stool, Yelana taking the seat on her other side.
I try not to stare as she carefully sets her coat and bag behind her, out of the way of potential splatter.
I wasn’t sure I liked sitting so close to royalty – especially as others in the class began to stare and point at her.
Nope, I didn’t like it at all.
“Good morning, everyone.” The teacher began, standing before us. “I am Miss Ume. I will be leading this class for the year, during which time we will explore all manner of art – from sculpting, to sketch, to painting, to texture work, to impressionism. Anything and everything you may do with your hands and your heart.”
Watching her, listening to her, it was easy to see she wasn’t just going through the motions like my High School art teacher. She wasn’t just here for a check.
She loved art. Which meant she would love to teach it and would put effort into it.
Which meant I would benefit from her experience.
My smile was small but happy as she continued.
“Today we will start simple. I want you all to create a masterpiece on the canvases provided. Using any medium, any inspiration, I want you to create whatever comes to mind.” Beginning to weave her way through the easels, she smiles and nods her head to each student she passes, which was easy to do since we were a small class of about a dozen and a half. “I will come around the room and check on your progress throughout the session, offering advice and asking questions. Through this, and through your art, I will get to know you. This will help me to teach and guide you through the course this year, and hopefully next year should you choose to take the next level of this class. This classroom has all the supplies you will need, along with extra canvases in the back of the room. I only ask that you clean up after yourselves before you leave.”
Returning to the front of the class, she gestures to the canvas behind her on an easel facing away from us. “I will be working on my own project whilst you get started. Please, do not hesitate to talk and interact with each other. Creativity loves company.” She says with a warm smile.
Taking a seat on the stool before her easel, it’s a moment before anyone realises that is our cue to begin.
Standing, I follow the rush to the supply shelves and begin to pick out what I want to use.
It was like getting to shop in my favourite art store, the excitement so overwhelming I stalled.
This was definitely my favourite class.
Some twenty minutes into the class, I was layering oil paints onto my canvas to create a gloomy background when I noticed what the princess and Yelana were doing.
Or rather, what Yelana wasn’t doing and Imelda’s quiet scolding.
“This is an art class, Lana. You’re supposed to be creating something.” The Princess sighs, obviously exasperated.
“I did.” Yelana grunts, gesturing toward the stick figure hanging from a rope on her canvas.
Imelda shakes her head. “You couldn’t come up with something a little more creative?”
“No.”
“For the love of the Gods.” Imelda mutters and resumes shading her own artwork.
The Princess had drawn a rather elegant figure wearing a long stylised mermaid gown, the bodice exquisitely detailed and gorgeous on the model’s exaggeratedly long limbs.
Staring at it, I realised it was like those fashion drawings you always saw designers do before they started making the clothing.
It was gorgeous, and very nicely done considering she’d only used coloured pencils, but I couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t used watercolours.
“Do you like it?” She asks me softly.
“Yes.” I immediately tell her, setting down my paintbrush. “It’s very detailed. Makes me think the dress would look stunning in real life.”
She smiles, this one real and not the polite practised expression I’d seen her use before. “I hope so. I wanted to learn more ways to express my designs, and thought an art class might help.”
My brows rise. “You’re going to make that?” I gesture to the canvas.
“Hopefully.”
“She will. And it’ll look great.” Yelana butts in. “Everything she makes looks good, in my opinion.”
“You’re my friend. Of course you would say that.”
“If you can sew half as good as you draw, it’ll be breathtaking.” I tell her.
“Thank you.” She murmurs and glances at my own canvas. “That looks like it’ll be interesting.”
I glance at the black-brown smudged background. It was only the base, inspired by Victorian-era photos, but I hoped it would be exquisite when finished.
“Fingers crossed.” I murmur.
Glancing back at her own masterpiece, I gather my courage. “Can I make a suggestion?”
Yelana eyes me from Imelda’s other side, her narrow gaze promising all kinds of violent death if I so much as upset her friend.
“Sure.”
Putting down her pencil and turning to give me her full attention, I hold up a finger and slide off my stool.
Yelana tenses, but she relaxes when she realises I’m by-passing them both and heading over to the supplies cupboard.
Selecting a pallet of fine-looking watercolours, some soft brushes, two jars, and a fresh canvas, I juggle the items as I make my way back over.
Pausing next to Imelda, I gesture to her easel.
“Is it okay if—”
With a nod from Imelda, Yelana removes the old canvas and gently places it in a nearby drying rack, so I place the new one upon the easel and set out all of the mediums on the small table attached to it.
Quickly leaving to fill up both of the jars, I rush back and set them beside the dry brushes.
“Um, have you ever watched a French fashion show? Or a fashion documentary?” I ask.
Imelda nods slowly, her soft hair sliding over her shoulders.
“Okay, and you’ve seen the drawings and designs they do before making the clothing – obviously.” I gesture to her old canvas.
She nods again, eyeing the watercolour pallet curiously. “Yes. The drawings are always as gorgeous as the clothing.”
“Right, well, while different designers tend to have different ways of drawing out their creations, most French fashion houses have a tell-tale trait that they pass down.” I gesture to the watercolour pallet. “They use watercolours. You can easily add more volume, colour layers, shadowing, create shades, give a gauze effect. It’s also visually satisfying.”
Curious now, she starts to lean towards me as I go on to explain the different mediums she can also mix with the watercolours to get the effects she wants, or even to create an entirely new effect.
“I just thought, you said you wanted to level up your art, and this is definitely one way to do it.” I finish.
Studying me, then the canvas, then the pallet, she raises a questioning brow. “Do I just start to put paint on the canvas?”
“You draw out the shape first, very lightly, in pencil. Then you add the watercolour, and then later if you feel it may work, you can outline everything in fine marker.”
She nods, reaching for the pencil she’d used on her first canvas. “You have me intrigued.” She murmurs and begins to trace out a design.
Leaving her to it, I step around her and look at Yelana.
While Imelda has a calming, regal feel to her – even with the weight of her Dominance – Yelana is just in-your-face intimidating, her power hitting you with a blunt, disarming force.
And while that was shocking, I still managed to hold her gaze, to which she raised a brow.
“I have something you can try too.” I offer.
“I don’t really do art.” She scoffs, waving a hand in the direction of her canvas. “It’s more Melda’s thing.”
“You promised you’d try.” Imelda says softly, without looking away from her canvas.
Yelana rolls her eyes. “I will. I’ll draw an army of stick figures protesting the hypocrisy of Elitism.” She snips and pulls a cigarette out of an inner pocket in her jacket.
“Yelana.” Imelda snaps – again without turning.
Letting out a rumbling snarl, Yelana shoves the cigarette back into her jacket. “Fine, I’ll try it.” She growls, her eyes flashing with something other.
Her dragon.
My own writhes in my middle in response, and I duck my head in case my eyes do the same thing.
Heading over to the shelves again, I pick out two jugs of paint – red and black seem to be Yelana’s colours – a few fat brushes, and an extra tarp.
Heading back over, I lay down the tarp, set the jugs on it with the paintbrushes, and then begin to try and move the easel onto the tarp.
After a moment of awkward movement, Yelana lets out a loud sigh and picks it up without a struggle, moving it over.
I hope I’m able to do that once I shift.
“Okay.” Opening the jugs, I dip a fat brush in each and hand the one covered in red to Yelana.
She stares at it like it’s a poisonous snake, lips curling. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Holding up my own brush, I step a little closer to the canvas and pretend I’m throwing it at the surface, but I keep hold of the brush.
The black paint that’d been dripping from the fat bristles flies off and scatters across the canvas with satisfying splats, the excess falling onto the tarp.
Stepping back, I turn to Yelana.
She studies the canvas, then me, then the canvas again.
Taking a step forward, she adjusts her hold on the paintbrush and swipes it through the air with a combat stance – kinda like one would swing a sword.
The red flies across the canvas, hitting with a thick splotch before trailing off with smaller spots.
She stares at it, and I stare at her, until she whips around so fast I jump and almost step back.
“It looks like I gutted someone!” She laughs, delighted. “Well fuck, this art thing might not be so bad.”
Miss Ume clears her throat from a few meters away.
Yelana grimaces.
“Sorry, Miss.” She apologises.
I hand her the black brush when she reaches for it, and I watch her go to town dipping the brushes and then flinging paint onto the canvas.
She lets out these cackling laughs, full of wicked delight.
It brings a wide smile to my own lips.
“You may have created a monster.” Imelda murmurs, smiling as she watches her friend.
“Maybe.” I shrug and head back to my own canvas.
Catching a glimpse of her canvas, I grin at the blooming masterpiece. “Looks like I’ve created two.”
She grins right back.