Chapter 7 #2
When Eflamm opened his mouth, Oste wasn’t sure if he was going to hear a random compliment, or that he’d worked out the recipe for an alchemical that could kill every last person in Aix so long as he could get into the water supply.
It was a good thing, Oste thought, that Eflamm had a good heart.
“Lézinig?” said Eflamm. He took some joy in the artist’s nickname for him, knowing it came from his mouth alone. Little Lézin, in his mother’s Breton tongue.
Oste raised a brow. “Mmh?”
“I need a horse.”
He blinked several times. “Like… right now?”
Eflamm’s expression was as neutral as ever. “No, but soon.”
Oste lifted his head off his hands and tilted it. “You can’t fit one in your studio.”
“That’s fine. There’s space outside. You can bring it with you when you come by.”
“Dare I ask what the occasion is that I’ll be coming by the Orensanz estate for?”
“To pose as Saint-George,” said Eflamm, as though Oste should have known this already. “With the horse.”
“I hadn’t realized I was going to play such a role. Artists usually make him blond.”
“I want the contrast with the Camargue horse. The background will be colorful.”
“So it has to be a Camargue grey?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t own any horses.”
“You talk about buying horses.”
“But I haven’t done it yet.”
Eflamm transfixed Oste with an entirely flat stare. He stayed silent just long enough that it became uncomfortable. “Oh.” He started to sketch again. “Well, buy a horse, then bring it to me. With yourself.”
“As you command, Maistre. Will I get a cut out of what you’ll get paid for this one?”
“No.”
“No?”
Eflamm hummed and continued to draw soft line after line. “It’s for me. I don’t pay me.”
Oste opened his mouth to speak; the surprise had rendered him directionless.
He didn’t know what he would say if he felt capable, mind, because for being such a sentimental person, Eflamm wasn’t sentimental about his paintings at all.
He never sought to keep any of them. Visiting him meant one had to prepare to be liable to bring studies home after Eflamm forced them to take them, either unaware or uncaring how much money they’d fetch.
He didn’t get the chance to push the matter, though, since Jeanne appeared at the table and slipped in beside Eflamm.
Oste watched as the smallest changes worked their way onto Eflamm’s face; his brown eyes softened, and the side of his mouth twitched.
Oste was sorry that people had to die for them to have their chance to be together—romance was difficult when one’s father was vehemently opposed and married his daughter off to another man—and not at all sorry that he never stopped wishing for it for them.
They’d loved each other since they were the smallest children.
He wondered what it was like to not have known anything before that, with one heart beating for another as soon as they discovered what a heart beat for.
“Ostie,” Jeanne started in a gentle voice. That nickname had also been around for a while. “The thermal bath wouldn’t have been a bad idea.”
Oste frowned immediately and glowered off to the side. “So you’ve been speaking with Dorotèa, have you?”
“We speak most days.”
“She writes out calendars. It’s madness. She learned my shifts from al-Anezi instead of asking me.”
Jeanne tilted her head back. “And would you have told her?”
“Yes, eventually, if only to stop the griping.”
“You gripe a fair bit yourself.”
“So, you’re on her side?”
She twisted her face. “There are sides, now?”
Oste turned to Eflamm. “What about you, hm?”
The artist didn’t even look up. “I support the side that brings me a horse.”
The physician raised his hand and pressed his fingertips together. “I am horribly close to apoplexy.”
Jeanne shrugged. “Have you tried—”
Oste’s eyes darted to her. “Don’t say it—”
“—a bath?”
“Jeanne!” Oste hissed from behind his gritted teeth.
“Look. I told Dorotèa she didn’t go about it right, or other matters, besides. It comes from a place of caring, Ostie, which I know you don’t know what to do with. But you haven’t told her to get lost, even though you could, so it doesn’t take a genius to see that you care, too.”
“She’s one of us. I’ve always been fond of her,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s not like she’s not one of our truest friends, it’s just that… it’s…”
“I know,” said Jeanne. She reached out and put her hand over his. “Can you talk with her? Can you give each other a chance?”
“Considering she’s been staring across the way, I figured it was inevitable regardless.”
“Good boy.” Jeanne patted his hand and stood up. “You can cover that while you walk her home.”
Oste drew his brows together. “You’re not accompanying her?”
“Eflamm and I have important business to get up to, and time is of the essence.”
Eflamm looked up and flushed. He snapped his sketchbook shut immediately. “I’d forgotten.”
Oste narrowed his eyes. “Ridiculous. Do you expect me to say ‘Godspeed’?”
“Yes,” Jeanne teased. She took Eflamm’s hand when he bounced up to his feet, then began to lead him off.
“I won’t!” Oste called after them.
Eflamm paused in the doorway before they disappeared into the night. “Don’t forget the horse!”
To that, Oste let his forehead fall onto the table with a groan.