The Chrysalis by Heather Terrell Page A

Gertruyd.” The unlikely pair saunters off, arm in arm.
    Johannes places the children in the exact spots they had occupied days before and then disappears behind a screen secured around the easel. It is large enough to mask his identity, but it is angled such that he can see the subjects. He places the master’s usual hat upon his head, its wide brim peeking out from the top of the screen.
    Johannes claps and announces from behind the screen, “Places, children, the master is ready to begin.”
    The children remain remarkably still as Johannes rushes to capture their likeness: the cherubic infant docile on the obedient eldest daughter’s knee; the defiant toddler dressed like a miniature lady with her hand locked in the palm of a compliant middle daughter; the soulful young son caressing a lute; the eldest son with his hand gripping a spear, a lion in wait. Johannes lets those whispers guide his brush:
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strokes for the placid baby; bold strokes edged with controlled outlining for the reined-in toddler; an even blending for the obedient older girls; a misty cloud of color for the middle son; strong diagonal lines, jumping from the page, for the eldest.
    A bowl clatters to the floor, startling Johannes. Frozen with fear, he hears a voice. “Not to worry, children, I’ll clean up around your feet; you just stay in place.” It is Pieter. Johannes peers through a crack in the screen and watches Pieter tumble in a somersault toward the children, in an effort to soften the mood and garner laughter. Johannes smiles at the antics of his friend.
    â€œMany thanks, Pieter,” Johannes bellows from behind the screen, in his best attempt at the master’s voice.
    â€œYou are welcome, Master. I thought you might need assistance.”
    A feigned love interest by Lukens and copious quantities of mulled wine help distract Gertruyd the next day as well. Johannes spends the nights in a feverish trance of work. The third and final day, the celebration day, he gathers together Lukens, Leonaert, Hendrick, and Pieter. Standing in front of the easel, he pulls back the fabric safeguarding the canvas.
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    The revelers cut a wide berth as Johannes helps the master to his seat. The master’s hollowed-out face speaks of his loss, and his body tells the tale of the ravaging power of the disease. A different man than ten days before, he looks out of place amid the merriment of the burgomaster’s celebration, yet he has insisted on attending.
    The guards grant the uninvited Johannes access to the festivities only because of the gravity of the master’s illness and circumstances; no other member of the studio is permitted entrance. Johannes takes a place standing behind the master, in the event of his need, in the long line of servants flanking the wall. Admiring the banquet table resplendent with platters of savories, porcelain vases of decadent tulips, and guests uncharacteristically colorful in saffron and crimson, Johannes longs for his easel to dissect the scene into genre paintings, portraits, still lifes.
    The burgomaster stands, his hand curling around a jeweled chalice. He lifts the cup and toasts his guests the regents with particular flourish. He announces his special commemoration of the occasion, the commission, and then pays heed to the master’s recent tragedy.
    The burgomaster strides toward a wall where a painting enshrouded in plum velvet hangs. Johannes’s stomach lurches as the burgomaster reaches for a golden cord and draws back the curtain. The portrait is unveiled.
    A hush descends among the celebrants as they await the burgomaster’s pronouncement. Johannes hears a sharp intake of breath from his wife, followed by a whisper. “It is unearthly. My children, they look so…so themselves.” The burgomaster steps back from it, staring at it from this angle and that, then issues his judgment. “Master Van Maes, you have