for something he couldn’t quite recognize. A mystery to puzzle out, she thought, then scolded herself for the whimsy.
Turning back to the shelf, she searched for a bag of dried shoots. She’d seen them before in Tomas’s shop, small twigs used to make charcoal for drawing and painting. Tomas baked his own and sold them in bundles. The sticks could be used as pencils or ground up and mixed with water or oil to make a dark black paint. She fingered the contents of a dozen bags until finally she found the correct one. These shoots were cheap stock, made for inferior browns and grays rather than the black the painter probably searched for. Tomas kept these in his shop also.
Selecting a fistful from the bag, she wrapped the package and tied it with twine, then held up three fingers.
He handed her the coins with a dusty black hand. “Aah, this ink and charcoal get everywhere,” he apologized, wiping his fingers on his tunic.
So she’d been right. Feeling emboldened, she mimed the motion of painting.
He tilted his head at her and blinked. “Oh. Yes.” He smiled. “Color and gilded miniatures, mostly, though I’ve done some illumination. I just arrived in town, came here looking for a space to sell my work. Not an easy thing.”
It didn’t surprise her. Portraitures commanded a good deal of money and though Narbonne acted like a rich city, people still preferred simpler tastes and practical wealth. This man would have done better to search for a patron in the northern cities. But the mention of illumination piqued her curiosity. Illuminators typically trained at monasteries. Was he a monk like the ones at Jehan’s house? He certainly looked poor enough. What manner of works had he illustrated?
She nodded toward his box, and the corners of his eyes lifted. Smiling, he untied the cords that bound his case shut to reveal a clutter inside: quills, pieces of charcoal, chalk pencils, and lumps of wax in various colors. Pulling out a clothbundle, he unwrapped a stack of parchments and stiffened linen and shuffled through the collection: bright renditions of saints and manger scenes, dogs on the hunt and drawings of nobles in feast.
He had skill, she supposed, though she knew nothing about the taste of artistic patrons. There was something about the shading that made it seem like there was more to his subjects than what first caught the eye.
When he reached a section of drawings, he began to flip past, but she slipped her hand in the box.
The man tilted his head. “Oh, those are only some sketches. Just people who catch my eye, things I’m trying, to get better…” His voice grew shy.
She took out the collection—simple line drawings of daily life on the streets, in the markets, on the docks. She had never seen such work before—normal people, not kings nor saints nor heavenly creatures, but people like her or Poncia, living their common lives. He’d inked them in various colors, blues and reds and greens.
She stopped on a brown ink sketch of a woman cutting the head off a fish. The woman’s flesh spilled out of her smock into puddles on the counter where she worked. Her wiry hair escaped in grimy wisps from her bun, and her entire face, tired and angry, was tied into a scowl that looked like a wet cloth that had been wrung to dry. The drawing centered on the woman’s lips, large and fleshy, puckered as if she had tasted something foul or was gathering a wet glob of spit. The woman was hideous.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Auda tore herself from the picture and stared at the artist, heart racing. She looked again at the drawing, trying to see what he saw.
Something about the woman stood out—her determination? Perhaps. Her anger? Maybe that she had a purpose. It was the same expression her father wore when he was working. The feeling was familiar.
“I like her lips in particular,” he said. “The ripeness of them, like two pieces of a plum, succulent and sweet.”
She caressed the edge of
Turning back to the shelf, she searched for a bag of dried shoots. She’d seen them before in Tomas’s shop, small twigs used to make charcoal for drawing and painting. Tomas baked his own and sold them in bundles. The sticks could be used as pencils or ground up and mixed with water or oil to make a dark black paint. She fingered the contents of a dozen bags until finally she found the correct one. These shoots were cheap stock, made for inferior browns and grays rather than the black the painter probably searched for. Tomas kept these in his shop also.
Selecting a fistful from the bag, she wrapped the package and tied it with twine, then held up three fingers.
He handed her the coins with a dusty black hand. “Aah, this ink and charcoal get everywhere,” he apologized, wiping his fingers on his tunic.
So she’d been right. Feeling emboldened, she mimed the motion of painting.
He tilted his head at her and blinked. “Oh. Yes.” He smiled. “Color and gilded miniatures, mostly, though I’ve done some illumination. I just arrived in town, came here looking for a space to sell my work. Not an easy thing.”
It didn’t surprise her. Portraitures commanded a good deal of money and though Narbonne acted like a rich city, people still preferred simpler tastes and practical wealth. This man would have done better to search for a patron in the northern cities. But the mention of illumination piqued her curiosity. Illuminators typically trained at monasteries. Was he a monk like the ones at Jehan’s house? He certainly looked poor enough. What manner of works had he illustrated?
She nodded toward his box, and the corners of his eyes lifted. Smiling, he untied the cords that bound his case shut to reveal a clutter inside: quills, pieces of charcoal, chalk pencils, and lumps of wax in various colors. Pulling out a clothbundle, he unwrapped a stack of parchments and stiffened linen and shuffled through the collection: bright renditions of saints and manger scenes, dogs on the hunt and drawings of nobles in feast.
He had skill, she supposed, though she knew nothing about the taste of artistic patrons. There was something about the shading that made it seem like there was more to his subjects than what first caught the eye.
When he reached a section of drawings, he began to flip past, but she slipped her hand in the box.
The man tilted his head. “Oh, those are only some sketches. Just people who catch my eye, things I’m trying, to get better…” His voice grew shy.
She took out the collection—simple line drawings of daily life on the streets, in the markets, on the docks. She had never seen such work before—normal people, not kings nor saints nor heavenly creatures, but people like her or Poncia, living their common lives. He’d inked them in various colors, blues and reds and greens.
She stopped on a brown ink sketch of a woman cutting the head off a fish. The woman’s flesh spilled out of her smock into puddles on the counter where she worked. Her wiry hair escaped in grimy wisps from her bun, and her entire face, tired and angry, was tied into a scowl that looked like a wet cloth that had been wrung to dry. The drawing centered on the woman’s lips, large and fleshy, puckered as if she had tasted something foul or was gathering a wet glob of spit. The woman was hideous.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
Auda tore herself from the picture and stared at the artist, heart racing. She looked again at the drawing, trying to see what he saw.
Something about the woman stood out—her determination? Perhaps. Her anger? Maybe that she had a purpose. It was the same expression her father wore when he was working. The feeling was familiar.
“I like her lips in particular,” he said. “The ripeness of them, like two pieces of a plum, succulent and sweet.”
She caressed the edge of
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