Lord of Snow and Shadows Book One of the Tears of Artamon

Chapter One "Shall I sit over here, Maistre Andar?" Gavril Andar looked up from unpacking his oil paints and saw Altessa Astasia Orlova in the doorway. She was dressed for her portrait in a plain muslin dress of eggshell blue, her cloud of dark hair tied back with a single blue ribbon. He glanced around. "Where's your governess, altessa?" "Eupraxia? Oh, she's still sleeping off the effects of the fruit punch at last night's reception." Astasia began to laugh. "You mean--is it seemly for me to be here alone with you, unchaperoned? But this is Smarna, Maistre Andar! Surely one may relax the strict rules of Muscobar court protocol when on holiday?" Her laughter was infectious, and Gavril found himself smiling back at her. "Was I facing this way? Or that?" She fidgeted around in the chair. "I can't remember." He went over to her. "Your head was inclined a little more to the left." "Like this? You'll have to help me." Gently he tipped her chin to the correct angle. Now her shoulders were awry. Carefully he placed his hands on her shoulders to alter the pose. As he moved her, he became aware that she was gazing intently up at him. He could feel the sweet warmth of her breath on his face. Heat flooded through him. If anyone came in and saw them in such a compromising position. . . . "And my hair?" Gavril consulted his sketches. "No ribbon. Loose over your shoulders." "But if I pull out the ribbon, I'll lose the pose," she said with that little smile again, grave yet oddly provocative. As he undid the ribbon he felt the dark curls against his fingertips, soft as the strands of sable in his watercolor brushes. "How long must I sit still?" "Long enough . . ." Gavril was concentrating on his palette, blending and mixing. The luminous dark of her eyes--so difficult to match the shade exactly. It was almost the intense purple of viola petals. . . . "If the conversation is diverting enough, I can sit for hours. Yesterday you told me all about Vermeille. That was very diverting. But you said nothing about you. Tell me about Gavril Andar." "I was hoping," he said, "that you would tell me about the Grand Duchess's reception last night." "Mama's reception?" A slight flush suffused her pale face. Had she met someone special last night? "Well, my brother Andrei flirted outrageously with all the prettiest women, especially the married ones. He has no shame!" "And," he ventured, "was your fiance at the reception?" "Oh, heavens forbid, no!" The dark eyes blazed. He must have touched a sensitive nerve to have produced such a vehement reply. "I beg your pardon, altessa, but when I was commissioned to paint a betrothal portrait, I assumed--" "A natural assumption to make. It's just that there is no fiance as yet; this portrait is to sell my charms to the highest bidder," she said bitterly. "Papa sees my betrothal as a way to bring an end to a difficult diplomatic situation. He's looking for a rich and powerful ally." Gavril looked at her blankly. "Haven't you heard? Eugene of Tielen has invaded Khitari. And now his warships are in the Straits. Things are looking a little . . . tricky for Muscobar. That's why Papa has stayed in Mirom." "I had no idea." Gavril, like most Smarnans, paid scant attention to international politics. Smarna was a sunny summer retreat for the rich aristocracy from the northern countries, too small and unimportant to play a major part in world affairs. "And of course, my feelings are not to be taken into consideration, oh no!" All trace of laughteAsh, Sarah is the author of 'Lord of Snow and Shadows Book One of the Tears of Artamon', published 2004 under ISBN 9780553586213 and ISBN 0553586211.