The artists' salon occupied the upper floor of one of the older commercial buildings just beyond the city centre, tucked above a curious collection of businesses that looked as though they had remained unchanged for half a century. A Chinese restaurant occupied one corner, its windows fogged with steam and fragrant spices, while beside it a cobbler's tiny shop displayed polished brogues in the window. The final frontage belonged to an upholsterer whose faded sign promised the restoration of antiques and family heirlooms.
Celeste parked the little red Porsche in the laneway behind the building.
"I should warn you," she said as she switched off the engine. "The entrance does absolutely nothing to prepare one for what's upstairs."
Lysara followed her between two industrial rubbish bins that overflowed with flattened cardboard boxes and discarded packing crates before climbing a narrow wrought-iron staircase bolted rather optimistically to the outside wall.
"You weren't exaggerating."
"I rarely do."
The upstairs door stood unlocked.
Beyond it lay a narrow hallway and a kitchen that looked as though it had survived several decades without anybody finding sufficient reason to modernise it. Salmon-pink cupboards lined one wall beneath laminate benchtops whose corners had begun to peel away, while the once-patterned linoleum had faded into uncertain shades of mint and cream.
Celeste ignored it entirely.
She pushed open the second door.
Lysara stopped walking.
The room beyond seemed almost impossibly large.
Most of the internal walls had vanished long ago, leaving only broad cast-iron columns wrapped in old brickwork to support the soaring ceiling above. Afternoon sunlight poured through enormous arched windows, washing across scarred timber floorboards that had acquired a century's worth of paint spatters without ever losing their quiet dignity.
The entire room breathed art.
Large easels occupied one corner while sculptors worked at broad wooden benches beneath sheets thrown carelessly across unfinished figures. Jewellery lay scattered across another worktable amongst coils of silver wire and tiny gemstones, while bolts of richly coloured fabric spilled from dressmakers' mannequins nearby. Everywhere she looked someone seemed to be creating something.
Celeste had called it an artists' salon.
The description suddenly seemed entirely inadequate.
Music drifted lazily from an old stereo balanced upon a trestle table against one of the exposed brick walls. Nearby stood a kettle, an assortment of mismatched mugs, several bottles of wine already opened despite the hour, and a generous collection of pastries in paper bags that suggested someone had considered artists incapable of remembering to eat.
"You see?" Celeste smiled. "Everything one might reasonably require."
"I'm not entirely convinced wine is a necessary art supply."
"Oh, my dear." Celeste removed her sunglasses with theatrical disbelief. "And you call yourself an artist."
A handful of Fae women already occupied the easels nearest the windows. They looked up as Celeste crossed the room.
"Ladies," she announced. "I've brought fresh talent."
Several smiles appeared immediately.
"This," Celeste continued, drawing Lysara gently forward, "is Lysara."
"Welcome."
"Come and see what we're ruining today."
Lysara wandered behind the easels, curiosity quickly overcoming any lingering self-consciousness.
Each artist appeared to be working from the same original painting, producing almost exact replicas.
She frowned as she moved closer to the piece they were working from.
The brushwork... The colour...
"...Van Gogh."
An older woman laughed as she continued working. "Celeste has an alarming habit of borrowing remarkable paintings from remarkable people."
"Borrowing is one term for it." One of the ladies smirked.
"Stealing," someone called from the far side of the room.
Celeste sighed dramatically. "I do wish you would stop using such ugly words."
Laughter rippled through the studio.
"The original has to be returned in five days," another woman explained. "Which means Celeste has declared we're all painting at impossible speed."
"Precisely." Celeste clapped her hands once. "So less conversation, more genius."
Lysara claimed the only vacant easel before laying out fresh paints.
As she squeezed viridian onto the palette, Celeste drifted casually through the studio, pausing behind each artist.
"Our newest arrival," she observed conversationally, "has recently become engaged to Lord Vale."
More than one brush paused.
"Is that so?"
One auburn-haired painter raised an eyebrow before exchanging an amused glance with the woman beside her.
"Well," she said, "that explains why Celeste has been looking so unbearably pleased with herself all morning."
"It explains several things," another agreed.
Lysara glanced up. "I'm not entirely certain what it explains."
"Oh, only that old houses hide interesting paintings."
Celeste laughed. "They do have a tendency to have more taste than sense."
"And they keep their art under lock and key."
Lysara cringed at the implication, flicking a nervous glance at Celeste. “I hope you don’t think I can…” She started.
“Open the Vale’s safes?” Celeste raised an eyebrow. “I won’t lie and say that the thought didn’t cross my mind, but, honestly, the Vale safes hold more dust than value. I’m not interested in the doors you can unlock. I interested in what you can do.” She tapped the canvas before Lysara.
"Lysara's father designs computer games." She added to the group.
Several appreciative whistles answered the announcement.
"Now there's a modern fortune."
"So that's why Lord Vale is marrying you?" The question carried curiosity rather than accusation from a dark-haired woman to Lysara’s left.
Lysara lowered her eyes to the canvas. “I hope not.” She mixed another shade of green with deliberate care.
"She's still romantic," one of them sighed.
"I believe in soul bonds." Lysara replied tightly. She didn’t like the direction of the conversation and was regretting joining them.
"Which," Celeste observed fondly, "is almost the same thing."
"I don't think that's unreasonable."
"No." Celeste came to stand behind her, gently gathering a loose strand of hair away from her face before letting it fall again. "It's rather sweet. Don’t be upset, little fool," she leaned forward until her cheek was almost against Lysara’s. “We’re just a bunch of cynics. No one means you ill. Do we ladies?”
There was murmur of agreement.
"We’re just trying to warn you to guard your heart." The warmth remained in her voice, though something unexpectedly serious settled beneath it. "The old Houses produce remarkable men." She paused. "They also produce men raised from childhood to place duty before almost everything else."
Around the studio the conversation had quietened. Lysara lifted her eyes from her canvas and scanned the faces around her. She saw sorrow, not mockery.
"They don't always choose between love and ambition," Celeste continued. "Sometimes they convince themselves they can somehow carry both."
She smiled then, softening the warning.
"And they usually discover far too late that hearts have very little interest in compromise."
She studied the first confident strokes appearing on Lysara's canvas before speaking more quietly. “This is already looking good. I’m interested to seeing where you go with it. Now,” she moved away and turned on the stereo set near the wine. “Let’s drink, paint, and be merry!”