Page 50 of Hollow Court
Oliver walked at a steady pace, giving me time to peruse the walls.
“My cousin painted them,” he said. “Gal and Gwyn’s mother. She truly has a gift.”
“They’re stunning,” I said truthfully. “Is she…like Lady Gwyn?”
Skepticism bled into my tone. It was impossible to imagine the vivacious woman sitting still long enough to paint these vivid renderings.
He barked out a laugh. “No. Though in fairness, no one is quite like Gwyn. It’s Gal who takes after Isla, though Gwyn did get her temper.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I surveyed the series of portraits.
Instead of the stiff poses I was used to, she had captured the subjects in moments. In one, there was a beautiful dark-haired boy with fair skin and bright blue eyes smirking up at a nearly identical man who stared back down at him with adoration.
A glance at the prince showed he was looking at the same picture fondly.
“He was probably trying to get out of trouble with his mother that day,” he said with a wistful smile.
There were several more paintings of Davin and his parents, some with other adults I didn’t recognize, then one of six teenagers lounging by a lake. Four of the six sported crimson curls, all but Davin and a boy with shaggy chestnut-colored hair. Davin and his cousins, and…a friend? Another cousin?
A red fox curled next to the girl who I assumed was Princess Avani, something the artist must have added for whimsy.
“That’s the lake you passed on your way in,” the prince offered.
I nodded, though it was truncated when I caught sight of the next painting.
Davin and the only other non-redhead from the picture before, each with an arm slung around the other’s shoulder and holding a mug of ale in their free hands. They wore identical smiles, genuine and unrestrained and just the slightest bit mischievous.
“That’s Mac,” Oliver said quietly.
The name brought forth a memory of Davin on the rooftop at Elk Estate.
“There was some gossip regarding the circumstances of my birth,” he had said. “But Mac never cared what anyone thought of him, and it made it easier for me not to, either.”
“You were close?” I surmised.
“Like brothers,” he confirmed.
There was something wistful in his tone.
I peered over at him. “You aren’t anymore?”
He turned his head toward the balcony, far enough that I couldn’t make out his expression when he spoke.
“He’s gone now.” The words were somber, final, leaving no doubt of their meaning.
I had no experience with comforting anyone. My relationships at court were shallow at best, and I had no younger siblings or cousins to speak of. Hesitantly, I placed my hand on his.
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely, feeling how ineffectual the words were.
He flipped his hand to entwine his fingers with mine, squeezing them gently.
“So am I.”
I had wondered about that night more than once, sure no one could fabricate that kind of grief, and just as certain that he wouldn’t have bothered to show me something real when nothing else was.
But it had been true, after all.
Is that better? Worse?