“Have you ever had your portrait painted, Faustine?” I asked over dinner.

“Once.” Faustine spooned some tomato soup into her beak.

“I see.” I swallowed. “I wish to ask you something of you.”

“What is that?”

“Would you mind if I painted your portrait?”

Faustine’s eyes went wide. Her beak clamped down on the spoon, snapping the end off. I jumped in surprise. Faustine looked at her broken spoon, then sheepishly spat the spoon end into her hand. “Sorry.”

“Is that a no, then?”

“The last time I was painted was when I was very young, Marius. Now, well, I’m not sure I would make a great subject.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror when I was still human. And when I became this, I had all the mirrors in the manor destroyed. I would never have to suffer my reflection ever again.”

“There was something one of my teachers told me that I always remember when I’m painting, Faustine,” I said, leaning forward. “’ A painting is an interpretation of reality rather than a replica of it.’, he said. He told me that whenever I was frustrated or upset.”

“And you’re telling me this why?” Faustine asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I guess I’ve been thinking more about that idea of perception. I’ve been thinking about how easily it can be… altered.” I chose my words carefully. I was aware the things Finley told me were very personal. I didn’t want to put Faustine on edge.

“I can’t imagine you’d have trouble with how you see yourself.”

“I’m well acquainted with the feeling.” For a moment, I saw Mother in the snow.

“And by extension, you’re claiming my perception of myself is capable of being flawed, then,” Faustine observed. “Very sly of you.”

“What I mean to say is that I think you would make a great portrait. And that I would be honored to capture your likeness.”

Faustine’s feathers stood up. Her dark plumage seemed to flush, the black feathers turning an almost purple color. “I’m not sure I feel the same.”

“If you need some time to think about it, then I understand.”

Faustine nodded graciously. “Thank you, Marius.”

We said nothing else on the matter for the rest of the night. I finished eating and went back to my room. As I lay down in bed and scratched Doux’s belly, I wondered if I was too forward with Faustine. With what Finley told me, she imagined herself as ugly. And yet… she wasn’t ugly. I didn’t know her true face, but the way she looked now was not at all frightening.

But knowing what created her, I can’t imagine what she feels. To be abandoned by the ones who were supposed to care about you the most—The thought sent a shard of pain through my heart. The endless night and cold made too much sense. If this place was her dream, then her emotions were laid bare for all to see. I felt nothing but sympathy for her.

The next breakfast was silent. Faustine’s eyes remained on her plate. I followed suit.

We didn’t walk together in the garden. I went to the studio and started painting. There was no specific image, just patches of color here and there arranged in playful patterns. I hoped something came to me. In the meantime, just moving my brush around was stimulating enough.

“Ahem,” A cough made me turn around.

Faustine stood in the doorway. The ghost-lights caused the small

“Faustine,” I remarked. “Are you well?”

“I am, thank you.” The small stones weaved into her dress twinkled in the ghost-lights. “I was thinking about your request to paint my portrait.”

“Yes?”

Faustine brushed her talons over the head of the cane. “I’ve made up my mind. If I would trust anyone to paint my portrait, I feel that should be you.”

“I hope my skills are up to par. It has been a while since I’ve done portraiture.” I said with a smile.

“Your skills are more than enough. This is something more. A… reclamation of sorts.” She strode slowly toward me. “I trust you to fulfill this request.”

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She was upon me now. The smell of lavender was overpowering. “I will.”

A portrait, my teacher once told me, depended on the needs of the client. I was meant to capture the likeness of a patron, and that depended largely on what the subject desired out of their work. If it was meant to showcase their wealth and status, then other elements like pets or personal objects were to be depicted. If it was simply a facial capture, then the focus would be on that and that alone. This would influence color choices as well. Would the colors be warmer to indicate a more inviting and comfortable feeling, or cooler for a more sedate and muted atmosphere? I would be the painter, but it was down to the client to make the preliminary decisions before the work would begin.

“I’m not sure what I want,” Faustine said. She sat in the viewing portion of the studio, holding her arms nervously. “I don’t how it will look.”

I tapped my chin. “Let’s try out some poses first. Just do whatever comes to mind, I’ll sketch it and then we can decide on one.”

“You want me to model for you?”

“That would help.” I pulled out my sketch pad. “Just do what feels natural to you and I’ll sketch. Pretend I’m not here.”

“I trust you, then.” She replied.

Her first pose was controlled and somewhat stiff. She sat up straight with her cane in her lap and hands together and chin up. By all accounts, she looked like a proper lady. But something about her looked fearful and uncomfortable. I could tell she was straining to keep herself still.

“Can we try another one?” Faustine asked after a period.

“Of course.” I nodded.

Faustine relaxed with a deep exhalation. She placed her cane on the floor. “I don’t want to be uncomfortable if I’m going to be keeping still for a long time.”

“And you don’t have to.”

Faustine nodded and tried another pose. She reclined in her seat and propped her head up with her hand. She crossed her legs and looked to the side. As I sketched, I kept glancing up at her, and then back to my paper. Sometimes I caught her moving her head. Her eyes darted toward me, then turned away when I looked up.

“Hold still, please.” I gently requested.

“I am.”

I finished the sketch and showed it to her.

She took the pad and looked it over. Her brow furrowed. “It still doesn’t look right.”

“What’s the problem?”

Faustine pointed to the paper. “I like this second pose, but it’s missing something. I’m not sure what.”

“We can try one more.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Faustine replied excitedly.

I blinked, momentarily dumbstruck. She’d never sounded that happy to do anything since I was here.

“I think this is the one.” She said from the chair.

It was much like the previous pose, except for a barely perceptible difference: Her head was turned toward and angled slightly lower. Her eyes were directly on me now.

“This is much better. What do you think?”

I felt my face growing hot. Her gaze was intense, almost seductive. I swallowed and coughed hard. “It’s perfect.”

She laughed softly to herself. A smile tugged at the corners of her beak. I realized that was the first time I’d ever seen her smile. It looked good on her.

The next two weeks, or what I thought were weeks, passed in a blur. Outside of our normal routine of breakfast and dinner, we went straight to the studio to work on the painting. First came figuring out the best lighting. The ghost-lights, I learned, could be arranged in the air in any way without much effort. When I touched one, it felt like I was holding a very cold flame. Faustine could summon one by simply willing it. A leftover trick from the light’s creator, she told me.

After figuring out how to light her, next came the actual painting. I’d been doing tests with colors in the meantime and managed to figure out a palette: cool colors of purples, blues, and greens, with enough brightness in the necessary places to create enough contrast. Faustine approved enthusiastically.

Painting was as much about looking as it was about putting down colors. A painter had to know their subject through careful observation. In many ways, it was a deeply intimate process.

I don’t think I’d ever been so intimate with someone until I started painting Faustine.

Time barely seemed to move at all in the studio. I sat behind my canvas carefully arranging and rearranging paint to what I saw. All the while, my eyes never left Faustine. I poured over every part of her, noting the way the light played off her beak and feathers and clothes. At times I found myself staring deeply into her eyes. Those brilliantly shining eyes were unlike any I had ever seen. So did hers stare deeply into mine. Even though I was apart from her, I felt that I was touching her as my brush moved along the canvas. Each brushstroke was a soft caress. I could feel the softness of her feathers as they materialized on the canvas.

We didn’t speak. There was no need. I could feel her trust in the way she looked at me.

“I think it’s done,” I said as I placed a single dot of paint on the eye. I leaned back in my chair.

“May I see?” Faustine asked as she stood up.

I motioned for her to come over.

She strode over to the canvas and stood behind me. Her eyes narrowed. She placed a hand on her hip and leaned on her cane.

I looked at her, then at the painting. The painting, at least to me, was a spitting image of Faustine. She sat casually reclined in the small chair surrounded by red drapery and lit by the pale ghost-lights. Part of her was shrouded in darkness, allowing the lit half of her form to stand out. Her sleek gown, weaved with small shining stones, trailed gracefully down her legs. One hand propped up her head in an expression that suggested deep thought or focus. Her eyes, as piercing as ever, stared directly at the viewer. At me.

“What do you think?” I asked aloud. There was no answer. “Faustine?” I turned around.

Faustine said nothing. Her bottom beak quivered. She swallowed hard. Tears rolled down her feathered face.

“Faustine?” I gently touched her hand.

Faustine’s gaze suddenly snapped to my hand. She turned her back to me. “I’m sorry—” She muttered.

“Is there something wrong?” I started after her. “Is it not good?”

“It is—” Faustine took a shuddering breath. Her shoulders shook. “Forgive me, Marius.”

“Just tell me.”

She turned around. Her eyes were red and watery. “Your skills are evident and… prodigious.” Faustine swallowed and exhaled. “You have exceeded my expectations.”

My face lit up. “Thank you! I’m very grateful. Would you believe you were my first official client? For a second, I was afraid it wasn’t to your liking.”

Faustine gazed deeply at the painting. “It is magnificent, Marius. Truly. It is… a mirror.”