Work Text:
i.
Edgar was unused to the concept of ‘chores’. Such were the repercussions of their upbringing. This learned uselessness had quickly frustrated them once faced with the apparent practicality of the others here, and this meant that every so often the painter could now be found, surprisingly, in one of the manor’s kitchens in an attempt to learn how to ‘prepare their own food’. More often than not, they might be seen staring at cabinets with deeply knotted brows, as if the polished exteriors might reveal some unknown secret as to how any of this worked. At home, it was surely believed that this - ‘this’ being their absence, their departure - was all but an exercise in eccentricity for the Valden heir. Artists had such fickle whims as this after all, did they not? Such an assumption frustrated Edgar. The concept of a ‘prodigal son’ angered them, or something unpleasant of the sort, causing a sensation in their chest alike to the wringing of a cloth. They refused to fall in line with that expectation.
They would not be returning home.
…And so, committing to learning how to ‘cook’ seemed to be a necessity. A necessity that came with its many downsides. The kitchen was, notwithstanding, a public facility.
Today, a particularly troubling figure seemed to have deemed it imperative to share this space with them. Standing across from them at the counter was Mike Morton - an acrobat, and an utterly incomprehensible person, in Edgar’s opinion. Busying himself with the chopping of some vegetable or another, the odd man hummed an offbeat tune, as if conducting his own work like a ragtag orchestra. How aggravating. Did he really have no consideration for the presence of another?
Casting glances sideways, Edgar had decided to spy on him… or, to put it more accurately, it was hard not to look that way. Even in, or perhaps because he was in such a small kitchen space, the acrobat shone brightly - not to be compared to the natural light of the sun, no, but like a harsh spotlight built for the stage. Why did he look such a way for… such a mundane activity? His full face was splattered with white powder, his cheeks dusted rosy, his lips painted red and his eyeshadow bold in patterned yellow and blue. It was a look fit for a grand performance in the circus tent, not for… the kitchen. Surely! What Edgar could only think to label as audacity caused an indescribable feeling to stir in them. It was a feeling that demanded their attention. It was all they could focus on…
“Y’know, Eddie, it might be easier to take a picture,” an obnoxious voice promptly interrupts the haze of their thoughts, “It’ll last longer!’
Stiffening as if struck, Edgar’s eyes widen into saucers, though the genuine surprise quickly turns entirely to annoyance as Mike hoots out a laugh at their perfect reaction. Even more annoyingly, the circus fool deems it appropriate to speak further before Edgar even gets a chance to regain any of their composure with a choice cutting retort.
“Hey, hey - there’s no need to be embarrassed!” The acrobat’s shrill voice is almost alike to a chirp, as if a songbird were heralding in the dawn of a new day. His grin may be contagious to a victim any less stubborn than Edgar. “I don’t look like this to not be ogled at!”
And that’s exactly it. Feeling flushed, Edgar’s ability to articulate springs forth from its burst dam once more.
“So, what? Something as simple as this - as, as chopping vegetables - is an event to dress up like this for you?” The bewilderment cannot be hidden from their voice, despite the intention to only project judgement. “To perform as if for an adoring crowd, when there isn’t any? It’s nonsensical!”
Another laugh. It was as if Edgar’s words were of no more consequence than the recordings from a drawstring doll. This time, however, Mike actually stops what he is doing, turning to face Edgar with something more genuine creasing the edges of his lipsticked and lopsided grin.
“Well… sure! But it’s all for good reason, I assure you! I like how I look like this.” A pause, as mismatched eyes look the painter up and down. Edgar feels as though their very skin might catch fire. “Isn’t that the case for you, too? I mean, you’re an artist, all about that self-expression stuff! I’m right, aren’t I? I mean - I never met any nobles that sewed their own beret!”
Huh?
Edgar’s stare is blank, incredulous, again, but this time it is not met by mocking laughter. Mike stays where he is, smile undeterred, as if waiting, waiting for something or other with a patience Edgar had never thought to look for in this wildcard of a man. The audacity of it all was astounding. Mike really thought it appropriate to compare the two of them, to compare Edgar’s self-expression to something like this, so loud and self-indulgent?
The most aggravating part is that what Mike referred to, what he said, was not incorrect. Edgar could not dismiss it, even if just for the sake of it. They were too honest for that.
Instead, they huff loudly. Turning back towards the counter, they aim to busy themselves with…
…Well, they had not actually even started whatever it is they had come here to do, had they? They can feel that covertly perceptive gaze still upon them. Oh, they’ve had enough.
With a dramatic turn on their heel, they leave the kitchen - and this meddler - swiftly behind. They think they hear him call out a farewell, but the blood pounding in their ears drowns it out to be of little consequence. For whatever reason, his face is what stays important, stays seared into their eyeballs. Blocked out colours, in the palette of primary red, yellow and blue, and eyes that twinkled with knowing delight.
I like it when I look like this. Don’t you?
ii.
When it came to their artistic process - that is, the mental power struggle that came with putting paintbrush to blank canvas - Edgar had always been exceedingly strict. There were things that worked, and things that most certainly did not. One of these things that did not work, or never seemed to have done before, was the presence of company. Human beings were noisy creatures, distracting in their wants and needs. Edgar had no need for that around their artwork. It was a pollutant.
…At least, that was how it was before. Of course, Edgar still strongly believed in this rule for most cases, but some exceptions to the rule were found to exist here. One of these exceptions lay in a hunter, one Galatea Claude.
As artists, the two of them had sought out similar spaces to work… and, it appeared, would often do so at similar times. At first, this had been regarded as a mutual annoyance, but as stubborn as they were, both refused to budge. They would work in the same space if only because neither one of them was willing to cede to the other first. In the end, however, it was to be found that, really, working with the other was not altogether terrible. Not that this fact had to be spoken aloud, of course. It was their mutual respect for a much needed silence that made this arrangement work.
Most of the time.
Increasingly, it seemed that Galatea would take an interest in what her now partner-in-inspired-silence might be doing. Usually, not much at all would be said. Edgar would look up, glance over, upon hearing a drawn out hum, and find themselves meeting the sculptor’s gaze. She’d smile discreetly, before going back to her own business. It was peculiar, but better this way, Edgar thought. They had no need for feedback in words.
Today should have been no different. With much on their mind, Edgar had sat with a canvas and let loose. Painting could be an exorcism in its truest form, they found.
They barely even notice the other presence in the room. That is, until she speaks.
“Hmm… you’re doing it again.”
It is said so simply, easily, that Edgar half expects it to have been a musing to herself. Looking over, however, what they see suggests otherwise. That stare is being turned onto them again. Furrowing their brows, they glance between her and their canvas. The situation is too confounding so far as to yet be a cause for annoyance.
They decide, however, that they do not care for hearing any elaboration. That is not what the two of them do here - feedback, that is. Surely, that was still the case, and she would have no intention of sharing anyway. Deciding upon this course of action, knowing it must be fact, they move to turn back around in their stool.
“Well, since you asked…” Galatea begins again, in a tone without even a hint of sarcasm. Edgar had not posed to her a question in words, but the sculptor is used to listening for that which has not been said aloud. They turn again, eyebrows only furrowed further. Absurd as the notion was, did she actually intend to follow through on a line of conversation here? She leans forward in her wheelchair as if to get a closer look, to confirm for herself the truth behind the words she would say next.
“What I mean to say is this, Edgar: You are painting the same thing again. Whenever you come here, you are painting the same thing. You seem to have an appreciation for, an admiration for, the female form - isn’t that right?”
Edgar’s mouth opens, and then it closes, as if in imitation of a rather mindless fish. They again look to their canvas. Yes, of course, Galatea has correctly observed the subject of their work. Upon the still-white background is a woman, the end of a flowing gown gathered around her feet as she, too, sits in a painter’s stool. An extensive amount of time so far had been spent rendering the heavy folds of the dress. A therapeutic activity.
…And what exactly is the sculptor’s point?
“I like to paint that which is beautiful.” They say it simply, easily, and more importantly, obviously. They turn to face Galatea’s curiosity head on, ready to nip this line of questioning in the bud. There was nothing revolutionary, nothing of note here, for this to be the topic deemed worthy enough to break their so-sacred pact of silence. Quite frankly, Edgar is disappointed. “It is any artist’s duty to find a way to portray, to preserve, that which is beautiful. You know this. I have seen your sculptures.”
Many of her own works depicted the female form, the delightful curve of a hip or the fold of a breast finding its way into much of what she created. Was this Galatea’s method then of, what, trying to find a way for the two of them to relate? Was that what she was doing here? This train of thought, however, is abruptly ended by a scoff from the sculptor. If Edgar had begun to feel, to look, distinctly unimpressed, then that feeling would be mutually reflected tenfold upon the face of their fellow artist.
“You would compare our works, little painter? How little you must think of me. What a shame.” She shakes her head now, chewing on her lip, as if weighing up whether Edgar could even be considered worth the hassle of whatever she had planned to say next. Feeling furiously indignant at this display, Edgar quickly cuts in.
“Of course not!” They, too, sound offended now. Their cheeks burn red with it. “I am merely trying to make sense of what you are getting at! My reasoning should be obvious , and that is all I am saying. Isn’t it obvious? I mean, bringing attention to an artist depicting the beautiful; is such a thing not redundant to do?”
Galatea appears to be in no rush to respond. Twirling her sculptor’s chisel between two of her fingers idly, she sits as in thought for a further few moments before, once again, the ghost of a smile returns to her face. This entire exchange seems to play out as if on her own tempo. It is a feeling that provokes an aggravating deja vu.
“Perhaps, but perhaps not.” A noncommittal answer, before she swiftly moves on. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yes? Surely you have heard that phrase. While often spoken mindlessly, there is some truth to it.”
Another twirl of her chisel. Then another. Edgar’s eyes don’t leave it, as if its rhythmic movement were hypnotic.
“...Yes?” They say, still unsure what the point of all this is. They so loathe being left in the dark. “Beauty is defined by the eyes that see it. There is plenty that I find to be ugly that the world insists is beautiful, for instance. Even so, there is much beauty that can be generally agreed upon.”
Putting this to Galatea is enough. She follows on easily, first of all with an amused hum.
“Certainly. Beauty’s subjectivity or objectivity, however, is not entirely my point… Rather, I would like to draw your attention to why you may find something beautiful. Surely, some reasoning must exist behind the strokes of that brush of yours. You are quite above allowing yourself to appear shallow, after all.”
With these words, the twirling of her chisel finally stops. She raises it instead, positioned as if to strike - marble or flesh, that would depend on the circumstance. She studies the sharp blade as if captivated.
“As for me, I am quite assured in why I choose to depict the female form. I find it to be awfully attractive, mesmerizingly so.” Sunlight, filtering through a window, glints off the polished metal. She takes pride in this tool, knowing the power it has at her fingertips. “I do not merely sculpt, but bring my desires to life. My statues live and breathe through me. Your paintings are an extension of you, too, Edgar.”
Finally, she looks back to them. Her expression is playful, though there is a finality to what she says next.
“Do figure all that out now, would you?” She turns back away, more than ready now to simply continue with her own work. “Your lack of introspection is choking this little room of ours.”
…
There is silence once more. Edgar wants to argue, to raise their voice and spit venom, for who does this girl think she is? A lack of introspection!? The accusation is bruising, and they cannot let it stand! …Or, at least, they should not. Instead, they find their eyes drawn back to the canvas that the sculptor had so brazenly called into question. The woman sits at her stool, her posture is imperfect, and yet her dress remains stunning in all its intricacies, in all its ribbons and its frills.
As Edgar shifts their feet, they imagine they can feel the train of it against their ankles.
iii.
In a place like this, who could Edgar trust? No one - that, at least, is the tempting answer.
The truth is that, really, there are enough presences to be found here - interesting presences - that they are willing to forgo their reservations in place of satiating their curiosity. Today, that would certainly appear to be the case.
The Bloody Queen was a formidable individual. Stylish, and ruthless, she partook in her hunts with all the poised valour of, as she at least said, a true Lady. As a Lady, many traditions must be upkept in her stay within this place. One of these traditions was that of the tea party. Of numerous tea parties.
Typically, Edgar had no time or patience for the rules and expectations of the aristocracy, and tea parties were easily counted among them. Still, as stated, this was not a day for their reservations to win out.
They had been invited by the Bloody Queen. Personally.
This was not unheard of, though it had not yet happened to them. Mary, as she was more casually known, was a gossip, and adored picking favourites. There were quite a few survivors she had so far decided she had liked - enough so to invite along to tea - and just as many that she had deemed worthy of hefty, personal grudges. She had all the hypocrisy as was typical of the upper classes, but at the very least she made no attempt to hide it, or to mask it as anything else. She lived her life to serve only herself. That much was worn as proudly as a heart on her sleeve.
Needless to say, Edgar was curious. Why invite them now?
If it seemed stupid, they would just leave. Whether or not that may invoke the hunter’s wrath was hardly a concern. They didn’t really care about that.
And so, here they are, at the door to a parlour that should hardly get any use at all if not for the regular spot Mary had turned it into. Already seated, having arrived early no doubt, the hunter has teapot and saucer raised in two hands, pinkie finger pointed skyward - all perfect.
“Oh! If it isn’t the painter!” Her voice sing-songs, as if there were any point in a pretence of surprise. She did invite them here. “Do come in, take a seat, get comfortable - with haste now!”
One would think she owned the place… but Edgar obliges. Curiosity killed the cat.
Promptly, Mary sets her tea down, stirring the contents with a teaspoon that had been placed neatly upon a napkin. She really had it all decked out - pastries, cakes, the lot - how did she even get a hold of this stuff?
“Really, I am so glad you did come.” She says, apparently unconcerned with Edgar’s own judgemental silence so far. “Galatea told me you may ignore my invitation… that the likelihood was rather high, in fact! But, I thought certainly not - you may have your quirks, but with your noble standing, I was quite certain you must have been raised better than that!”
At another time, Edgar may have a retort or three about referring to how they were raised in such a way, but there is another more pressing matter at hand here.
“Galatea?” They echo the name, utterly confused. Surely this couldn’t be to do with…
“Why, yes!” Mary continues her stirring, paying no mind to the gears visibly turning in Edgar’s mind. “She’s told me some awfully interesting things about you, dear! About some of what you have been painting as of late?”
Without hesitation, Edgar gets to their feet.
It was as they had already decided. If this was to be a stupid meeting, then they would simply get up and leave. Before they can start towards the door, however, Mary swiftly interrupts. She raises a finger, as if that gesture would do anything at all.
“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast!” There is an urgency, a commandeering edge to her voice that does make Edgar stand still. Fine, they think, Speak then. “If you have come all this way, you surely must be curious about what I have to say. I simply insist that you must hear me out! This isn’t really about your painting. Not really.”
All this way..? It was hardly a trek - they’re all under the same damn roof! Still, they concede with an exhale. If she swears this isn’t really about their painting…
“Okay, then.” They sit back down, but not without fixing Mary a hard stare. She seems amused at this. “However, you better not be lying. About the topic of this, I mean. I have no intention of discussing my art with you, especially not prompted by any word of mouth.”
God, they hate gossip.
“If this isn’t about my painting, though,” they continue before Mary can say anything else, “What is it about?”
“Goodness me, you’re an impatient one!” Her eyebrows are raised now to a dramatic arch, and she pauses, as if on purpose, to take another sip of her tea. “And proud. Terribly proud. Are all artists this headstrong?”
Edgar gets the feeling that her willingness to entertain this would depend entirely on her mood. Whatever this is about, she must be in good spirits about it.
“I don’t know.” They say, that prideful impatience moulding their tone like clay. “That doesn’t matter to me. I’m not other artists, or all artists.”
She huffs then, dejected.
“A rhetorical question, dear. You really won’t humour me, will you? Fine, then. I shall proceed to my reasons for summoning you.” Unhooking her fingers from their perfect place upon the teacup handle, she drums them now upon the table. A shift from leisure to business. “I must ask you this: Have you ever worn a dress?”
Edgar is glad that they had not been tempted by any tea or pastry. Surely, they would have spat any mouthful right out.
“...Excuse me?” They manage to say, though their words feel tight now in their throat. “Are you trying to mock me?”
“Absolutely not! I am all together and entirely serious!” Once again, that ferocity returns to her voice, a forcefulness that she clearly often uses to get her way. It is hard to doubt her when she speaks so fiercely. This, however, does not help to rid Edgar of any of their confusion. “And as it is a serious question, I demand a serious answer. Have you?”
An answer should come immediately, but it does not. It requires a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but one does not easily come. If it is a simple recount of their life, of events that have clearly or unequivocally happened, then why?
“No.” They say it finally, though it somehow feels like lying. It is not a lie, and yet it does not tell the whole truth. They have not worn a dress, but they have coveted the garment so. They think to their mother’s green gowns, their sister’s white frocks - all put away in storage, or sold, and yet still so clear in their mind.
Mary laces her fingers together now, as if weaving a fabric of her very own. Her own dress, with its high collar and sequined embroidery, framed her form in a way that was entirely striking. Edgar had always enjoyed painting her in matches.
“Well. Would you like to?”
iv.
Edgar did not wear a dress that day. Nor did she decide to in the days after that. In the end, she had not given the Bloody Queen a straight answer at all, deciding rather to excuse herself than to endure the probing interview any further.
Instead, she had returned, as she often did, to painting. With a brush in hand, she had always felt best equipped for articulation, for a conversation with herself.
In time, she finished the painting she had started in front of Galatea that day. It became a bigger piece than she had ever intended. The woman sat there upon the canvas with brown curls and blue eyes. She looked at Edgar, and shook her head.
This was not the right kind of painting. Not right for this time, not right for here, not right for now. No true exorcism had occurred, not as she had wanted it to. Mike’s gaudy colours hung about in all their boldness, plastered to the back of her mind, having gone nowhere at all. Never would she dream of those combinations of colour upon her face, upon her clothes - absolutely not. For the woman upon her canvas to smile, something else must occur. No painted clown face would do, nor any renaissance dress borrowed. It would certainly not exist to be scrutinised by any other artist, either.
Even so… Art was to be integral, as it always was. An artist, in embarking upon self-expression, could never create with only intention alone. An artist needs the tools, needs the experience. In this case, Edgar had not yet learned either.
Despite her misgivings, she could not be satisfied doing this alone.
v.
She is not in her own room, with her own mirror. Still, an important criteria has been met: it is on her own terms.
Edgar had known exactly who she wanted to ask. It was not to be a perfect replica of the image she so coveted, but it was to be a start. It would come in the form of Margaretha Zelle, a dancer in the manor who kept almost entirely to herself. A performer built for the stage, and yet timid in the very navigation of her life - an oxymoron of a woman, but one whose elegance preceded her. In all things feminine, she excelled.
In the end, however, it was not Margaretha alone who would join her today. In tow came a friend, another who the dancer believed in. Apparently, despite all her experience, she did not trust herself alone to help Edgar; another display of her timidness. This companion came in the form of Demi Bourbon. A barmaid, a people-person, she had seen all kinds of things at her bar. Apparently. Edgar didn’t know much about all that.
Margaretha had apologised profusely for inviting another. Demi had made sure to ask twice if it was okay. Edgar, really, found she did not mind. She may not know them well, but that was not the point.
Two opinions were better than one. She knew well the importance of trusting artists native to their craft.
“...And, done!” Demi’s cheery voice interrupts the silence. It had been a concentrated silence, one of focus and determination. For an artist to work, to work well, it was much needed. Edgar preferred it this way.
The work had been split between two. Demi, apparently, loved applying lipstick. She wanted to do the lipstick. Margaretha, on the other hand, was very capable with a mascara and blush.
Stepping back now, the time had come. The feeling upon her own face was foreign, as if she had slathered the strokes of her own brushes there. Was this how it was to be a canvas?
In the mirror the dancer now held up for her, her question was answered. The woman she had painted was there - right there. She blinks, she turns her head. Her chest rises and falls with each breath. When she reaches up to move her hair the curls are not static, but fall into place. It is a dream come into being. Three-dimensional and whole.
As a smile appears in the reflection, a little gasp is heard from behind her. Remembering this is not a dream, Edgar looks over, following the source of the taken breath. It was Demi, looking overcome with something or other. Seeing a quizzical look, the barmaid hastily goes to explain.
“Ah– sorry, sorry! It’s just… you look- well, you’ve never smiled before! In front of me, that is!” Her words are somewhat garbled. Is she embarrassed? “I mean–”
“What she means, I think…” Margaretha comes to the rescue. Her voice is soft and shy, but warm. “Is that you look very beautiful. Especially with that smile. It suits you.”
…Beautiful?
Looking back to the mirror, the image Edgar sees there takes that word in. Beautiful is a word she knew well. Those who did not know how to use it had thrown it around often, not really meaning it. The use of that word… it had meant little coming from others. She had long since decided that. What mattered most, what mattered to her, is when she believed it. If not herself, then her own works of art. They had thoughts and feelings, too. Today, in this case, she was both herself and the art. Her very own opinion mattered tenfold.
Tilting her head from one side to the other, she does not break her own gaze. One must size up artwork closely before deeming its worth.
The smile returns, and there it remains.
“Yes,” she says finally. Her own conclusion has been reached. “Beautiful. I think so, too.”