Chapter 123: What cannot be bought

When Lucian’s long, elegant finger ceased its tapping, Ruelle’s traitorous eyes slowly rose to meet his. The veil was a foolish shield, yet without it she felt she might dissolve entirely beneath his gaze.

“How badly did you paint in the class to end up here?” Lucian asked, his eyes deceptively calm like a still sea.

Ruelle began to turn her head. “It was your—”

“Stay as you are.” Lucian’s voice was low. His instruction was soft and her body obeyed before thought could intervene.

“My what?” he asked mildly as he removed his coat, folding it once before setting it aside.

As he rolled his sleeves, the fabric drew slowly over his forearms, revealing pale skin and the faint line of veins beneath. When his fingers flexed, she looked away as if she had seen too much.

“It was nothing,” Ruelle whispered, her fingers tightening in her lap.

Across the hall, Mr. Swan’s voice came with brisk cheer as he spoke, “Choose your subject. This will be your final assessment. You may begin,” while ignoring the veil Ruelle had pulled over her.

At the instructor’s words, the Elite students began to lift clay and press it between their palms.

Out of the four vampires who had chosen her as their subject, three rose from their tables and approached the dais. And during that time, Ruelle’s spine stiffened under their attention, her hands folded so tightly in her lap that her knuckles almost turned white.

“Ugh, this one looks like it is going to take more time. I will take the other one,” said one of the vampires, before moving to where the human male was.

Another vampire stood long enough for her shoulders to begin to ache before the person quit and moved with a mutter, “The fabric is going to be annoying.”

When the third vampire lingered longer than necessary, a soft tap sounded from the front table as if the view were being blocked. The vampire shifted at once and returned to his place.

At Lucian’s table, Ruelle noticed how he appeared unbothered. Under his hands, the clay already bore the outline of her form.

The minutes stretched into hours, and weariness settled into Ruelle’s bones.

“My neck hurts,” Caroline complained from the other side with a strained voice. “I cannot hold it like this any longer. I need to sit straight.”

“Endure a little longer. You should feel fortunate to be of use today,” Mr. Swan hummed in amusement, while Caroline glared at him quietly. “The other two are doing just fine. I have been considering a paired subject. A man and woman. Proportions are easier to assess when placed together.”

“I am a married woman,” Caroline snapped through gritted teeth at the old man’s audacity.

“Not you, Mrs. Henley,” the instructor dismissed her. “I was thinking of Miss Belmont.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Swan, but I would prefer to decline,” Ruelle replied with a frown.

“You will be paid well,” the instructor added. “Look there at the far end,” he pointed at a statue of a woman made out of marble with a veil that barely covered her.

But before Ruelle could follow what Mr. Swan was pointing to, her gaze caught Lucian’s which was narrowed as he looked at the instructor, the way a predator might upon noticing a movement it did not like.

Unaware of it, Mr. Swan continued, “The drapery over the body is compelling. It is a marvellous piece. Imagine such an art with a living subject—”

A stool scraped loudly against the ground, faltering Mr. Swan’s words mid-sentence as he turned with his face still bright towards the source. The instructor asked Lucian,

“Do you require more clay?” and he gestured toward the servants who stood along the wall.

“No.”

Lucian’s unblinking gaze remained on the instructor until the brightness in Mr. Swan’s face began to dim. Lucian then remarked,

“Mr. Swan, did you know that Mr. Mortis had the artist, Winslow, called to Sexton last month? I imagine he would find reason to be displeased if the assessment time were disturbed.”

Silence followed.

Mr. Swan blinked before his eyes widened at the possibility of being replaced by another artist. After a minute he cleared his throat and said, “Continue your work, everyone. I will return shortly!” and he stormed out of the room.

At the same time, Ruelle’s attention was drawn to the sharp sound of shoes approaching towards the dais. She turned just as the footsteps stopped before her.

“How was your sleep?” Lucian asked while his eyes moved down the veil that was settled over her shoulders.

“Good,” Ruelle replied, her words soft. “And you?”

Lucian regarded her for a moment before responding, “It was good.” He then questioned her, “Are you waiting for an auspicious hour, Ruelle?”

Ruelle blinked beneath the veil. “I don’t understand.”

Lucian tilted his head slightly. He enquired, “Is there a reason your friend believes you are moving into the new quarters with her?”

“Oh, that—” Ruelle let out a nervous smile. “I—I haven’t told her yet… She was so happy about it—”

Her words faltered when his fingers lifted, not to touch her but to graze the veil where it softened the line of her cheek. Her breath shuddered.

“—I didn’t know how to break the news,” she finished her sentence.

“Want me to help? You only need to say the word,” Lucian offered, his fingers hovering near the fabric, as though testing the distance he had not crossed. He then dropped his hand to his side.

“It would be rude if she didn’t hear it from me.” Ruelle’s eyes widened and she shook her head. And while doing so, the fabric slowly slipped away from her head, sliding down her shoulders and falling softly on her lap. She whispered, “I will tell her.”

She heard him hum, which was only meant for her ears. He took a deep breath and then instructed her, “The weekend to the fair. You may take Claude with you.”

“I don’t think that is necessary. We will take the local carriage,” Ruelle replied, watching his eyes trained on hers.

“I believe we can both agree that your history with local carriages has been a disaster,” Lucian remarked.

When Lucian returned to his table, Ruelle’s gaze drifted across the hall, she caught one of the Elites staring at Lucian with a look of disbelief. Only then did it strike her that there were people in the room. That people might have overheard their conversation. Lucian, however, appeared wholly unconcerned, as though the others didn’t exist to him.

In the corner of her vision, Ruelle noticed Alanna staring at her. The vampiress’s sculpture had warped beneath her hands, the clay collapsing where she had gripped it too tightly for support.

Ruelle turned away from the vampiress, muttering to herself, “I don’t think I will be leaving the room anytime soon…”

When Mr. Swan finally returned with an exhale as though he had outrun catastrophe, he pulled out his pocket watch. He announced, “Three hours and seventeen minutes. That will suffice if you want to submit.”

Soon stools began to scrape against the floor, one by one as the Elite students rose after feeling they were done sculpting. And with not so much as a glance toward their work or the dais, they left the room.

Caroline had fallen asleep while waiting for the class to be done, while the male human groaned, rolling his stiff shoulders.

Mr. Swan approached the finished and unfinished works on the tables, clasping his hands behind his back. He paused behind the vampire who had chosen Ruelle as the subject. His eyes widened as the sculpture bore only a distant, grotesque resemblance to its subject, the veil carved like a shroud, the features warped into something hollow-eyed and mournful, as though dragged from a nightmare.

“I think it was harder than it seemed. But not bad, aye?” asked the vampire.

Mr. Swan cleared his throat before speaking, “You have created Miss Belmont as though she expired mid-sentence. Well, it is good that a different career awaits you,” he forced a laugh.

The instructor continued to walk and addressed the models, “Miss Belmont, Mrs. Henley, and you—you are all dismissed. You have passed your class.”

And while the male human was quick to escape from the room and her sister who was still fast asleep, Ruelle wasn’t sure if it was okay to leave, as it seemed that Lucian was still working on final touches.

“Ah, Mr. Slater. It seems you have been able to capture Miss Belmont perfectly well. It is good to see you return to your usual skill, unlike how you started this year with apples,” Mr. Swan praised.

Lucian didn’t spare a glance at the instructor, his attention fixed on his sculpted work as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist. Left with the silence, Ruelle slightly turned toward Mr. Swan.

“Where are the earlier works kept? The finished sculptures?” she asked curiously.

Mr. Swan blinked, surprised by the question. “Kept?” He gave a small, incredulous laugh before saying, “My dear, we do not store them as they are displayed. Sexton takes the finest pieces to the gallery and patrons come to admire them. It is a privilege for groundlings to be part of the collection.”

Ruelle gave a nod. Maybe there was one made by Dane, and she smiled at the thought of it.

Mr. Swan then folded his arms, lowering his voice as though revealing a secret to her,

“This year, however, will be… different. You see, the most accomplished pieces will be presented to the ministers,” he continued with a note of pride. “Private viewing. Private bids. Considerable sums. Art, after all, gains more value from the hands that create it. And the hands of the Elites are always esteemed above the rest.”

Ruelle came to realise that Sexton did not profit from groundlings alone but also from the vampires.

When Lucian set his tool down, one of the tools from the table slipped from the edge and struck the floor with a dull clatter. He bent down to retrieve it, balancing himself by holding the table’s leg with his other hand. For a brief moment, his fingers pressed against the leg before he picked up the tool and sat upright.

Mr. Swan then snapped his fingers for the servants to begin moving the tables carefully away from the dais, as if making space for the next class. He commented,

“I daresay it will be the most admired piece when the bidding begins.”

“If you say so,” Lucian murmured and dipped his hands into the bucket of water to get rid of the clay from his fingers.

Ruelle stepped down from the dais and retrieved her scarf, winding it around her neck as warmth slowly returned to her skin. Behind her, Lucian finished rinsing the clay from his hands and reached for his coat.

Before leaving, she allowed herself a glance at his work and her breath caught.

The resemblance was unmistakable and the expression, it brought warmth to her cheeks. Was this how he saw her?

The servants approached to move Lucian’s table to the side and she stepped away.

But one careful push, and a loud crack was heard before one of the table’s legs splintered and the table lurched forward. Clay struck the floor with a heavy, sickening thud. The sculpture collapsed inward, and every careful line smearing into a formless ruin.

“Your work—” Ruelle felt her stomach drop at the sight.

Mr. Swan demanded from the servants, “What have you done?!”

“The table’s legs are old, Mr. Swan,” one of the servants stammered. “We mentioned it a month ago. We should have the tables replaced.”

Lucian’s tongue clicked softly and he murmured, “How unfortunate.” His gaze flicked toward Ruelle before moving back to the instructor. “It seems Miss Belmont being a subject may prove inconvenient for anyone involved.”

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