The Heir of Archmond Pt 11

Okay, so we're less than 12 hours from the conclusion of Pitch Wars. I am anxious. Anxious. Very, very anxious. So rather than dwell on whether or not I'm getting selected, I choose to focus on other projects.

With Lieselotte done and The Paladin ready for agents to review, I'm finally getting a little free time. Of course I still have those doofuses at C+ to do some stuff for, but I also have a couple extra things to focus on. There's a podcast I'm thinking about working on, a little audio drama, some writing projects, and even an extra little project for the good guys at Smash Fiction I might consider.

Yeah, it didn't work. I'm still freaking out about Pitch Wars. Oh well. 

​DFTBA

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Lieselotte stared back and forth between the blue and the red. Which one pulled at her more? She was overthinking it. She closed her eyes and jabbed the brush at the palette, mixing the two before dashing them violently against the canvas.
    “Impressive,” the younger Dupin said, turning from her own work. She stepped closer to inspect the witch's work, flecks of paint dotting her face like freckles. “This is what you keep inside you, isn't it?”
    Lieselotte stared at the canvas. In all honesty she had no idea what she was doing, but there was a visceral pleasure in unleashing her hatred and frustration at the canvas. Perhaps she might take this up after this entire affair was over. No. Probably not.
    She studied the harsh swathes of color that cut across the scene. If anyone else had painted it, she would've rolled her eyes, scoffed, and called it a waste of pigment. It didn't look like anything. It didn't represent an inner torment or hope. And yet there was still something to it, something that made her feel just a little more whole inside.
    “I can't truly say,” the witch finally answered, setting her palette down. “I've never indulged in this kind of thing before.”
    “You seem to have a talent for it,” Marie noted, stepping in front of the witch. “I see frustration. Desires that will never be met, all yearning to explode out into the world.”
    “I see purple,” the witch replied.
    “Yes,” Marie smiled. “I see purple, too.”
    Lieselotte moved to a large set of brushes the youngest noble kept, dropping her tool off and inspecting the rest. She wasn't versed in art or painting, so the names of the individual brushes eluded her, but still, it seemed important to understand them. A fan brush. A thick, bristly brush. She reached out to take up a large brush with a thick handle. It had clearly seen much use in it's time. The dried flecks of paint dotted the entire handle and it seemed to be worn along one side, almost carved out.
    “I take it you're the only one who paints,” Lieselotte asked, inspecting the brush handle closer.
    “Yes. My sister isn't much for artistic endeavors.”
    “What about Sariah? Did she indulge?”
    “No. In fact I'm quite convinced she hated art,” Marie replied, dragging dazzling lines of yellow out from the center of her work. “She hated that poor musician girl. Hated my paintings, too.”
    “You didn't get along, did you?”
    “I ignored her, to be honest. And, thankfully, she paid me the same respect. Charlotte is the one that took great joy in agitating her.”
    “Why is that?” the witch asked, turning back to her companion.
    “Because she usurped Charlotte's throne.”
    “Throne?”
    “Figuratively speaking,” Marie explained. “Father groomed her to take over as Countess, but never officially named her as his heir. She was constantly at his side, studying the ins and outs of running the county. She attended meetings with nobles, officiated ceremonies, ah... it was all so boring.”
    “And Sariah took that away from her?”
    “I suppose.”
    “What about you? Weren't you in line, too?” Lieselotte asked.
    “Heavens no. The whole family would have to die before the burden fell on me.” Marie sat her brush down, staring at the red swirl in the center of her piece. Silently she reached out with her bare hand, smearing it outward. “They were all more than welcome to that responsibility.”
    “You prefer your art?”
    “I prefer my life. Art. Music. Drink. Friends without titles.”
    “You engage with the peasantry?”
    “I'm indulging you, aren't I?” she replied with a sly grin.
    “Fair enough. What do you think will happen to your brother now?”
    “Oh, I'd hate to speculate. If he's freed from charges, maybe he'll still become Count. Likely the stress will get to him and he'll just hand it to Charlotte, though.”
    “Really? Why do you think that?”
    “He never wanted the job, it was Sariah that pressured him. I suspect he assumed Charlotte would take over just like everyone else. But because he's the eldest child...” She trailed off her, swirling her brush in the air. With a renewed vigor she dashed a jagged stroke of white across the edges.
    “Have you worked out what you're going to tell the Viscounts?”
    “Are they coming to question me?”
    “Quite likely. They're questioning everyone.”
    “Including you?”
    “Fortunately, no. I was with them when the murder occurred.”
    “I see. Then I'm afraid I don't know what I'll tell them.”
    Lieselotte cocked her head, taken aback by the answer. “I don't understand. Why not just tell them you were painting?”
    “Was I? I'm afraid I lose all track of time and space when I dive into my work. Perhaps I was painting. But then again, perhaps I wasn't. I suppose it would be best to let them decide.”
    “You're going to let your accusers decide your guilt or innocence?
    “Why not? They know what they're doing. I find I'm dreadfully bad at making important decisions, so it's best to let others handle things.”
    “So you're saying you don't remember what you were doing when the murder happened?” Lieselotte asked.
    Marie paused, staring at her canvas, then glancing toward the witch. Without breaking eye contact, she dropped her brush and picked up a new tool, a palette knife with a long, sharp edge. In one quick motion she turned, pressing the edge of the blade against the canvas and dragging it along, turning this way and that, forcing the colors to press and merge as they created a strange, unnatural gradient across the piece. She lifted the knife, inspecting the strange hue of combined paints that rested on the edge, smiling.
    “I was... painting. Is that right?”
    Lieselotte looked over Marie's canvas. Two figures, vaguely human, Colors streamed through them and around them. Bright pigments exploded around the exterior while dull and dark hues seemed to bleed from within the figures. Over it all was a haze, a cloud created by the use of the palette knife, giving the piece an otherworldly feeling.
    “I suppose that's for someone else to decide,” Lieselotte replied.