The Painter and the Prince Who Cannot Be Painted novel · Chapter 20 of 24

Chapter 20: A Mother's Portrait

The Consort asked for the portrait after breakfast.

A court lady carried it in from the landing, where a palace guard had found it face down in the mud, and laid it on the quilts across her knees.

One corner was stained brown.

The rest was perfect.

Do-yun knelt on the floor of the main room with the slat thrown wide open for the first time, and the winter sun lying across the boards.

Gyeol knelt beside him, bandaged and silent, with his hands on his thighs.

The Consort looked at the silk for a long time.

"That's my nose," she said.

"Yes, my lady."

"You gave my son my nose, and you took his father's."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it was safer," Do-yun said. "I wanted you to have your son, and I wanted to live."

The Consort's mouth moved, and it might have been a smile.

"It's a good picture," she said. "I'll keep it by my bed."

"Thank you, my lady."

"But it isn't the one I want."

Gyeol's head came up.

"I have looked at my son's face all night through the door," the Consort said. "I saw it by the lamp when the physician changed his bandage. I have not seen it in three years, and I may not see it again." She laid the silk aside and folded her thin hands. "Paint that one. Here, in front of me, now."

"Mother, the King..."

"The King is my stepson, and a frightened boy. While I live, no one touches the painter." Her eyes were bright and hard. "Gyeol. Sit."

Gyeol looked at Do-yun.

Do-yun set the new silk on the easel, and wet the brush.

Gyeol sat on the cushion in the bar of sun with his hair falling over his shoulders, and lifted his chin.

He held perfectly still.

Nobody had told him to.

Do-yun worked for two hours, and the room was so quiet that he could hear the old woman breathing.

He painted the straight nose, and the heavy brows, and the long stern line of the jaw.

He painted the scar.

He painted the amber in the brown eyes, which he had seen in the sun and carried in his head all night.

When he laid down the brush, the face on the silk looked out at the room.

It was the dead King's, and it was not.

It was a man of twenty-eight with a woodcutter's tan, and a mouth that was about to smile.

The Consort made a sound.

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