Texture

a Celia McGovern story
(c) 1995 by Deb Atwood

The door to the studio opened, and light footsteps sounded as Vialle crossed the room. I smiled, not bothering to turn to her. I usually tried to remember that courtesy for the sighted, but like myself, Vialle was blind. She wouldn't know if I looked in her direction or not.

"Working already?" There was a soft laugh in her voice, and I smiled at it.

I stroked a hand over the sculpture, smoothing the clay over what would soon become velvety nose of a horse. "I couldn't go back to sleep this morning, so I came down here with a cup of tea and began to work. The image is so clear in my mind, its as if the clay can hardly wait for me." The clay already showed the shape of the horse to my hands, rearing under my fingertips. One hoof struck out, and I knew that when I was done, the scene of two stallions locked in combat should be impressive.

"May I?" I felt her approach, then her hand covering mine. Her fingers skipped lightly over the surface, exploring the pose. "This isn't the piece you were working on yesterday."

I thought of the marble figure of Random I had been working on. It was finished, and now I simply needed the quiet and solitude to complete the matching one of Vialle I had already begun. I wanted to present both to the couple for their upcoming anniversary, and didn't want Vialle to guess my true intention.

Her hand was on my shoulder, and I shrugged since she could feel it. "I'll get back to it eventually. This seemed more insistent to me."

She walked away, and a chair scraped as she settled into position. Soon I could hear the familiar scrape of a chisel on stone. We worked in silence and darkness for a time.

"How are you dressed today?"

Her inquiry caught me by surprise. "The usual. My sweat-shirt is getting pretty grimy," I admitted, "and after this bout with the clay I need to get it laundered. Jeans, no shoes." I smiled as I imagined her frown. For as long as we had known each other, Vialle and I had had a friendly rivalry over my style of dress. I have never settled into the typical Amberite style, and she allows me my idiosyncracies. But she always reminds me to at least wear shoes.

"Celia..."

"They're under my stool," I cut her off with a laugh. "Moccasins. Is that good enough?"

"How would you like to do something different this afternoon?" She changed the subject.

"Like what? Shall we go for a ride?" I suggested.

"Something that will require a little more effort from your part regarding appearance." Her voice was still mild, but held that hint of steel that suddenly reminded my of my mother.

My own voice was wary. "My appearance? What do you have in mind?"

"Random would like you to model for him."

Which explained everything. Random had taken to studying the art of Trump, and whenever he had the time, he painted for practice. Vialle had apparently decided I was to be his next victim.

I chuckled softly. "Well, it'll be good practice for him, I suppose. But it will also be the most singularly useless Trump I can think of. After all, Vialle, I never go anywhere. I'm almost always here, or in the Grove. I can always at least be found within the castle."

"Celia."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't an order. Merely a quiet reminder who I was and who Random was. I come from a world where monarchy is in name only. Who could blame me for still forgetting that it is different in Amber?

I stood, walking over to the sink and washing the clay off my hands and arms. "I'll need to clean up somewhat. Did he have a specific pose in mind?"

"No." I heard her approach behind me, then felt her fingers at my temples, smoothing back the escaped whisps of my hair. "It should reflect your personality, your true self." Her hands lifted my braid, and I knew she had her own definte thoughts on the matter of the pose. And she had no intention of telling me outright what they were.

"If it's supposed to reflect me, then he should come down here and paint me while I'm working. That's the real me." I abruptly stopped washing my hands, drying them against my apron. I stepped away slightly, and she released my braid, the tip brushing against my waist as it fell back against me. "This is me. I wear jeans, and a sweatshirt, and I like to be covered in clay or marble dust or little bits of silver. And I don't like to wear shoes."

"You don't paint a very impressive picture of yourself," Vialle chided.

"But I will."

I hadn't paid attention to Random's arrival until he spoke. I turned to face him, trying to place my gaze so that it would seem that I looked directly at him as I spoke. "Did you have a pose in mind? Vialle suggested something natural, and if you have your paints, I can work here while I pose."

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind." I felt his hand on my chin, raising it somewhat, then turning my face, first to the left, then the right. "A Trump should be more like a formal portrait."

I made a face. "I am not one of your family," I reminded him needlessly. "I don't feel right posing as if I were royalty."

"Think of it as a photo," he suggested. "A wallet size. Its not something that will be put on display. I'm probably the only one who will ever see it."

"You need practice in texture."

"Texture?" He sounded curious.

"Texture," I repeated firmly. "Remember, I went to school for art, and I learned something from those friends I had who painted. One thing that is difficult for any artist who works only in paints or pencils is texture. And texture is what helps any piece of work come alive."

"Then what do you suggest?" He sounded amused. I resisted the impulse to check if he were smiling.

"Paint me here in the studio. I'll go change first," I said quickly, forstalling any more objections from either Random or Vialle. "But paint me with my statues. If you can make the stone seem real, then you've got it."

There was a moment of silence, then Random agreed. I walked over to the stool I had been using and slipped my shoes over my toes. Then I headed out, Vialle's footsteps sounding close behind me.

Vialle parted ways with me before I went upstairs. She caught up with me after I had only had time to search my cloest for the right dress.

"A bath will be up shortly," she told me. "You have clay in your hair."

"That's not surprising," I admitted. "Will this do?" I held the dress out to her, allowing her to feel the cloth. It was a simple dress, short cap sleeves, a high neckline. I knew the cloth was navy. Nearly everything I own is navy. It makes it easier to dress when I don't have to worry about coordinating colors. The fabric was soft and silky, the skirt long and full. It was one of my favorite day dresses, almost as comfortable as wearing jeans.

When the bath arrived, I quickly washed and dried, and then slipped the dress over my head. Vialle had stepped out to give me privacy, but she returned as I had just finished dressing, sliding my feet into navy flats. She nodded approvingly as she heard the soft tap of the heels on the floor.

A fire had been stoked in my room, and we both sat before it as I brushed my hair to help it dry in the warm air.

"If you could be anywhere, where would you want to be?"

"Anywhere at all?" I considered Vialle's question carefully. London had wonderful memories for me, as well as sad ones. Unfortunately, anywhere didn't mean any time. London would never be the same without my parents. "I suppose my favorite place is the Unicorn Grove." I remembered the way I had first seen it in my mind's eye. "Its as if its the place of peace that I imagined when I was still a child. You know how much I love it."

"Exactly." There was a smile in her voice.

My hair was almost dry. I started to braid it automatically, but then Vialle was behind me, scooping it up gently, and fasting a clip to hold the heavy bangs back from my face. When down, my hair hangs straight to my waist. "Leave it down," she told me. "Remember, this Trump will last forever. Random may say it is like a photograph, but it is far more permanent than that. Trump cannot be destroyed."

Sighing, I had to admit she was right. On several points. "Let's find Random."

He was in his office, waiting for the two of us. "Turn around, Celia," he ordered.

I obliged, turning slowly. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Of course. Did you think you wouldn't?"

I chuckled. "Not with Vialle helping out." Vialle, of course, said nothing, but I heard her move next to her husband. Sometimes I was jealous of them, of how close they were. Not because I had any designs on Random myself, but because they had each other. I could only enjoy it vicariously.

Both of them walked over to me, and Random offered me his other arm. "Shall we return to the studio then?"

"No." I accepted his arm, but didn't move forward. "I want to go to the Unicorn Grove."

I could sense Vialle's agreement, and Random didn't seem surprised at my decision. I suddenly felt as if I'd been manipulated into the decision somehow, but didn't really resent it. "The grove will still give you plenty of practice with texture," I defended my decision. "Between the grass, the trees in the background, and those lovely little flowers with the odd scent..."

Random slipped his arm from mine, and I reached out to touch his shoulder instead. I felt the beginnings of a Trump contact, and realized that he obviously had a Trump of the grove. Moments later, we were there.

He had me sit on the grass, my skirt spread out over my legs. The sun was shining down on me, and I enjoyed the warmth, lifting my face to it. I heard Vialle move off to one side, and smiled to myself. While Random gave me directions on how to sit, and which way to face, I slipped my shoes off. I hid them under my skirt, long enough to cover them easily, and wiggled my bare toes in the soft grass. It reminded me of the first time I ever came to the Unicorn Grove.

I was supposed to be myself. And it seemed a crime not to feel the grass with my toes. Besides, Vialle would never know. Contributor: Deb Allen (Deb_Allen@fac.com)
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