Centuria Books · Brushes with Royalty
Brushes with Royalty — Read the First Chapter
She crossed an ocean to find herself—and found a prince who only wanted to be seen as a man.
Chapter 1 – Hollingsworth’s Fading Colors
The rain in Hollingsworth was relentless, merciless—a liquid prison that had trapped the town for weeks. It tapped against the leaded glass of my attic studio with the persistence of an unwelcome visitor, each droplet a tiny clock counting down minutes I couldn’t get back.
I stared at the blank canvas before me, its emptiness mocking. My fingertips were stained indigo blue, my oversized sweater spotted with flecks of crimson and gold—evidence of artistic attempts that had gone nowhere. With an irritated sigh, I brushed a strand of hair from my face, accidentally smearing paint across my cheek. I didn’t bother to wipe it off.
What was one more imperfection?
Eighteen blank canvases in fourteen months. The pile of untouched white grew like a monument to my failure, while my completed works—the ones I’d actually believed in—were probably languishing in Jasper’s storage room. Or worse, his dumpster.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block the memory of his gallery, of standing frozen in the entrance as strangers analyzed my pain hanging on pristine walls, carefully arranged to highlight my “amateur authenticity” compared to Margot Fletcher’s “sophisticated mastery.”
“Luna!” My sister’s voice jolted me back to reality, carrying up the narrow, creaking staircase of our shared cottage. “The town council meeting starts in twenty minutes. You promised you’d come this time.”
I glanced at the antique clock on the wall—another heirloom in a town that worshiped the past. “Coming, Ember,” I called back, my voice scratchy from disuse.
Promises had become my specialty lately. I promised my teenage art students I’d find something to inspire them beyond watercolor basics. I promised Ember I wasn’t spiraling into depression after Jasper’s betrayal. I promised the community center director I’d have new pieces ready for next month’s local artist showcase.
Empty promises. Empty canvases. Empty me.
I wiped my hands on a rag that had once been white but now resembled a Jackson Pollock experiment gone wrong. Paint thinner and turpentine couldn’t remove the layers of color embedded in my skin. Sometimes I wondered if cutting off my hands would be the only way to start fresh.
The floorboards protested beneath my feet as I made my way downstairs, each step a century-old grumble. Our cottage had been in the Blackwood family for generations, its walls absorbing family secrets like the oil paints I could no longer use without remembering.
Ember waited by the front door, architectural portfolio tucked precisely under one arm, her posture as straight as the ruler she used to draft her award-winning restoration designs. My sister was Hollingsworth’s golden child—the one who understood that our town’s medieval architecture wasn’t just history but currency.
“You’re wearing that?” Her gaze traveled from my paint-splattered overalls to the vintage kimono jacket I’d rescued from the Sunday flea market to my mismatched socks—one striped blue, one solid mustard.
“Would you prefer I go naked?” I shot back, reaching for my rain boots. They were once plain yellow rubber, but I’d covered every inch with hand-painted sunflowers three summers ago, back when I still believed art could bloom anywhere, even in this claustrophobic town.
“I’d prefer you look like you care,” Ember said, her voice softening. “This meeting is important, Luna. The mill flooding affects everyone.”
I bit back a retort about how looking like I cared and actually caring weren’t the same thing. Instead, I grabbed an umbrella decorated with constellations—another relic from my optimistic period.
“Fine. Let’s go face the tribunal of town elders and small-business owners who still look at me like I’m the girl who got publicly dumped and artistically eviscerated in one spectacular evening.”
Ember’s sigh could have powered a windmill. “Not everything is about what happened with Jasper.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Pemberton who still asks if I’m ‘feeling more stable’ every time I buy bread at her bakery.”
We stepped outside into the downpour, and despite my bitterness, I couldn’t deny Hollingsworth’s particular beauty in the rain. The ancient Tudor buildings with their black timber frames leaned toward each other across narrow cobblestone streets, creating a picture-perfect scene that attracted tourists and BBC period dramas in equal measure. Gargoyles with worn faces spewed water from rooftops that had witnessed plagues, wars, and the slow erosion of dreams.
“Beautiful prison,” I muttered as we hurried past the central square where a tour guide huddled with determined sightseers under a forest of umbrellas.
Ember shot me a look that was equal parts concern and irritation. “This town is our heritage, Luna. Not everyone sees it as a trap.”
“That’s because you’re transforming it,” I replied, splashing through a puddle that soaked my left ankle. “You get to redesign the buildings, make your mark on centuries of history. I’m just… existing in the spaces between things that matter.”
Ember didn’t respond. She’d heard variations of this complaint since I’d returned to Hollingsworth after university with a fine arts degree and naive ambition. Once, she’d encouraged my applications to galleries in London and Manchester. Now she just weathered my moods like the stone walls of St. Agnes Cathedral weathered the seasons—with silent endurance.
We ducked into the old Guildhall just as Mayor Whitley called the meeting to order. The vaulted ceiling captured and amplified the buzz of concerned citizens—shopkeepers whose businesses lined River Street where the flood damage was worst, elderly residents of the historical society clutching notebooks filled with preservation protocols, and harried parents worried about the impact on local employment.
The wooden bench creaked as we sat, and I scanned the room instinctively, then froze. Three rows ahead sat Jasper Collins, his artfully tousled brown hair exactly the same as when I’d run my fingers through it. His right hand rested possessively on Margot Fletcher’s knee—the same hand that had once traced the botanical illustrations tattooed across my collarbone, proclaiming them “exquisitely vulnerable.”
“Breathe,” Ember whispered, noticing my sudden rigidity.
But how could I explain that seeing him still felt like having my ribs pried open? That his leather jacket—distressed in that carefully curated way that cost more than my monthly rent—brought back the scent memory of his cologne mixed with linseed oil in his private studio behind the gallery?
The gallery where, eighteen months ago, I’d believed my art would finally be understood. Where I’d spent six years developing a collection that excavated my family history, my grief over our parents’ deaths, and my slow climb toward healing. Raw, honest paintings that Jasper had praised as “transformative.”
Until the night of what was supposed to be my debut solo exhibition.
I’d arrived in my one good dress to find my paintings interspersed with Margot’s sleek, commercially viable portraits. Above the entrance hung a banner I can still see when I close my eyes: “Emotional Evolution: From Amateur Authenticity to Professional Polish.”
The entire town had witnessed my humiliation as Jasper explained his “curatorial vision” to the confused attendees: my work representing “raw potential and emotional honesty” juxtaposed against Margot’s “technical refinement and commercial appeal.” He’d presented our relationship the same way—my love had been the “passionate but unpolished beginning” of his “artistic romance” that had evolved into something “more sophisticated” with Margot.
I hadn’t sold a single painting. Worse, I hadn’t finished one since.
“Luna,” Ember’s elbow nudged my side. “They’re talking about the mill.”
I dragged my attention back to Mayor Whitley, forcing myself to focus on something—anything—besides the back of Jasper’s head and the memory of that night.
“Thompson Textiles has stood on that riverbank for over two hundred years,” the mayor was saying, his ruddy face grave beneath his thinning white hair. “The flood damage is substantial, but what concerns us more is the parent company’s response. They’re evaluating whether restoration is ‘economically viable’ given the building’s age and condition.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Thompson Textiles wasn’t just a historical landmark—it employed half the town, including Ember, who’d been hired last year to oversee restoration of the original Victorian wing.
“We’re applying for emergency heritage funding,” Mayor Whitley continued, “but competition for these grants is fierce. We need to demonstrate not just historical significance but ongoing cultural relevance. The committee is open to suggestions.”
My fingers twitched, an old habit reasserting itself. Before Jasper, before the exhibition disaster, I’d always carried a sketchbook to meetings like this, capturing the unconscious gestures that revealed what words concealed—the mayor’s hands trembling slightly when mentioning funding, the mill manager’s white-knuckled grip on his notebook, the way elderly Mrs. Abernathy’s fingers pleated her skirt when she was preparing to object to something.
“We should form a documentation committee,” suggested Mr. Reynolds from the historical society. “Gather testimonials from longstanding employees, historical photographs, records of the mill’s contribution to the war effort.”
Sensible. Practical. Completely bloodless.
Before I could second-guess myself, I was on my feet. “What about an exhibition?”
The room fell silent. Fifty pairs of eyes swiveled toward me in various states of surprise and suspicion. I hadn’t spoken at a town meeting since before the gallery incident. Ember looked as shocked as everyone else.
“An exhibition,” I continued, my voice steadier than I felt. “Not just dusty records and photographs in binders. Something living. Art installations using materials from the mill. Portraits of workers past and present. Textile demonstrations. Audio recordings of the machines—those iron giants have a voice that’s disappearing from the world.”
I was gesturing now, my hands painting pictures in the air. “We showcase the mill as a living entity, not just architectural heritage but human heritage. Something that makes grant committees feel the loss if Thompson closes, not just understand it intellectually.”
The silence stretched until I became uncomfortably aware of my paint-stained fingers and the blue smudge I still hadn’t wiped from my cheek. Mayor Whitley cleared his throat.
“That’s… actually quite a compelling idea, Luna. Would you be willing to coordinate something like that?”
Before I could respond, a familiar voice cut in. Jasper had turned in his seat, his expression a practiced blend of encouragement and condescension that I once mistook for genuine interest.
“Wonderful to see you engaging again, Luna. Perhaps you could display some of your… earlier work? The raw authenticity would suit a community project perfectly.”
Earlier work. Before I failed. Before I became Hollingsworth’s cautionary tale of artistic promise squandered.
The heat of shame crawled up my neck, burning my ears and cheeks. I could feel Margot’s practiced sympathy—the slight head tilt, the downturned mouth that suggested compassion while her eyes remained cold as gallery marble.
“I was thinking something new, actually,” I heard myself say. “Something collaborative that captures the mill’s spirit through multiple perspectives. Not just my vision.”
The conversation moved on to logistics, potential venues, and funding sources, but all I could focus on was the terrifying knowledge that I’d just committed to creating art when my well had run dry for over a year. I’d promised to lead a project that required inspiration when I couldn’t even fill a sketchbook page without destroying it afterward.
The meeting concluded with committee assignments and follow-up dates. As everyone filed out into the persistent rain, Ember squeezed my shoulder. “That was brave, Luna.”
“That was stupid,” I corrected, watching Jasper help Margot into his vintage Jaguar, his hand protective against the small of her back. “I can barely finish a sketch, let alone curate an entire exhibition.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what you need—something bigger than yourself. Something that matters beyond your own pain.”
We passed the travel agency where I’d been avoiding looking for months. Its window display featured a poster of the Eiffel Tower at sunset, the image so vibrant against the gray day that it seemed to generate its own light. I paused, transfixed by the contrast between Paris’s golden warmth and Hollingsworth’s perpetual dampness.
The poster reminded me of the cardboard box I’d been avoiding in my studio corner—Grandpa’s unfinished travel sketches and the letter I’d found among them after he died last winter. The letter I’d read once, then shoved back into the box because its truth hurt too much.
*I never did see Paris, my Luna. Always said there was time, always another reason to stay put. Now my hands shake too much to hold a pencil properly, and my lungs can’t manage the climb up Montmartre. Don’t make an old man’s mistake. Don’t let your world grow small.*
“I need to go home,” I said suddenly, still staring at the poster.
“We are going—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “I need to work.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. Back in my studio, I bypassed the accusatory blank canvas and went straight to the dusty cardboard box I’d pushed against the wall. Grandpa’s sketches spilled across my worktable—incomplete renderings of places he’d dreamed of but never visited. The Colosseum cut off at its upper tiers. The canals of Venice stopping abruptly at the water’s edge. The Notre Dame cathedral without its spire.
Each drawing halted as if waiting for the next line, the next decision.
Behind me, the rain-streaked window framed Hollingsworth’s perfect medieval skyline—the cathedral spire, the Tudor rooftops, the cobblestoned market square. The town that had once inspired my earliest paintings now felt like a beautiful photograph—something to admire but never touch, never change.
My eyes fell on Grandpa’s half-finished sketch of the Seine, Paris’s iconic bridges floating without moorings on the empty page. Beside it lay my phone, its screen reflecting my paint-smeared face with the blue streak across my cheek.
With fingers trembling more from excitement than fear, I unlocked the screen and did something I hadn’t allowed myself to consider until this moment. I booked a one-way ticket to Paris.
The confirmation email appeared seconds later—Luna Blackwood, departure in three days, no return date specified.
It wasn’t just escape I needed. It was room to breathe, to see myself outside the tiny frame others had placed me in. To finish what my grandfather couldn’t—both his sketches and the life they represented.
I looked back at the empty canvas on my easel, no longer feeling its silent accusation. It could stay blank. In Paris, I would find new ones.
Paris, where no one knew me as Jasper Collins’ ex-fiancée. Paris, where no one had seen my most personal art displayed like specimens of primitive expression. Paris, where streets didn’t whisper with decades of my family’s history.
Paris, where I could disappear into anonymity and maybe—just maybe—rediscover the girl who once believed art could save her.
Chapter 2 – Shadows of an Artist
Three days. Seventy-two hours between deciding to leave and actually leaving.
I stood in my closet—more of an alcove, really—running my hands over the clothes that defined me. Most people in Hollingsworth dressed for practicality: sensible raincoats, sturdy boots, and muted colors that wouldn’t show mud splatters. My wardrobe looked like it had been assembled by a color-blind magpie with excellent taste.
A 1960s mustard-yellow cardigan with pearl buttons. A silk scarf patterned with constellations I’d found at a church jumble sale. Overalls splattered with every color I’d ever worked with. Each piece held a memory that belonged only to me, untouched by Jasper or the whispers that followed me down Main Street.
My fingers lingered on the edge of a royal blue blouse I’d worn on our third date. He’d said the color made my eyes look like winter skies. The memory stung like salt in a fresh cut. I yanked the blouse from its hanger and stuffed it into the donation bag I’d been meaning to fill for months.
“Out with you,” I whispered to it. “Out with all the pieces of me I don’t recognize anymore.”
I pulled out my largest vintage suitcase—a battered leather thing with peeling travel stickers from places its previous owner had visited. Places that existed for me only in daydreams and Pinterest boards.
“This is insanity,” I muttered, tossing in a handful of mismatched socks. “Complete insanity.”
But it was the kind of insanity that made my blood sing. The kind that woke me up at three in the morning with a clarity I hadn’t felt since before Jasper looked at me with stranger’s eyes across The Copper Kettle and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”
I ran my fingers along my collarbone, tracing the outline of the botanical illustrations tattooed there—foxglove for insincerity, anemone for fading hope, and in the center, a small but persistent dandelion for resilience. I’d gotten them during my final year at university, when I still believed heartbreak could be transformed into art.
“What would people say?” I whispered to my reflection in the small, tarnished mirror propped against the wall. The girl looking back at me had shadows under her eyes that seemed to have appeared overnight and stayed for seasons. Her lavender-tipped hair fell in soft waves that once were deliberate but now just happened to be.
“They’ll say I’m running away,” I answered myself, folding a sweater that smelled faintly of paint and my grandmother’s perfume. “That I couldn’t handle seeing him with Melody. That I’m proving them right about being flighty and unreliable.”
I pressed the sweater to my face, breathing in deeply. The scent unlocked a memory: my grandmother teaching me to mix colors on a rainy afternoon, her hands steady over mine as we turned cadmium yellow and alizarin crimson into the exact orange of a sunset.
Maybe they were right. Maybe this was running away. But after eighteen months of standing still, of making myself smaller with each passed note and sideways glance, running felt like the first honest thing I’d done in too long.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ember.
*Are you coming to dinner? Made shepherd’s pie.*
I stared at the message, guilt crawling up my spine like ivy. I hadn’t told her yet. Hadn’t told anyone. How could I explain that I needed to leave to find myself when everyone in Hollingsworth would see it as confirmation that I was exactly what they thought—unstable, unreliable Luna Blackwood, who couldn’t even handle a failed relationship without fleeing the country?
*Be there in 10*, I replied, shoving the suitcase under my bed like contraband.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving everything with that fresh-washed gleam that made even Hollingsworth’s ancient buildings look renewed. I grabbed my sketchbook—the one nice thing I still carried everywhere even though its pages remained blank more often than not—and headed down the narrow stairs that connected my attic studio to the main cottage. The evening light spilled across the cobblestones, turning puddles into mirrors reflecting the twilight sky. A couple walked hand-in-hand ahead of me, the woman gesturing animatedly while the man nodded, his hands strong and expressive.
Before I realized what I was doing, my sketchbook was open, pencil moving across the page, capturing those hands—the way his thumb stroked her palm, the slight tension in his fingers that suggested he was holding himself back from interrupting her story.
Hands never lied. That’s why I sketched them—hands and the unconscious truths they revealed. The baker’s flour-dusted fingers tapping impatiently on the counter when customers took too long to decide. Old Mr. Patterson’s arthritic grip on his walking stick, knuckles white with determination. The gentle way my grandfather had held his unfinished sketches, as if apologizing to them for never completing their path.
My pencil moved faster now, catching the way the man’s fingers interlaced with the woman’s, how his grip tightened slightly when she laughed. There was a story there—not just in their words but in that small, protective gesture. The intimacy of it made my chest ache with a hollow sort of hunger.
When was the last time someone had held my hand like that? Not Jasper, certainly. His touches had been calculated, especially around other artists. “Look at my muse,” those touches had said. Never “Look at my equal.” He’d hold my hand for others to see, not for me to feel.
My grandfather. The thought of him swept through me like a winter wind, sharp and unexpected. He’d been gone almost eight months now, but sometimes the loss felt as raw as the day we’d found him in his armchair, sketchbook open on his lap, pencil still loosely held between his fingers as if he’d just paused to consider his next line.
Edward Blackwood had been Hollingsworth’s resident eccentric—a retired literature professor who wore bow ties with flannel shirts and quoted poetry to cashiers at the grocery store. He’d slip Wordsworth into conversations about the weather and smile when no one caught the reference. He’d been my first art teacher, showing me how to really see things instead of just looking at them.
“Art isn’t about perfection, Luna-moon,” he’d say, using his nickname for me. “It’s about honesty. Draw what you feel, not just what you see.” His eyes would crinkle at the corners, weathered by decades of squinting at the world’s tiniest details.
The memory was so vivid I could almost hear his voice, feel the gentle pressure of his hand adjusting mine on the pencil. “Too tight, Luna-moon. You’re strangling your creativity. Let the pencil dance.”
I’d found the letter tucked into his sketchbook at the funeral reception, hidden among drawings of places he’d dreamed of visiting but never had. His handwriting had grown shaky in his final years, but the words were clear:
*My dearest Luna-moon,*
*If you’re reading this, I’ve finally embarked on the one adventure I can’t sketch for you. I leave you my unfinished dreams—not as a burden but as an invitation.*
*I never did see Paris, my Luna. Always said there was time, always another reason to stay put. Now my hands shake too much to hold a pencil properly, and my lungs can’t manage the climb up Montmartre. Don’t make an old man’s mistake. Don’t let your world grow small.*
*You’ve always seen beauty where others saw ordinary. Don’t lose that gift. Even when it hurts to look closely—especially then—keep your eyes open.*
*With all my love,*
*Grandpa*
The words had lived in my pocket for months, folded and refolded until the creases threatened to tear the paper. I’d been so busy nursing the wounds Jasper left that I’d forgotten the most important lesson Grandpa had taught me: art wasn’t about the audience. It was about truth. About catching those fleeting moments when someone’s guard drops and the real person shines through.
I closed my sketchbook, suddenly aware I’d stopped walking and was standing motionless in the middle of the street. The couple I’d been sketching had disappeared around a corner, but their impression remained on the page—his strong hands, her animated gestures, the space between them charged with something I couldn’t name but recognized in my bones.
Connection. The thing I’d been missing since Jasper had taken my most vulnerable work and displayed it like specimens in a museum of my broken trust. Six months of sketches—my rage, my heartbreak, my healing—all framed and hung without permission. “Raw emotion,” he’d called it in the gallery notes. “Unfiltered female pain.”
“Luna!” Ember’s voice startled me. She stood in the doorway of our cottage, wooden spoon in hand, sunset light catching in her copper hair. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”
“Just sketching,” I said, holding up my book as evidence.
Her eyes widened slightly. “You’re drawing again? That’s—that’s wonderful!”
The genuine delight in her voice made my stomach twist with guilt. I followed her inside, inhaling the comforting scent of shepherd’s pie—our mother’s recipe, one of the few tangible connections we had to parents who’d died when I was twelve and Ember sixteen. “It’s nothing serious,” I said, dropping onto a chair at our small kitchen table. “Just hands.”
“You always did have a thing for hands.” Ember served us both generous portions, steam rising from the plates. “Remember how Grandpa used to say your hand studies were like reading people’s diaries without their permission?”
I smiled despite myself. “He called it my ‘secret superpower’—seeing what people tried to hide.”
“He was so proud of you, Luna.” Ember’s voice softened. “Even at the end, when he could barely remember his own address, he kept asking if we’d framed your latest exhibition pieces.”
I pushed food around my plate, appetite vanishing. “He never knew about the gallery disaster. About Jasper.”
“That was a kindness. It would have broken his heart to see you stop creating because of someone else’s cruelty.”
“I haven’t stopped,” I protested weakly. “I’ve just been…”
“Stuck,” Ember finished. “And that’s okay. Grief doesn’t have a timeline. Neither does healing from betrayal.”
I looked at my sister—really looked at her for the first time in months. The subtle shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. While I’d been wrapped in my own pain, she’d been carrying the weight of our family legacy, her demanding job, and worry for me.
“I’m leaving,” I blurted out. “For Paris. In three days.”
Ember’s fork clattered against her plate. “What?”
“I booked a one-way ticket.” The words tumbled out faster now. “I’m taking Grandpa’s sketches. I’m going to finish them for him—see what he never got to see. I have enough savings for a couple months if I’m careful, and I can teach English or wait tables if I need to stay longer.”
“Luna, this is—”
“Impulsive? Irresponsible? Running away?” I supplied, bracing for judgment.
“I was going to say ‘exactly what you need.’” Ember reached across the table and squeezed my paint-stained hand. Her touch—warm, firm, accepting—was so unexpected that tears sprang to my eyes. “You’ve been trapped in amber since that night at the gallery. Preserved but not living.”
The accuracy of her words struck me. I had been preserved in amber—a perfect specimen of heartbreak and humiliation, visible to anyone who cared to look closely enough.
“You’re not angry?” I asked, voice small.
“I’m worried about practical things—where you’ll stay, how you’ll manage. But angry? No.” She smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Grandpa would have absolutely loved this. His Luna-moon, finishing his drawings.”
Relief flooded through me, making my eyes sting with unexpected tears. “I don’t know if I can paint again. Not like before.”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to paint like before,” Ember said gently. “Maybe Paris is where you’ll find out how you paint now, after everything that’s happened.”
Her words hung in the air between us, tantalizing in their simplicity. The idea that I might find a new way to create, one that acknowledged the broken pieces rather than pretending they didn’t exist—it felt like permission to breathe again.
We spent the rest of dinner making plans—practical Ember helping impulsive me sort out details I hadn’t considered. Where I’d stay (a tiny attic apartment in Montmartre, available for short-term rental). How I’d communicate (an international phone plan). What I’d take (minimal clothing, maximum art supplies).
Later, back in my studio, I opened Grandpa’s box of unfinished sketches and spread them across my worktable. His Paris collection included half-completed drawings of Notre Dame, Sacré-Cœur, the bouquinistes along the Seine, and cafe scenes with empty chairs waiting for occupants.
I touched each one gently, as if they might crumble beneath my fingers. In the bottom of the box, I found something I hadn’t noticed before—a small watercolor kit, still sealed in its original packaging, with a note taped to it:
*For Paris, when you finally go. The light there demands color.*
He’d bought it for himself, for a trip he’d never take. Now it would go with me.
For the first time in eighteen months, I felt something unfurl in my chest—not happiness exactly, but possibility. The sensation was so foreign I almost didn’t recognize it.
I placed my passport beside the watercolor kit, then added my most treasured brushes—the ones I hadn’t been able to use since the gallery disaster. Finally, I retrieved my suitcase and began filling it more thoughtfully: my warmest sweater, a vintage dress in deep forest green, my most comfortable boots, and all my mismatched socks.
“What am I doing?” I whispered to myself, folding a scarf patterned with tiny stars. “This could be a massive mistake.”
But even as I said the words, I knew I didn’t believe them. For the first time since Jasper had displayed my private sketches—intimate drawings of him, of us, of my most vulnerable thoughts—with clinical little placards explaining the “artistic naïveté of romantic obsession,” I felt something like hope. Not the desperate, clutching hope I’d felt in the aftermath, praying it had all been a misunderstanding. This was quieter, steadier—like the first green shoot after a forest fire.
In three days, I would be in Paris. Not as Luna Blackwood, failed artist and cautionary tale. Just Luna, a woman with a sketchbook and her grandfather’s unfinished dreams.
As I worked, I caught a glimpse of myself in the old mirror leaning against the wall. My short, choppy hair (cut in a fit of reinvention after Jasper) was faded lavender at the tips—another impulse that had sparked momentary horror in Hollingsworth’s more conservative residents. My eyes looked different somehow—focused, present.
I pressed my hand against the cool glass, palm to palm with my reflection. For so long, I’d been looking at myself through Jasper’s eyes, seeing only what he’d exposed: the naïve girl who’d trusted too easily, loved too openly. But now, packing for a city I’d never seen, I recognized something else in my reflection. Something that had been there all along, waiting for me to notice.
Resilience. Like the dandelion inked across my collarbone—ordinary but unstoppable, turning even concrete cracks into opportunities to bloom.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I was looking forward instead of back.
Chapter 11 – Stitching Communities
“I need more hooks and at least three more display walls,” Luna called out as the basement door creaked open. She didn’t look up from the layout sketches spread across a folding table, her pencil making quick, confident marks. “And possibly a miracle, if anyone’s offering.”
“Will coffee suffice instead?” Ember appeared beside her, balancing two steaming cups and a paper bag spotted with grease. “The miracle department is backed up, but Clara at the diner threw in free donuts when I mentioned who I was feeding.”
Luna straightened, wincing as her back protested after hours hunched over plans. “You’re officially my favorite sister.”
“I’m your only sister,” Ember replied, setting down the provisions and surveying the chaos around them. “This is… ambitious.”
“Desperate times,” Luna said, reaching for the coffee. The warmth seeped through the paper cup into her fingertips, a small comfort against the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders. She took a sip, letting the rich bitterness wash away the taste of anxiety that had lingered in her mouth since the town meeting.
Three days had passed since Arthur Thompson had delivered the devastating news: without significant funding for restoration, the historic mill would close permanently within six weeks. The insurance would cover rebuilding the modern facilities, but the heritage section—with its irreplaceable wooden looms and traditional equipment—was beyond their financial reach to restore.
Luna could still see the faces in that room—weathered, proud faces that had suddenly gone slack with shock. Generations of livelihood, of identity, threatened not just by the floodwaters that had ravaged the lower floors, but by the cold reality of financial arithmetic. The silence that had followed his announcement still haunted Luna—the hollow sound of a community realizing its heart was being cut out.
Then, without planning to, Luna had stood up.
“What if we show people what they’d be losing?” she’d suggested, her voice gaining strength as the idea formed. “Not just Thompson’s, but two hundred years of unbroken craftsmanship. The story of this town told through its textiles.”
The memory of her own boldness made Luna’s cheeks warm. Who was she to make such promises? A returned prodigal with an art degree and a failed romance in Paris. Yet in that moment, she’d felt something catch fire within her—a certainty that this was a fight worth having.
“You really think you can pull this off?” Ember asked, studying Luna’s face with the penetrating gaze only a sister could deliver. “An exhibition big enough to save the mill?”
Luna bit into her donut, buying time before answering. The sweetness exploded across her tongue, momentarily distracting her from the magnitude of the task ahead.
“I have to try,” she finally said, wiping sugar from her lips. “This town… it’s not just where we grew up, Em. It’s where generations of people have created beautiful things with their hands. Things that last.” She gestured to the boxes surrounding them—salvaged artifacts from the mill’s two-century history, each piece telling a story of craft and care. “If I can make others see that, really see it…”
“You always did believe in the power of art to change minds,” Ember said, her skepticism softening into something like admiration. “Remember when you painted that mural on the side of Old Man Jenkins’ barn?”
Luna laughed despite herself. “He was going to tear it down for a parking lot.”
“Until your mural of the first harvest festival made it the most photographed spot in three counties.” Ember nudged Luna’s shoulder. “The historical society practically broke his door down to get it designated a landmark.”
“This is different,” Luna sighed, turning back to her sketches. “Bigger. With actual livelihoods at stake.”
Arthur Thompson’s words haunted her: “You have four weeks, Ms. Blackwood. I hope you’re as good as your grandfather always claimed.”
Now, standing in the community center basement surrounded by the accumulated history of Hollingsworth’s textile tradition, Luna wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. Four weeks to curate an exhibition powerful enough to save a two-century-old institution seemed impossible.
“You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows,” Ember observed, perching on the edge of the table.
“What thing?”
“That ‘I’ve taken on more than I can handle but I’ll die before admitting it’ thing.” Ember broke a donut in half, offering the larger portion to Luna. “It’s the same look you had before your senior thesis exhibition.”
Luna accepted the donut, leaving a smudge of powdered sugar on her sketch. “That was just my future. This is the future of the entire town.”
“No pressure,” Ember said dryly.
“None at all.” Luna brushed sugar from her fingers and turned back to her layout. “I’m thinking of structuring it chronologically, from the mill’s founding through the industrial revolution, the war years, up to the present. Each era would showcase not just the textiles but the people who made them.”
She pulled out a stack of old photographs she’d unearthed from the town archives—black and white images of stern-faced men and women standing proudly beside massive looms, their hands worn but dignified. One in particular caught her eye: a young woman, perhaps nineteen, with dark braided hair and a fierce, determined expression. She stood at a loom, her posture straight as a pin, hands poised with the certainty of someone who knew her worth.
“Look at her,” Luna murmured, passing the photo to Ember. “1892, according to the notation. She probably worked fourteen-hour days, six days a week. And yet look at her face—there’s such pride there.”
Ember studied the image. “She reminds me of you,” she said quietly. “That same stubborn chin.”
Luna took the photo back, tracing the outline of the young woman with her fingertip. “I want people to see her. To understand what was built in this town, stitch by stitch.”
“It’s good,” Ember agreed, “but is it enough to make outsiders care? Historical significance might qualify for preservation grants, but you need emotional impact to get people to open their checkbooks.”
Luna’s thoughts flashed unexpectedly to Paris—to Rashid leading her through tiny galleries tucked away on cobblestone streets, explaining how the most powerful exhibitions created a conversation between past and present, between creator and viewer. His voice seemed to float in her memory: “Art that asks nothing of its audience gives nothing in return.”
The memory of him sent a familiar ache through her chest—the bittersweet pang of something beautiful cut short before its time. Their whirlwind romance had ended so suddenly when she discovered his true identity, leaving her with only fragments of what might have been: his laugh in the rain-slicked streets of Montmartre, the warmth of his hand guiding her through crowded markets, the intensity in his dark eyes as he listened to her speak about her work.
“You’re right,” Luna admitted, pushing away thoughts of Paris. “I need to make this personal.” She pulled out her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found the name she wanted. “I need to talk to Mr. Thompson. I think I’ve been approaching this all wrong.”
“How so?” Ember asked, gathering the empty coffee cups.
Luna felt a surge of clarity, the kind that sometimes came in the middle of creating a difficult piece. “We need to hold the exhibition in the mill itself. Not here, sanitized and removed from context. People need to stand where the work happened, to feel the floors that generations have walked on, to see how the light comes through those tall windows.”
“The same mill that’s half-destroyed by flooding?” Ember raised an eyebrow. “The one with structural damage and no electricity in the west wing?”
“Details,” Luna waved dismissively, already composing a text to Arthur Thompson. “Beautiful, meaningful things never come easily. That’s what makes them worth fighting for.” Two days later, Luna stood in the center of Thompson’s main floor, surrounded by a team of volunteers—former mill workers, high school art students, and retirees with connections to the factory. The floodwaters had receded, leaving behind warped floorboards and the sharp smell of industrial cleaning products, but the cavernous space still held its dignity. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching on the brass fittings of rescued looms and the copper bobbins salvaged from the wreckage.
“Careful with that!” Luna called as two teenagers maneuvered a wooden display case through the double doors. “It’s on loan from the historical society.”
The case contained samples of Thompson’s earliest textiles—rough wool blankets dyed with indigenous plants, their colors still remarkably vivid after nearly two centuries. Luna had spent hours researching the techniques used to create them, her fingers tracing patterns created by weavers who had worked by candlelight, their dedication woven into each thread.
She checked her clipboard, mentally ticking off completed tasks. The exhibition was taking shape around her—not in the community center as originally planned, but in the mill itself. After her conversation with Arthur Thompson, they’d agreed: if they wanted to save Thompson’s, people needed to stand inside its walls, to feel the generations of craft embedded in the very timber.
“Ms. Blackwood?” A hesitant voice interrupted her thoughts. Luna turned to find Jessica Porter, a former student now in her first year of college, holding a stack of freshly printed pamphlets. “The brochures came back from the printer. They look amazing.”
Luna flipped through the glossy pages, a sweet satisfaction spreading through her chest. The cover featured a composite image she’d created—historical photographs overlaid with contemporary portraits of the same families still working the same craft generations later. Inside, brief essays from town historians and textile experts contextualized Thompson’s significance, while quotes from current and former employees gave the technical information heart.
“Perfect,” Luna said, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of what they were creating. The exhibition was no longer just an idea—it was taking physical form, becoming something people could touch and experience. “Can you start assembling the press packets? I want them ready for the media preview tomorrow.”
As Jessica hurried away, Luna looked around at the transformation underway. The damaged mill was coming alive again, not with the rhythmic clacking of looms but with the energy of purpose. Volunteers called to each other across the floor, sharing memories as they worked: “My grandmother operated that very loom,” or “I learned to weave on one just like this.”
Luna’s phone buzzed. A text from Ember: *Any word from the International Heritage Fund yet?*
Luna’s stomach tightened. The IHF grant represented their best hope for substantial funding—enough to not just repair but properly restore the historical section of the mill. She’d submitted their application the day after the town meeting, calling in favors from former professors to expedite the review process, but still hadn’t received a response.
*Nothing yet,* she replied. *Starting to lose hope on that front.*
A moment later, Ember responded: *Their loss. This exhibition is going to be spectacular with or without them.*
Luna smiled, grateful for her sister’s unwavering confidence, even as her own wavered hourly. She tucked her phone away and crossed to where an elderly woman was carefully arranging tools used in the weaving process—wooden shuttles worn smooth by decades of hands, metal heddles that had guided thousands of threads into patterns.
“Mrs. Abernathy, these look wonderful,” Luna said, admiring the careful arrangement. “Would you mind sharing some stories about using these tools for our audio guide?”
The older woman beamed, her weathered hands hovering protectively over the implements. “I’d be honored. Been waiting sixty years for someone to ask.” Her eyes twinkled with humor. “Though I might need to clean up some of the language. The shuttle had a habit of flying off and nearly taking your head off when you least expected it.”
Luna laughed. “Please, don’t censor on my account. Authenticity matters.” She made a note on her clipboard. “We’ll record tomorrow morning, if that works for you.”
After ensuring Mrs. Abernathy was comfortable with the arrangement, Luna climbed the rickety stairs to the mill’s second floor, where the most ambitious part of the exhibition was taking shape.
Here, in what had once been the pattern design room, Luna had created something magical. Instead of traditional displays behind glass, visitors would walk through a forest of hanging textiles—samples from every era of the mill’s production, suspended from the ceiling on nearly invisible wires. Each piece of fabric told a story: wedding dresses, military uniforms, children’s clothes, all made from Thompson cloth over two centuries.
The effect was breathtaking, like walking through colored mist. As Luna moved between the hanging fabrics, they swayed gently, creating a soft rustling sound that reminded her of secrets being whispered. Light filtered through the more delicate pieces, casting colored shadows on the floor and walls that danced as if alive.
In the center of the room stood what Luna privately called the heart of the exhibition—a massive wooden loom, the oldest in Thompson’s collection, partially restored by three retired craftsmen working around the clock. Beside it, a multimedia display showed hands at work—young and old, male and female, filmed in closeup as they performed the traditional techniques that had been passed down through generations.
“It’s coming together,” Arthur Thompson’s voice startled her. The elderly man stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a cane, his eyes taking in the transformation of his family’s legacy. “Edward would be proud.”
Luna swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Her grandfather and Arthur had been friends for over sixty years, sharing not just a business relationship but a deep commitment to quality and craft. “I hope so.”
Arthur moved carefully into the room, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. Despite his age and recent health troubles, he carried himself with the straight-backed dignity Luna remembered from her childhood visits to the mill. He reached out to touch one of the hanging fabrics—a square of indigo-dyed wool from the mill’s first decade.
“I was seven when my father first showed me how this blue was made,” he said, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “The vats were huge wooden barrels, taller than a man. The smell was… memorable.” His mouth quirked into a smile. “My mother would make me strip on the back porch after visiting the dye house. Said I reeked like the devil’s outhouse.”
Luna laughed, trying to imagine the dignified man before her as a small boy fascinated by smelly dye vats. “We should include that in the exhibition text. The devil’s outhouse has a certain vivid quality to it.”
“I admit I was skeptical when you suggested moving the exhibition here,” Arthur continued, gesturing to the space around them. “The insurance company nearly had a fit.”
“People need to feel it,” Luna explained, struggling to articulate the instinct that had driven her decision. “The history, the craftsmanship, the connection to something lasting. That’s what we’re fighting to preserve.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s not just about saving a business, Mr. Thompson. It’s about honoring all those lives that were woven into these fabrics.”
Arthur nodded slowly, something softening in his expression. “When does the general public get their first look?”
“Saturday morning. We have the media preview tomorrow, then the VIP reception Friday night for potential donors.” Luna consulted her clipboard. “Which reminds me—do you have your remarks prepared for the opening? I’ve scheduled you for ten minutes right after the welcome.”
“About that,” Arthur said, something unreadable crossing his face. “I received an interesting phone call this morning. From the International Heritage Fund.”
Luna’s heart skipped. “And?”
“They’re sending a representative to the VIP reception. Apparently, our application caught someone’s attention.”
“That’s—that’s wonderful!” Luna felt a rush of hope bloom inside her, the first real possibility that their efforts might succeed. “Did they say who’s coming?”
“Some junior associate. Al-something.” Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “The important thing is they’re interested. This could be the breakthrough we need.”
Luna nodded, already mentally rearranging the reception schedule to give the IHF representative prime placement. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”
“You always do,” Arthur said, his expression softening. “Just like your father. Never satisfied until every detail was right.”
The comparison to her father—Thompson’s most innovative dye master before his death—warmed something deep in Luna’s chest. She had spent so many years running from comparisons, trying to forge her own artistic identity separate from her family’s connections to the mill. Now she was fighting to preserve the very legacy she had once feared would overshadow her individual talent.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“I was so determined to be different,” she admitted quietly. “To be known for my own work, not as Edward Blackwood’s granddaughter or James Blackwood’s daughter.”
“And now?”
Luna looked around at the exhibition taking shape—at the stories she was helping to tell, at the heritage she was fighting to preserve. “Now I understand that carrying forward their passion isn’t the same as living in their shadow. I’m not just Edward’s granddaughter or James’s daughter. I’m Luna Blackwood, and this—” she gestured to the room around them, “—this is my work too.”
Arthur smiled, the deep lines around his eyes crinkling. “Your grandfather always said you’d find your way back when you were ready. Seems he was right about that, too.” The media preview bloomed into something far beyond what Luna had dared to hope. Journalists from local newspapers and regional arts publications arrived with polite smiles that quickly transformed into expressions of genuine wonder. Luna watched as even the most cynical reporters—the ones who’d entered with arms crossed and eyebrows raised—slowly surrendered to the magic woven into each fabric display.
“I never thought I’d get emotional over textiles,” whispered a woman from the city newspaper, her fingertips tracing the intricate pattern of a hand-loomed sample. Her voice caught slightly. “But there’s something about feeling the texture that photos could never capture.”
Luna nodded, her heart swelling. “That’s exactly what we wanted people to experience.”
A culture writer from the regional arts journal bent close to examine a row of natural dye samples—vibrant blues from indigo, warm yellows from onion skins, soft pinks from madder root. “The tactile experience is incredibly powerful,” she said, looking up at Luna with bright eyes. “You can feel the human connection in every piece.”
The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, casting a golden glow across the exhibition space. Luna moved between displays with quiet confidence, her voice growing stronger as she guided the group through Thompson’s evolution across decades. She explained how the mill had adapted through wars, economic upheavals, and changing fashion trends, always finding ways to preserve the craftsmanship that made their textiles special.
“May I?” asked a reporter, gesturing toward a length of wool so fine it appeared almost translucent.
“Please do,” Luna encouraged. “Everything here is meant to be touched.”
That invitation unleashed a flurry of sensory exploration. Reporters ran palms across rough tweed and smooth silks, pinched fabric between fingers, and held samples to cheeks. Their notepads remained temporarily forgotten as they lost themselves in tactile discovery.
Luna caught sight of a photographer capturing these moments of connection—the expressions of surprise and delight as fingers discovered what eyes alone could never reveal. In these unguarded moments, Luna recognized something she hadn’t anticipated: the exhibition wasn’t just preserving Thompson’s history; it was creating a new chapter of it, right before her eyes.
Chapter 12 – Brushstrokes of Mystery
Luna balanced the package in her arms while fumbling with her keys. Inside her apartment, she placed it carefully on the kitchen table, circling it with the wariness one might show a sleeping animal. The past week since the VIP reception had been a whirlwind—interviews with local media, meetings with potential donors, and a growing buzz around the Thompson exhibition that exceeded her wildest expectations.
She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, catching the reflection of her exhausted face in the window. Dark circles had taken up permanent residence beneath her eyes, yet there was a new vibrancy in them she hadn’t seen since… since Paris.
Sleep had become a luxury she could rarely afford, but the exhibition was flourishing. Visitors lined up daily to experience the textile displays, many leaving with tears in their eyes and donations in the collection boxes strategically placed throughout the mill. Local businesses had begun sponsoring specific displays, and a small but encouraging trickle of grants had started coming through.
Yet this package—this was something different.
Luna cut the twine with kitchen scissors, unwrapping the brown paper with methodical precision, her heart quickening with each layer removed. Inside lay a wooden box made of dark, polished wood with intricate inlays forming geometric patterns she recognized immediately as Middle Eastern. Her heart stuttered, then raced, her fingertips hovering just above the surface, afraid to confirm what she already knew.
“It can’t be,” she whispered, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her certainty.
The lid opened on silent hinges to reveal a collection of pigments in glass vials—colors so vibrant they seemed alive, breathing with possibility. Each vial nestled in a custom-cut velvet lining, labeled in both Arabic and English: Lapis Lazuli Blue, Tyrian Purple, Saffron Gold, Damascus Rose. Colors that cost more than her monthly rent. Colors that weren’t available in any art supply store she knew of.
Colors from Qadir.
Nestled among them lay a small cream-colored card with a single line of handwriting she recognized instantly:
*For the artist who sees beyond the surface.*
No signature. None needed.
Luna’s fingers floated over the vials, not quite touching them. She hadn’t allowed herself to speak Rashid’s name since returning to Hollingsworth, had pushed away memories of his smile, his voice, his hands gesturing expressively as he’d explained some obscure point of art history. Yet here was evidence that he remained, somehow, in the corners of her life she thought she’d closed off.
“Impossible,” she whispered to her empty kitchen, the word hanging in the air like a question rather than a statement.