Page 67 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

El

T he first day I ever see Tiss, we’re both far from home.

I’m helping Ma, manning our booth during the ten-day Festival of Aetinne in the city-state of Nehel. It kicks off on the summer solstice.

Rich and poor alike browse the maze-like jumble of stalls and booths that pop up on the Citadel—the elevated city center flanked by the Great Library and University of Nehel. Writers, scholars, scientists, and more come to celebrate the Goddess of Knowledge.

Ma is inside the library consulting with conservators about restoring manuscripts. Meanwhile, I’m selling books printed by Pop’s press.

The finest and most expensive have been illuminated by Ma’s skilled hand, as well as my own. She taught me everything I know.

A landscape sits on my easel. It depicts the extensive library and university complex—the portion within my view. When finished, I plan to sell it for a tidy profit.

I’m between customers. Half-hidden behind the genre novels, art pamphlets, and botany guides heaped on the makeshift counter. I’ve just finished mulling together freshly ground lapis pigment and linseed oil. The resulting paint is silky smooth and dazzling blue.

I’ve only just scraped some onto my palette when a frisson erupts at my nape. My only warning that my life is about to change forever.

I look over and—

There she is.

A curtain of ebony hair hangs over one shoulder. Jewel-blue eyes move over my canvas. “That’s lovely.” She lifts a delicate chin. “Remarkable, in fact.”

The stalls and bustling shoppers are rendered in fine detail. As are the colorful pennants strung overhead. The complex's soaring spires, gabled roofs, and covered walkways. Stately facades clad in veridian banners emblazoned with Nehel’s golden bee. It’s all painstakingly depicted, and I’m proud.

Very proud.

I’ve been readying the finishing touches. Preparing to push contrast. The ultramarine will give depth to the sky, which I’ve left washed in periwinkle up to this point.

“Such precise attention to detail, and your angles are impeccable,” she says with the poise of someone older. More worldly. “How much?”

“Uhh,” I drawl. She is magnificent . And way too young for you, El, so get your head out of your ass. “It isn’t finished yet.”

“I see that. I’m offering to buy it under the assumption it will be by the time money changes hands.” There’s a glint in her eye. A slight upturn of one corner of her mouth. “That’s somewhat the point of all this, yeah? You paint, I buy?”

Both challenge and sly invitation, her attitude annoys and intrigues me at once.

Shrugging, I pick up my brush. Drag the bristles through my palette. Swipe rich blue onto the canvas.

She steps to the side, eyes narrowing on my booth’s sign.

“Asher’s Specialty Print Shop is renowned in Aronya Dar.

High-quality books. Good ink and paper. And I believe his wife runs a small atelier out of the back.

” Those captivating eyes flick to me again.

“It’s not your shop’s first year at the festival,” she says, pleased with herself.

It is in fact my third. And gods know how long Ma and Pop were coming before me.

“R-right…” I scratch my neck, suddenly off-kilter.

“Does that make you their daughter?”

Daughter . My hand drops. Hot and cold flash through me, my chest bound too tight all of a sudden. I glance around, every muscle tensing, feeling like I’m living in someone else’s skin. As I often do during these days.

The shame of getting caught out like this. Gods . Even though I haven’t done a damn thing wrong.

All of this because the word isn’t accurate on this particular day.

“El,” I finally offer.

Halfway between cryptic and curious, her gaze moves over my newly cropped hair and canvas trousers. The paint-flecked smock over my flattened chest. My work shirt’s rolled sleeves. “Itissa.”

I’ve been passing since Ma and I arrived in Nehel. Until now.

Trouble is, most folks either pity or scorn those of us who fall outside of gender conventions. On good days, people like me are begrudgingly tolerated. So long as we’re discreet and don’t cause trouble.

Same as those of us attracted to our own sex.

On bad days? Well. There are reasons I haven’t tried passing back home yet.

Exposed and so, so vulnerable, my first instinct is to lash out. Make her go away and leave me the fuck alone.

So when she repeats, “How much for the painting, El?”

I reply, “I can’t price it without knowing how much paint it’ll take, Itissa.” Leaning forward, I pretend to be absorbed in my work. “Not that you’d know, but ounce for ounce, this blue is more expensive than gold.”

“Ultramarine, right? Isn’t it something like eight times the cost of the raw stones required to make it?”

I lower my brush. Glance over.

“They say your mother’s pigment is unmatched in caliber, even by large workshops.

Specifically the ultramarine.” She turns to run her fingers over the stacked books.

Pages through a hardcover. “Something to do with the lapis she manages to source. But you’re right.

What do I know?” Turning to face me, she replaces the book on a different stack.

“Impressive. For someone so young. Sadly, I have no time to entertain dilettantes today.”

She prickles. Purses her pretty pink lips into a perfectly formed rosebud. “I’m eighteen. And a connoisseur .”

Damn near twelve years younger . Brush in hand, I snort and lean forward again.

This is when a sack full of money lands on stacked books beside me.

“Excuse me?” I gape, stunned at the gesture. At her boldness.

“I’m sure you’ll find it’s enough to cover what you just mixed and more.”

Oh, hell, no. “You have no idea if this piece was commissioned or not.”

She swings away to inspect a different book, the hem of her lace and linen dress kissing just below the knee. “Well?” Pauses to look me up and down. “ Is it a commission?”

It isn’t. But I don’t want her money. Don’t want her breathing down my neck. I probably ought to sell it to the pretty little twerp and be done with it, but—

But the gods’ honest truth is I’m inconveniently enthralled with her and no longer using my brain as a result. Telling myself it’s the principle of the matter . And the audacity of her .

Stubbornly tying her up.

I balance my brush across my jar of turpentine. Set my palette aside. Spinning on my stool, I swipe up the money and drop it at her feet. “Allow me to be clear. It isn’t for sale.”

“This once,” she says without batting an eyelid, “I’ll pay ahead of time. Next time, I’ll expect to see the finished product first.”

Unsure what to make of her, I scoff. Take her in.

Her eyes remind me of a pair of earrings hanging from a customer’s lobes this morning. Two cobalt spinels, perfectly matched. Her lips are painted a deep cherry blossom pink. The color complements her frothy blue-green dress to perfection.

A warm breeze ripples the hem, and I watch. Captivated.

Her wedge-heeled sandals are trimmed in jute, a cutout revealing red varnished toenails. Ribbons fasten the stylish shoes to her ankles, and my fingers itch to tear them off.

She traverses the space between us. Leans past me before I realize what’s happening. Touches the tip of her finger to my palette.

Before I can stop her, she presses it to a corner of the canvas, smudging ultramarine on an area of finely rendered cobblestone. “ Oops .”

Shock and rage flash through me like heat lightning. I’m on my feet in an instant, fingers around her wrist, wrenching. “That. Wasn’t. Very. Nice.”

Disingenuously coy, she flushes in my grip. “Am I in trouble?”

“Sweetheart, you are trouble.”

Using my hold to pull herself closer, she presses a soft peck to my cheek. Whispers sweetly, “It’s gorgeous, and I will have it, El Asher. Finish it and take it home with you. I’ll pick it up when I have time.”

The depth of my stupidity finally sinking in, I mutter idiotically, “You’re from Aronya Dar.”

With a grin, she flips her hair back. The maneuver reveals a brooch fastened to the shoulder of her dress.

I stare, barely breathing.

Delicate gold filigree and clusters of diamonds and indigo lapis sparkle fiercely in the light of golden hour. The stones form a scrolling J so decorative, it takes a moment.

Finally clocking the emblem of Clan Jedrek, my stomach plops to the ground. To say an ocean separates her social status and mine would be a trivialization.

She twists her wrist from my weakening fingers. Leaves a blue streak on my work shirt’s cuff and a cloud of pheromones heavy in the air.

Of course I don’t know yet what the chemical signals are. All I’m aware of is going from cold panic to feeling like I've been hit by an autocarriage. Need floods my lower extremities. Lust clouds my mind, and my blood pressure immediately tanks.

Dizzy and panting, I drop to my stool, hands propped on my knees. Her lip paint sears my cheek like a brand.

With a last lingering look, she steps over the money. Walks the aisle between vendors with her dress rippling around her knees.

In the distance, the two famous lion statues marking the Citadel’s entrance frame her perfectly. Beyond them, the sun sinks below the jumbled towers and spires of Old Nehel, painting a dazzling aureole around her retreating figure.

Deep down, part of me knows how fucked I already am. I won’t admit it for a long, long time.

R arely does an hour pass where her words don’t recirculate in my head, along with the reassurance of context.

She didn’t say she’ll have it picked up. She will pick it up, she said.

One month and sixteen days have dragged by since we met. At times I can still feel her satin lips pressed to my cheek, her lip paint tingling there.

By this point Ma and Pop have stopped questioning my newfound devotion to the print shop. Most days I’m here from open to close.