"It needs to be a little brighter," she murmured.
Sliding slightly with her wheeled stool, she carefully placed the wet, dark green paintbrush on the edge of the table, ensuring it wouldn't fall. She began stirring through the paint box with one hand. Some tubes were shiny and new, while others looked as if they had been there forever. Some had hand-written labels, while others gave no clue about their color. Still, Mart knew exactly which one she needed.
She pulled out a paint tube that had been tucked into the corner at the bottom of the box. With one hand, she opened the cap and tried to squeeze it onto the canvas. She needed just a tiny drop, but the paint had long since expired. The edges of the tube were slightly torn from being folded too many times, and despite her careful use, small flecks of unknown colors had somehow made their way onto it. She persisted, convinced her companion wouldn't let her down—but this was probably the tube's last chance. Tomorrow, she would need to go through her paint box, identify her supplies, and make a list before heading into town.
The last bit of white paint gently landed on her palette, a surface layered with hundreds of dried paint strokes. She smiled. This wasn't the smile of a triumphant soldier. No, it was more like the tender smile of a mother gazing lovingly at her child. She slid herself back towards her work with her stool. Then, she continued applying the final highlights to the small patch of light breaking through the darkness and storm clouds, illuminating just a tiny portion of the sea. She took a small amount of the white paint and mixed it with sunlight. The transitions were so seamless that the human eye could barely distinguish them. After deepening the small opening in the sky, she directed the light onto the figure of a captain standing in the middle of the stormy sea, battered by waves, on a ship whose fate hung in the balance. Only the silhouette of the captain was visible; she was still undecided about adding details.
The aluminum roof of the small cabin began to echo with the increasing intensity of the rain. She was in a trance, imagining herself standing beside the captain, hearing the storm that split the sea. What brought her back to reality was the drop in the room's temperature. After stretching her neck, she placed her brush and palette on the table. Sliding herself back, she examined her work with a more critical eye. A captain living through hell in the middle of the ocean, shown a glimmer of hope from the heavens. She had blended dark red into the ocean in a way that it was only visible as reflections, almost as if the sea was ablaze. In contrast, the center of the sky, reflecting the ocean, held an ethereal light piercing through the soft clouds as if delivering a divine message to the sailor.
She got off her stool and stretched deeply. Then she added some wood and kindling to the smoldering coals, reviving the fire. Crouching by the flames, she waited for the warmth to reach her skin. Her to-do list was long, and she needed to rest. She closed her eyes for a short while. Changing her clothes and climbing into bed felt like an enormous effort while sitting by the fire. Perhaps she could curl up on the fur rug beneath her feet. She could, of course—if she wanted to catch pneumonia. She glanced at the bell near the door for a moment, fiddling with it lazily without ringing it. With a deep breath, she pushed herself up, taking three large steps to the door. For a moment, her hand hovered over the latch before opening it to face whatever was on the other side.
The eyes staring back at her, certain the door would open, were like two black holes. Beneath a mustache was a faint, indeterminate smile. She could tell he had been standing in the rain for a long time. She had hoped he would give up, but there he was, with his wet fur standing on end, waiting to find her.
Mart rolled her eyes. In response, she heard a calm but cheeky meow. "Come inside."
The cat lazily entered, heading straight for the fireplace as if it knew every corner of the house by heart, settling into a sleeping position. After double-checking the locks on the door, Mart pulled a pillow and blanket from the chest at the foot of her bed, placing them next to the cat. She knew she wouldn't sleep comfortably with a stranger in the house, but she still curled up in her bed, letting the sound of the rain carry her away.
***
Sunlight streamed through the edges of the window that the curtain couldn't cover, hitting her face. She grimaced and opened her eyes slightly, calmly pulling the curtain over the window beside her bed to block out the sun. Perhaps I should rearrange the room, she thought. Leaning her head over the side of the bed, she tried to spot the visitor, but her latest work obstructed her view.
Stretching as she got up, she selected a jumpsuit and a T-shirt from the overstuffed, overflowing drawers of the dresser next to her bed. She then made her way to the bathroom. The visitor, now back in their usual form, was buried entirely in the pillow and tightly wrapped in the blanket, sleeping in a fetal position.
She went about her tasks slowly. She needed time to think. From the shelf above the bathtub, filled with various herbs, essential oils, and soaps, she grabbed some lavender. Crushing a few sprigs in her hand, she tossed them into the tub, turning the hot water on full blast. While the tub filled, she brushed her teeth and washed her face.
The dark circles under her eyes had become more pronounced. She was sleeping, eating, and getting sunlight, but "It's always the same story" she muttered. Slowly lowering herself into the water, she thought about how, whenever she started a project, her body seemed to consume twice the energy it normally would. When she refused to accommodate it, she felt as if she wasn't doing anything at all; her body would grow weak, exhausted, and ill. She felt like staying in the water indefinitely, but instead, she quickly pulled the plug, washed herself, and handled the rest of her tasks. Before leaving the bathroom, she cast a weary glance at the laundry basket.
Drying her hair with a small towel draped over her shoulder, she found the visitor standing in front of her painting, staring intently. The child hadn't even noticed Mart had left the bathroom.
Their hair was the lightest shade of chestnut, cut in short layers that barely reached their ears. They were no bigger than an average 12-year-old, neither taller nor stockier. It was hard to tell if they were a boy or a girl. Their boots were on the top shelf of the shoe rack by the door, a shelf Mart reserved for "guests," which was often empty. Their cloak was neatly folded at their bedside, and the pillow and blanket Mart had left for them were folded as though no one had used them.
Tossing the towel onto her shoulder, she turned to the counter. She filled her kettle with water and set it on the stove to boil. In the meantime, she began clearing off the counter, which was as cluttered as every other part of her house, quickly washing the dishes.
"Is it true that you breathe life into your paintings?"
When Mart lifted her head from scrubbing a mug that bore three weeks' worth of coffee stains, she found herself face-to-face with a woman standing outside her window. Her sharp features, jet-black eyes, and expression that wavered between confusion and delight seemed utterly unfamiliar to her, which saddened her.
Laughter suddenly filled the room. "Breathe life into them?" She turned slightly toward the visitor. The visitor tilted their head to the side, their gaze brimming with questions. Then, they furrowed their brow and averted their gaze to the floor.
"They say you leave a piece of your soul in every painting, tucked into some hidden corner. That's why, they say, your heart is gradually turning to stone."
Mart shook her head, mumbling as she returned to the dishes, "Who comes up with this nonsense anyway?" She placed the last glass among the clean pile to dry. At least one part of the house looked neat and tidy.
When she turned back to the visitor, they were wearing their cloak, standing in the middle of the room. Between them was a round table cluttered with various items and two chairs. Their pupils were dilated as they stared at Mart. She leaned against the counter.
"The King demands your return," their voice was much deeper now. The visitor was undoubtedly male.
Mart released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, turned her head to the left, and gazed out the window beside her bed. Spring should have been arriving by now, but the trees and plants still acted as if it were the middle of winter. It was never a good omen.
The messenger continued, "The King will launch his campaign before winter ends, before spring arrives."
"He's tampering with the balance of nature," Mart thought. His calculations must be so finely tuned that he demanded every possible advantage, regardless of the consequences. Her eyes remained fixed on the depths of the forest.
The messenger observed Mart for a moment longer, gave a slight nod, and left the cabin quietly.
She found herself wondering again if she had ever thought she could regret not burning the painting this much. Or perhaps she had made a miscalculation—her father had always been like this. He had simply waited for an opportunity, hiding his intentions.Mart scanned the room, took a deep breath, and stripped the linens from her bed, including those used by the messenger. She gathered all the dirty laundry in the house into a sack and, after some effort, forced open the window beside her bed.
Was she running from her thoughts, the possibilities, or, worst of all, her guilt? She wasn't sure. Before taking the sack outside, she checked the bell; it was still secure. She took another deep breath and dragged the sack down to the veranda, leaving it there. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she tried to let the forest's scent fill her lungs and rejuvenate her spirit, but it was in vain.
Before re-entering the house, she swept the veranda, refreshed the bird feed, and noticed a squirrel sitting calmly on the cedar nearby, watching her. It seemed to be holding a few pieces of paper in its mouth.Mart walked calmly to the large chest in the corner of the veranda. It was always cold inside, as she used it to store items she was afraid might spoil, though it also held some legumes. Scanning the labels on the jars, she found the acorns buried deep inside. It took some effort to retrieve them, but she managed. Taking a few, she closed the chest and locked it again.She placed the acorns carefully on the veranda railing and moved to the other end, waiting. After a short time, she saw the acorns had been exchanged for the letters. As she approached, a part of her hesitated—she felt something was wrong.
Normally, if the seeker was deemed worthy, the forest would deliver their request to Mart. Courier squirrels could never find this place—no one could. Yet, here one was, looking as confused as Mart herself had been until she revealed her presence. They always took payment from the recipient, but bringing the letters this far was unusual.These days were far from normal.
Mart picked up the envelopes and returned to the cabin, sitting on her bed. One of the envelopes was heavy and of high quality, bearing a symmetrical symbol of two lion heads on its corner. She placed it on the bed. The other envelope was from the Duke of Erdarya's son. He intended to propose to the princess of the neighboring country, Alvarone, and wanted to present her with a unique wedding gift.
Normally, it was the forest that guided such formal proposals to their rightful place. Something must have gone awry along the path, she mused with a frown.
Mart reached for a pen from the nightstand, marked the details and the delivery date in the letter, and pinned it to her board with a small needle. She would finish her latest work by tomorrow. It was good that requests came one after another; she preferred not having any free time.She then turned her attention to the envelope on the bed.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled out her letter opener from the chaos of her thoughts and sliced it open in one smooth motion. The room was immediately filled with the nauseating scent of wood essence. She carefully and minimally handled the letter, as if it might harm her, and removed it from the envelope. The first thing she checked was the signature. She wasn't surprised. No one else but her sister-in-law could have sent this.
Dear Mart,
In these days when my nerves are stretched taut, I find myself longing for the moments we spent riding horses together. We would gallop at sunrise, heading to the farthest meadow we could find under the weekend light. The taste of Nalan's sandwiches still lingers on my palate. It all feels like such a distant memory now, doesn't it?
Life continues normally here; there's been no internal unrest, no corruption, no faltering justice, nor an increasing divide in social status. We're still living in a time where science and art are revered above all else. I know you're smiling as you read this, thinking, "We've locked ourselves in a room full of mirrors." Wasn't that how the sentence went? But I assure you, no. Three days a week, we completely change our appearance and travel to the most remote corners of the country with the prince. We make our observations and take notes. Perhaps this is the most important light you've ever pointed us toward. Of course, Demir still refuses to admit you're right.
Why am I writing to you again when it's been less than a month since my last letter? Maybe you've already heard, as two days ago I overheard whispers that a very fresh-faced messenger had been sent to find you. The walls spoke to me of this.
I only hope the squirrel messengers find you swiftly—though I'm not entirely sure the forest will allow them through. Normally, it is the forest that delivers such messages directly, but something must have gone wrong this time. That's why I resorted to another path: your father's official summons. I believe the forest will try to keep you safe, Mart—but I had to find a way to ensure this letter reached you.
I know you can guess why your father is calling you back now. He's putting his plan into motion. For the past year, he's been perfecting it. He wants everything to end without a single flaw. He has exiled all the nobles who oppose his vision of making Epsilya the ruler of the entire northern peninsula, banishing them far from the castle and the capital.
Mart, prepare yourself. Your father will act the moment the last snowflake on Zefir Mountain melts. This peninsula will be drenched in more blood than it has seen in a millennium. Women will be left widowed, children fatherless.
I'm not asking you to fight—I could never say such a thing. I'm only asking you, Mart, to flee. Please. Do not fight. Save yourself, and no matter what, live a life of happiness, free from regret.
Your loving sister, Bahar