Colouromancy

“She has a natural talent for art,” Miss de Laqua says, sweeping a hand over Hazel’s paintings. Hazel smiles at the ecomium as Miss de Laqua continues. “It would be a crime for her to stay here, when there is so much culture in Italy, such experiences to be had. The place is crawling with artists, cultivates the best of them.”

“She will not be going anywhere,” Mr.Everill says a tad sharply. “She isn’t old enough to be in another country on her own.”

“I didn’t mean now, of course,” Miss de Laqua waves his concern away as she picks up the shiny silver coffee spoon, tapping it slightly against her lemonade glass. “But anyone can see art is her passion. Her raison d’etre,” she smiles directly at Hazel who shifts with nervous delight. “There is no reason for her not to go, when she is of age.”

Mr.Everill shifts in his chair. He lifts his glass, pauses, and puts it back down without taking a sip. “Perhaps she will not be mature enough even when she is of age.”

Miss de Laqua shrugs. “That is entirely her choice. She is a very mature child already, though, so I doubt you have anything to fear.”

“It would be awfully far, suppose she got into trouble.”

“She would be chaperoned. And there is little trouble I think that girl cannot handle. Give her more credit.” Miss de Laqua eyes his thoughtfully as she sips her wine. “I cannot abide when one thinks one thing and means another. Fathers are almost never ready to let their daughters go but I think you will have to be readier than most. In Sparta in ancient times young men began sparring and facing life threatening hunger and beatings, and tests of physical endurance that the common man would die from, all to hone their skills as a warrior. Hazel wishes to study art. I think was can safely assume her education will be rigorous only on her fingers and her eyes.”

Mr.Everill does not reply, but he glances toward his daughter who has found a stick and tosses it some distance away for Hunter.

Miss de Laqua carefully gathers Hazel’s sketches and watercolours into a pile.

Art by Aurora Weinhold

Text by Lucie MacAulay