“I…” he trailed off, at a loss. “Well, I only have one name. And it’s Alistar.”

She returned her attention to the large picture in front of her, ignoring him without returning the introduction. He followed her gaze and found it difficult to not appreciate the beauty of the work in front of her. It captured a boundless meadow filled with lush fields of lavender and jasmine, that led on into a bright horizon, paralleled by a large sun in the centre of the cloudless sky above. But that was only half of the image, which was divided down the middle to create two contrasting scenes. The right side of the painting depicted a pale, full moon, partially obscured by the clouds of a starless night. Beneath this chilly skyscape lay barren fields of dead soil.

“Um,” he said, nonplussed after a few minutes of silence. If her attitude was any indication, she wouldn’t answer any of his questions. Not now, at least, but perhaps if he lightened the mood. “This is a nice painting.”

“I hate it.”

He sighed. “What do you hate about it?”

“Everything.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it makes no sense!” She threw her arms up in exasperation. “The sun and the moon could never be out at the same time, so why paint both night and day in the same picture? If the plants grow so heavily on one side then why are they dead on the other? Because it is nighttime? Plants don’t die just because the sun goes down.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Of course it does.” She spoke as if it were a matter of the utmost importance. “This is my father’s favourite painting, my father, who’s known all throughout the city for his equisite taste of the arts!”

“It’s exquisite,” he corrected her.

“Yes, that.”

What an unpleasant girl. She spoke as if he were inferior to her, even though she was the one lacking in both manners and grammar. As if only her opinions held weight and his were just dust to be swept under a rug. Kaila was a lot easier to get along with.

“I think it’s a metaphor,” he said, regarding the painting.

“Metawhat?”

“A metaphor. It’s not meant to be taken literally.”

“Do you think you’re smarter than me?”

“I’m not saying that. I’ve always loved learning my letters, that’s all.” Seeing the offense on her face, Alistar added, “I know plenty of words, but that doesn’t mean I’m smarter than you. This picture just reminded me of when my mama told me about that word, a metaphor. She said that sometimes words or pictures might stand for something else than what they seem like at first.” He hadn’t fully understood the meaning of her words until this moment, but even if he told that to the girl, he doubted that it would appease her.

She stared at him with an angry frown, her eyes telling him that she hadn’t understood a thing he’d said. “Well, I think your mama is wrong.”

“There’s no way my mama is wrong. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“What did you say?” she seethed. Apparently, she wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner.

He cleared his throat, his anger speaking for him. “I’m sorry. I said that you’re wrong, and that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She hit him in the chin. Stunned, he stared at her with his mouth agape. Behind the girl, he saw a woman dressed in black and white clothing walk around the nearest corner. She paused at the sight of the two, and then hurried off the way she’d come.

“Go away,” the girl said haughtily, crossing her milky arms.

Alistar knew better than to hit a girl. His father had made sure to teach him early on that no real man would ever lay his hand on a girl. Still, she’d struck him over something as small as a simple correction, which reminded him of the guards back in the mines. Countless memories began to affect his mood.

“Only morons resort to violence when they’ve been proved wrong.” He turned away with a smug sniffle. “That painting is a metaphor and you’re just too stupid to understand it.”

She shook with rage for a moment before pouncing on him like one of the red spiders from the forest. With her fiery hair, she indeed looked the part. She hit him several times before he decided that he had to do something. He couldn’t just let the one-sided beating continue, especially when all of her punches were aimed at his face. Taking a few more hits, he threw his arms around her in a great hug and clamped her tight against his body, restraining her arms as she began to thrash. Although he felt unexplainably weaker than usual, countless months of mining magic crystals had left his body well-muscled for his age.

“Uhrg,” she struggled. “Let go of me!”

“Only if you promise to stop hitting me!”

She tried head-butting him, but he avoided it.

“What is the meaning of this?”

It was a man’s voice, stern and upset.

“He won’t let go of me!”

“Because she won’t stop hitting me!”

They were pried apart by a man of moderate build. In his early thirties, he was dressed in fine silks of silver and black, his hands blotted with ink and his expression sunken. He wore his dark hair short, his face pale with shadows under a pair of intelligent silver eyes, and a wide mouth with the beginnings of smile lines—or frown lines—creeping in at the corners. The that had seen them fighting was beside him.

“Anice, would you mind telling me how the two of you wound up wrestling on the floor of the art hall?”

It took a while for the truth of the story to be explained, with many interjections from Alistar. Afterward, the man bowed his head in apology as he forced the girl’s—Anice’s—head down as well. “You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She can be quite a handful at times.” He cleared his throat. “Where are my manners? My name is Caedmon Silverkin and I am the master of this household. I see my painting here was the root of your…disagreement. I must say, you’ve shown a very unique perspective for one so young. Yes, it is metaphorical, but do you know of what?”

Alistar answered truthfully under the heat of Anice’s glare. “I’m not sure.”

“I like to believe that the artist was using the contrasting elements to give life to their feelings at the time, which is a common theme amongst artists.” He reached out and traced a hand down its golden frame. It was a nice painting, but there were many of higher quality throughout the hallway. Despite that, this one was the centrepiece of the area, its frame more elegant and more expensive looking than any of the others.

“So, the artist was both happy and sad?” Alistar couldn’t help but ask. “Or one before the other?”

“Very good,” he said quietly. He was staring at Alistar a bit too intently, as if trying to recognize an old acquaintance. “But that’s enough of this. I see a shirt in your future, and a pair of stockings to go along with it.”

“I—you don’t have to,” Alistar mumbled. “I don’t have any money.”

“Hush, hush,” said Caedmon, waving him off as he strode down the hall. He motioned for the children to follow. “You’ve probably got a lot of questions on your mind, like how you came to be in my home. I daresay I’ve got some questions of my own.”

Alistar was led through the manor and into a wide dining hall. Dozens of chairs sat along a huge table that could fit perhaps forty people, each place set with sparkling silverware and folded cloths of silver linen. The walls were set with tall, arching windows, thick drapes covering the dense panes of glass. A pair of women dressed similarly to the first approached the windows and parted the sweeping swathes of grey, which invited pillars of golden sunlight into the room.

Almost immediately, a bowl of warm stew and half a hunk of bread were set before him, a chalice of milk placed at his right side. A gentle aroma wafted upward, making his mouth water. The meal looked and smelled so splendid that he hesitated to eat before Caedmon and Anice’s observant gazes.