Patronage 101
Rin's studio.
Just a week ago, this had been a place I'd found rather familiar. Old, certainly, and in need of maintenance here and there — but every corner of it bore Rin's touch, and you could see it.
How should I put it? It felt lived-in. Strangely enough, it felt more human than my own room, which got cleaned spotless every day. And the fact that her studio was far larger than her personal quarters said everything you needed to know about her passion for painting.
That was the image Rin's studio had always held for me.
"………."
"………."
Right now, it was different. Different to an almost absurd degree.
The space itself hadn't changed. What had changed was the attitude of the space's owner.
A room inevitably follows the emotions and mood of whoever inhabits it. If the studio I'd visited before had been cold and brusque yet somehow warm underneath, the one I stood in now was simply frigid.
Why? Even the first time I'd met Rin, I don't think she'd been this bad.
The wine isn't working.
Something was off. Hadn't she clearly enjoyed the fine wine I brought her last time? As I recalled, unlike me, she'd knocked it back quite well.
I'd come fully convinced this was a guaranteed win, but Rin's reaction was cold. No — cold didn't cover it. There was no reaction at all.
It felt like talking to a machine.
Claire, for her part, had been left standing outside the studio, so I couldn't count on any help from that quarter either.
"Ahem! Well, since I went to the trouble of bringing it, how about a glass? We'll be seeing plenty of each other anyway."
"If you insist, I will accept."
No, what is this honorific speech? You're the girl who used banmal from the moment we met, rambling on about how you didn't like paintings and whatnot.
Was it because we were in a patron-client relationship, where I held the purse strings? No, I doubted Rin would care much about something like that. Call it pride, but I trusted my ability to read people.
Rin didn't say a single word as I uncorked the bottle and poured. Which meant the burden of conversation naturally fell entirely on me.
"They told me this was a really high-end wine. It was a bit of a hassle to get my hands on, but hey — you're the first artist I've ever sponsored."
"Thank you."
"Uh... I looked at the paintings hanging around the studio, and they were all incredibly well done. Honestly, they made an impression."
"An honor."
"O-oh, nice weather today, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
No, seriously — what is this conversation?
Far from starting a topic herself, Rin never gave an answer longer than two words. Needless to say, the dialogue went nowhere.
The chipped cup. The old table hidden under its cloth. The expensive wine.
Everything I could see was exactly as it had been a week ago — so why did it all feel so hopelessly different?
At this rate, I wouldn't just fail to reveal my identity to Rin; I couldn't even get a proper conversation going. But a man can't give up here. I cleared my throat and pulled out a cheat code far more potent than wine.
"About The Sorrow of Martego you painted for the baron — it was striking. Genuinely."
"……!"
"Especially the part where you reimagined the cutlass as a stiletto. I loved that. After all, in the original novel, the cutlass was really just a device to emphasize that Martego was a former sailor."
How had I gotten close to her two weeks ago, back when we first met and she was just as frosty?
The answer was simple: for a painter like Rin, talk of her own work was a topic she absolutely could not ignore.
"It seems you read quite a few of the source novels for the sake of your art. Very professional of you."
"………."
"Though it's a shame the stiletto was your only reinterpretation... Nothing else caught your eye?"
She can't resist, right? There's no way she can resist this.
What kind of artist listens to criticism of her own work and stays silent? Especially criticism that something was lacking?
It should have been obvious.
"...That isn't so."
"Oh?"
An artist who could swallow that wasn't an artist. Well, I suppose a painter desperate to curry favor with her patron might just bob her head and agree with everything. But Rin wasn't that kind of artist — and that was exactly why I'd chosen to sponsor her.
"The stiletto, as you say, was intentional, Patron. But there are other reinterpretations in the painting as well."
"There are?"
"If you look closely, you'll see that when the protagonist Martego tears the canvas───"
"He deliberately tears it at the throat of his own self-portrait within the painting?"
"……!!"
"The novel never described that part, so I couldn't tell if it was a reinterpretation or not — so that was deliberate. I suppose the Martego of the book would have made exactly that choice."
Of course, I hadn't known. I had known, and I'd only pretended ignorance to provoke a reaction out of her.
It also gave me yet another reason to marvel at Rin's skill. It meant that beyond her raw talent with a brush, her ability to reinterpret and recreate an original work was first-rate in its own right.
It made me wonder all over again how a painter this good was still unknown — but hey, good for me, right? Just sponsoring a gem like her was luck enough.
Of course, that understanding of her intentions existed only from my side of the table. Rin, for her part, seemed genuinely taken aback that I'd grasped the meaning she'd embedded in her painting.
"...You have a discerning eye, Patron."
"Thank you for the compliment."
Well? Starting to think of that blond fellow? Aren't the two of us overlapping just a little?
Our first meeting — the disguised me — had begun with me decoding her painting's intent. And now our first meeting as patron and artist was following the exact same script.
Even with whatever strange misunderstanding Rin was laboring under, she had to be starting to suspect something was off.
"Well, we still barely know each other, you and I. But we're artist and patron, aren't we? We can speak to each other through the work."
"………."
"I'm sponsoring you because I want good art, after all."
Lies. I was sponsoring her for the reactions, not the paintings.
Still, whatever my true motives, giving money to a starving artist could never be hypocrisy. If she didn't like it, she was free to refuse. Though the fact that Rin kept trying to refuse only made her reactions all the more worth anticipating.
In any case, now that the atmosphere had loosened up — at least a little — I raised my glass with a smile.
"Here's to working well together, Ms. Rin."
"...Yes, Patron."
It was only a sliver, but a trace of genuine feeling had crept into that reply — no longer the purely formulaic answer of before.
And I downed the fine wine in one go.
"Ahh!"
Last time, I hadn't known how to drink wine and declared it disgusting — but when I told Claire that, she'd gotten all worked up and taught me the proper way to drink it. Humoring her, I'd followed along, and it actually tasted pretty decent.
What was it she'd said... that there was a way to drink it for people like me, who had no mana? You peeled the cork back just a hair, dropped it into the glass, and the mana sealed inside the bottle would diffuse out and elevate the wine's flavor.
For someone like Claire or Rin who could actually handle mana, the step was unnecessary — but as long as I was careful not to swallow the cork whole, even I could enjoy a drink now and then.
I was in the middle of letting out an involuntary sound of appreciation at the rich yet dry finish when I noticed Rin staring holes through me, her own glass untouched.
"Ms. Rin?"
"...So it really isn't you."
"Is something wrong with the wine?"
"Nothing at all. Thank you for it."
What now? It felt like the tiny bit of closeness we'd just built had snapped right back to square one.
Still, her attitude had thawed at least a fraction. She wasn't talking to the wall anymore — it finally felt like talking to a person. Kind of?
Anyway, I'd confirmed that paintings were the topic that worked on her, so round two...?
"Hmm?"
"Patron?"
"There's another bottle of the same wine over there, isn't there? Why is it sitting there?"
An identical bottle of wine — of course, the exact same vintage I'd brought her a week ago. Curiously, it was the only thing in Rin's workspace placed by the window, where sunlight came in. Positioned so that even in the middle of working, she could glance at it any time she pleased.
As I recalled, she'd barely managed to drink any of it back then, but had she been sipping at it alone? Only a third of the bottle remained.
If I bring that up, maybe I can drop another hint about my identity. With that thought, I rose from my seat and started toward the bottle—
"You really do love that wine, huh? Well, in for a penny — let's finish off that one too───"
"No!!"
"...Ms. Rin?"
"That... that one is off-limits. I'm sorry."
Rin scrambled up so fast she ended up in an awkward half-crouch, planting herself squarely between me and the wine bottle. There was something truly desperate about it.
She soon seemed to realize she'd overreacted and shot me a brief, guarded look, but I felt nothing so strong as anger — only confusion.
Why is she so protective of that bottle? Was it a different wine from the one I'm drinking?
Same bottle, same label — it should be the same. Or was it not?
I had no idea why, but there was no reason to push the issue when Rin was reacting that strongly. She'd have fought me tooth and nail over that bottle anyway.
The mood had gone abruptly, considerably awkward, but I sat back down and refilled my glass regardless.
"So Ms. Rin is quite the wine connoisseur, I see. You just hate it when other people touch your wine, huh?"
"...If I offended you, I apologize."
"Offended? Hardly. Well, if it bothers you that much, one more glass and then let's get down to business."
"Business, you say..."
"What I mentioned earlier. The audition judging."
"I have no right to sit in judgment over the fruit of other painters' labor."
"And I do?"
"Well, you are the patron providing the money, are you not?"
"Then surely the person I've endorsed has rights of her own. You're my first-ever artist — which makes this practically you selecting your own juniors. Have some confidence."
"Painters have no such senior-junior hierarchy."
"It's a figure of speech, a figure of speech. Also, the honorifics are oddly uncomfortable to listen to — feel free to speak casually if you like. One of my aides has a personality a lot like yours, so I'm used to it."
"...How could I possibly dare, with my patron? I must decline."
Yeah, we're not there yet, huh? But the closer we got, the more naturally Rin would loosen up — and sooner or later, the day would come when she saw through me.
Whatever look of shock or reaction she showed at that moment, I'd save for the enjoyment of the day it happened.
"Well then, shall we head out soon? You'll help, right?"
"………."
"Ms. Rin?"
"...Yes."
In any case, Rin nodded her acceptance, however grudging. It was still a hair softer of a reply than anything she'd given me before.
Granted, we still had a long, long way to go...
She's going to fail.
She was definitely going to fail. She didn't even need to look — she was certain. One hundred percent certain.
The girl with pink hair hesitated at the mouth of the dark alley for a long, long while. The alley had only two exits. One led in the direction of her home; the other led to the central plaza.
She had originally meant to pass through the alley on her way to the central plaza. Instead, the girl found herself taking slow, shuffling steps backward.
What's the point of checking just to be disappointed, when I'm going to fail anyway?
Right. Better not to look at all. Better not to hold on to pointless hope.
If she saw the results with her own eyes and found her name absent, she'd spend the entire day drowning in despair. But if she turned back without looking, she could live in that strange limbo where despair and hope coexisted. Honestly, that was the kinder option.
And yet.
But still...
Still, she had to look. It wasn't her own choice. The reality she lived in was the one shoving her toward the central plaza.
Ah. Today's going to be a despair kind of day. How am I getting through dinner tonight?
After agonizing, tormenting, and wracking her brain to no end, the girl finally, slowly, moved her feet. The central plaza was already packed with people.
Among them were faces she recognized. That much went without saying — every person gathered here was a painter, same as her.
"Yes! I passed!"
"Damn it all, me? Rejected? How does that make any sense!?"
"Twenty to one, and that's the odds for this... Well, it is House Medici. If you could just get their patronage..."
A few days earlier, the second son of House Medici had posted a public decree. He would personally select a single artist to sponsor.
In this city, no one didn't know the name Medici. The family ruled this, the greatest city of the East — its lord, its magnate, its nobility. Get sponsored by that house, and money worries would simply cease to exist.
The arts were a field where all but the top one percent went hungry. And every painter gathered here belonged squarely to the remaining ninety-nine. Famous artists who made their name in the capital, or court painters to the crown — those were the stuff of dreams within dreams.
And so, for all of them, patronage was something desperate and near-holy.
It was no different for the girl.
"Excuse me — pardon me, coming through."
I'm going to fail. I definitely failed. The painting I sent was that kind of painting, after all.
Rushing to finish a commission on a deadline, she'd sent in a piece she hadn't even been able to color properly. There was no way that had cleared the first round of judging.
She didn't want to face the result. But more than that, she needed the money — needed even a sliver of hope.
After hesitating again and again, the pink-haired girl finally lifted her head.
"...Huh?"
And there it was.
The name of the piece she had submitted.
She'd passed. She had passed. The reality of it refused to register.
And yet.
Wildcard Lottery Selection: "The Reclining Fox"
"...?"
What in the world was that in front of her name supposed to mean...?