The End of the Misunderstanding
"Quite the splendid villa you have here. The design is superb."
"Uh... thank you?"
"I am merely a guest at present, so there's no need to stand on quite so much ceremony. Besides, I hold nothing more than an honorary post — I'm no proper noble like yourself."
"That's..."
"Though of course, factoring in the difference in our years and our stations, I'd be perfectly content if you went on addressing me as respectfully as you do now."
...
Beside me, the old man — Raffaello — smirked roguishly, plying a silver tongue that wriggled its way out of every corner I tried to pin him in. I turned my head a fraction and let out a small sigh.
Hailed as one of the foremost masters among painters, he apparently knew his architecture as well, for he held forth on the villa's layout while singing the praises of House Medici. This was, naturally, the sort of thing that should have put me in a fine mood. There was no reason on earth for it not to.
And yet there I was, shuffling along, desperately hunting for any trace of Father, my brother, and my sister — all three of whom had vanished into thin air.
I'm losing my mind.
Strictly speaking, Raffaello was a commoner and I a noble. But he was not a man who could be summed up by so simple a word as "commoner."
For one thing, however much his honorary post might be limited to a single generation, he had received a title of nobility directly from the king. For another, he was a famous man whose social standing and renown were beyond dispute. And last of all, he was someone high society itself had accepted — great lords addressed him with deference and courtesy.
Being made a noble, even an honorary one, and being able to move within noble society were two entirely different matters. In that light, Raffaello was not merely a brilliant painter but — quite unlike your average artist, whose ego tends to scrape the heavens — a man of genuinely impressive social craft.
Take Rin: even if she were granted the very same title, one only had to imagine whether she could mingle in noble society for my head to start shaking of its own accord.
Proof enough was the fact that he had been invited — as a "guest of honor" on equal footing with House Medici — to the banquet of Duke Eufrencia, one of the true powers of the kingdom. A man who was, for all practical purposes, the second most powerful figure in the realm had regarded a single painter as the peer of its great houses, even if only in name.
And a painter that great, that illustrious, was now strolling through my villa at my side. Familiar as you please, no less.
The whole affair had been simple enough, in truth. On Father's orders, I finished my preparations and went off to Duke Eufrencia's banquet with my younger sister, where I performed my role as an ornamental folding screen with flying colors while keeping one eye open for the earliest chance to slip away home.
I was in the middle of precisely that when it happened.
──"You there."
──"Yes?"
──"What do you say? Any interest in buying one of my paintings?"
Raffaello, who until that moment had been standing a good distance off, had abruptly come over to our table and said this — pointing at me, and precisely at me.
Even if he had come looking for House Medici, it made no sense to extend an offer to a second son with no real authority when he might have spoken to Father or my brother — so I simply assumed he had mistaken me for my elder brother.
──"Sir Raffaello. I am Lorenzo, head of House Medici."
──"Ah, House Medici's renown is well known to me. The lifeline that keeps the East fed, isn't it?"
──"You flatter me. But what business have you with our second son? If the matter concerns Medici, you would do better to raise it with me, or with my eldest here."
──"No, Lorenzo. It is this young man I wish to make an offer to."
──"...Me?"
──"My business is exactly as I said. I have a new painting, freshly finished — what do you say? Won't you buy it and have a look?"
At Raffaello's abrupt offer — delivered with his finger aimed squarely at me — I blinked in frantic haste. It was our family's secret signal, and it meant one thing: Father, Brother, Sister — somebody, please, save me.
In reply, my brother and my sister blinked back. Looks entertaining. Not getting involved. Damn the pair of them.
And when even Father — my final hope — blinked back do as you like, so long as the family takes no harm, there was nowhere left to deflect the arrow.
And so, before my family and the countless eyes of the banquet hall—
"Sir Raffaello."
"Just 'Raffaello' will do, my boy. Title or no, this old man has no intention of standing on ceremony before a Medici."
"You are a grandmaster of the arts, and the gap in our years is gap enough — how could I not? More to the point, Sir Raffaello, as I recall, I distinctly declined your offer earlier."
"So you did. It was a piece I took no small pride in, too, and being refused out of hand left this old man rather crestfallen."
I had refused.
The reason was simple. Because I didn't want the attention? No. Because I feared being singled out by the Princess or Duke Eufrencia, should they take a fancy to the painting? Not that either — neither of them was so small-minded.
It was simply that the painting cost an utterly absurd sum of money.
"So it is not that your work displeases me, Sir Raffaello. I declined because I do not happen to possess the sort of money that buys a castle."
"This latest piece would fall short of a castle. Call it a matter of a few mansions."
"Which is still outrageous beyond belief."
Seriously — a single painting worth a sum like that? Now, I freely granted that a well-made masterpiece deserved its price. But I had, just that very day, bought a painting that even now struck me as truly superb for the price of a single copper, and I had no intention of paying castle-and-mansions money for one picture.
Above all, buying it was out of the question on my own funds — I would have needed Father's approval, and Father had merely blinked that it would be "rather difficult." To Father, paintings were tools for projecting prestige, and he already kept more than enough of those on hand.
There was no reason, at this stage, to spend such an enormous sum on a Raffaello. All the more so given how thoroughly pragmatic Father was.
In the end, with Father opposed, I could not have bought the painting had I wanted to. And I had figured it was no great loss — if the Princess or the Duke took a liking to it, they would buy it soon enough.
But this so-called great master had doggedly followed me out of the banquet hall — all the way back to the Medici villa, no less.
So this is why they say obsessive male leads don't belong in romance novels.
I'm sorry, Claire. I think I finally understand how you feel.
Still — even granting that Raffaello had singled me out, was it right for my entire family to scatter to the winds? Fine, Father had to remain for the banquet. But couldn't my brother or my sister have spared me a hand? Just you wait until you all come home.
The next pillow fight, I was hiding a block of wood inside my pillow. No exceptions.
"Hmm, if the price is beyond your means, I can hardly help that... But this old man does have to sell his paintings to eat, you understand. You might call this salesmanship of a kind. I am, as it were, selling you on the purchase of my painting."
"As I understand it, a great many people are eager to buy your work."
"Ah, but there is such a thing as the first sale of the day. You are my first today, you see, and being turned down by one's first customer leaves a distinctly sour taste."
Was this what they called getting a taste of one's own medicine? I had a distinct feeling I'd gone on about first sales and the like when I went to meet Rin. Claire must have shown remarkable restraint. I'm sorry.
What was more, the man across from me this time was someone I could hardly afford to brush off — someone who stood far above a second son with no real authority.
While I was silently commiserating with Claire's feelings, Raffaello, who had been striding along a step ahead of me, came to a halt before a certain spot.
"This is..."
"Ah — that's a painting I bought."
"Bought it, you say."
I had wondered what was with him, but the moment I recalled the original of the portrait I'd purchased from the beggar old man, I understood exactly why Raffaello was reacting this way.
The beggar had painted it with astonishing precision and fine detail — but at its root, it was a work painted after gazing upon Raffaello's portrait.
And in that instant, the meddling of that plump man flashed through my mind. If Raffaello took offense at the sight of that painting...
"My own work pursues simplicity over intricacy. I strip away excessive precision and detail, and leave those who look upon the canvas to imagine the subject's finer features for themselves."
"Mm..."
"Above all, this old man's paintings carry a passion and a soul that no simplicity can hide. This one, on the other hand, is far too cold. As though not a scrap of passion or spirit went into it at all... What say you?"
Raffaello had his back to me, his eyes on the beggar's painting, so I couldn't see his face. But his voice had sunk lower than before — and at a glance, it might have been mistaken for anger.
Coincidence — or discernment? His assessment of the beggar's painting matched the plump man's words almost exactly. The order of the phrases, even the choice of words, seemed so alike that I couldn't help but wonder. I supposed that rude fellow had at least possessed a genuine eye for painting. Or else he had simply been parroting things Raffaello had said.
The meaning behind Raffaello's words was plain. This imitation displeased him — it was not a painting fit to hang in a villa such as this.
At words that seemed either uncannily perceptive or a sly probing of the waters—
"Is that so? It looks perfectly fine to me."
...
"Well — you did paint the original of this piece, Sir Raffaello, and I've no intention of quibbling with your judgment. But I paid good money for it because I judged it good, and I hung it in this villa of my own will. If this were your home, Sir Raffaello, that would be one thing. As it stands, the owners of this place are me, and House Medici."
"...Hmmm."
"If my untrained eye has given offense, Sir Raffaello, then I apologize. But I have no intention of taking that painting down. On that point, I must ask for your understanding."
I said it partly because I had every intention of seeing Raffaello out the door regardless — but it was every bit the truth, too.
I thought that painting was good. That was all there was to it.
However a grandmaster, a famous man, might judge that painting, it could not change the way I looked at it.
In the end, the paintings each of us loves and hates are our own. It could hardly be otherwise.
"You would refuse even my word, then?"
"Yes. Because in my eyes, it is more than fine."
"...Good."
"Sir Raffaello?"
"Very good indeed."
And as Raffaello turned back to me, his voice thick with satisfaction, his eyes had been dyed a deep blue.
In a flash, one of the many anecdotes about Raffaello came to mind. A spell counted among the most punishing even among mages — the Eye of Insight.
A magic ordinarily wielded to decipher an opponent's spells or see through their deceptions — and he was the genius who had first turned it to the painting of pictures. Mage and painter both. That was Raffaello.
At the same time, I'd heard it was a spell he almost never used anymore — not since his aptitude for magic had begun to wane with age.
"To place your own judgment above whatever anyone else may say. At least where the appraisal of paintings is concerned, what matters is not logic or reason, but one's own sensibility."
"Uh..."
"My eyes have yet to be wrong, it seems. Which only makes me more curious. What manner of paintings do the artists under this young man's patronage create?"
Huh? Wait — how does he know I'm patronizing Rin and Iris? Did I ever mention that?
Before I could do more than blink at the abrupt remark, Raffaello — somehow worked up all over again — seized my hand and began hauling me along.
"Take me to them at once! I can bear it no longer!"
"W-wait just a moment!? Sir Raffaello?"
"This way, is it? I can smell it — that unmistakable scent of mana-laced paint and oils. This room!"
Without a word of guidance from anyone, Raffaello had picked out — from the smell of paint and oil paints alone — the room we had set aside as Rin and Iris's studio, and, as if not a moment was to be lost, flung its door wide open.
"U-um...? P-Patron...?"
"...Iris. Where's Rin?"
"Rin said she'd be painting outside on her own. B-but more than that — who might this be?"
"Ah, this is Sir Raffaello. You've heard the name, right?"
"R-R-Raffaello!? Of course I've heard of him! But why would Sir Raffaello be with you, Patron... D-don't tell me."
"Iris?"
"Don't tell me you're casting me aside for Sir Raffaello..."
"That is not going to happen, so quit filling your head with nonsense. Sir Raffaello, you might at least knock before... Sir Raffaello?"
...
What now? Why had the man who'd been beside himself with excitement gone suddenly quiet?
Turning my head at the question, I found Raffaello standing there with his mouth hanging open wide enough to unhinge his jaw.
His eyes were fixed on the painting Iris had been at work on.
A rabbit beastkin sprawled across a bed in a distinctly suggestive pose — and a wolf beastkin drawing close at her side.
Ah.
...Ah.