1. Patronage Should Go to the Underdogs
Mealtimes in our household were observed with near-military strictness. We all knew how busy everyone was, but Father had insisted—forcefully—that at the very least, the whole family gather around the table and lay eyes on one another when we ate.
And so, whether my brother's lessons in running the fief ran late, whether someone overslept, or whether some private matter came up, come dinnertime, every last one of us assembled.
No, remembering a past life did not mean I failed to regard these parents as my parents. This was reincarnation, not possession—and besides, I had no particularly fond memories of the people who'd been my parents last time around. If anything, these parents were far better.
Which is how, at a dinner attended by the entire family—my younger sister away at the academy being the sole exception—Father abruptly issued me a ban on leaving the house.
"Father, what do you mean, I can't go out? Why all of a sudden?"
"Nothing comes to mind?"
"Even if you say that..."
There really wasn't a single thing weighing on my conscience. What on earth could it be about?
When I met his eyes with a look that said I honestly had no idea, Father shook his head and answered as he carved the meat.
"You've been using that Transformation Perfume quite often lately."
"Is that what this is about?"
"You're a grown man. Would I really ground you just for putting on a disguise and going somewhere? You brought Claire along, so your safety was never in question."
"Then why—"
"How did you get your hands on that Transformation Perfume?"
"I took it from the artifact warehouse."
"And did you fill out the access ledger?"
"Ah."
Ah. That's right.
"The Transformation Perfume is hardly a priceless treasure, but the head maid noticed the count was off almost immediately, and the entire house went on brief alert. Everyone assumed an intruder had broken into the warehouse and made off with something."
"That was..."
"And as I hear it, the warehouse keeper who was supposed to be standing guard had stepped out to the privy for a moment. If you take something from the warehouse, you record it properly in the ledger. That is how it works."
"...I'm sorry."
"Fortunately, it never grew into a serious incident, so you will confine yourself to the estate for a few days. And be sure to sign the ledger from now on."
"Little brother, I must say, that was genuinely impressive? Lying in wait for the exact moment the warehouse keeper went to the privy—could it be you have a talent for thievery?"
"Oh, come on, Brother."
"Goodness, I had better keep a close eye on my own office, then. If my dear little brother ran off with the family seal, the succession might very well change hands."
"Knock it off, seriously."
"And should the second son ever succeed in stealing your seal, I shall simply reconsider the succession."
"I know I was in the wrong, so that's quite enough from you too, Father."
It went without saying that this was all in jest. It was a joke they could afford because my brother's position in the family was utterly secure, and everyone knew I had no interest whatsoever in the headship.
In any case, the fault was one hundred percent mine, so I had nothing to say in my defense. If anything, considering that my usual routine was to stay cooped up at home, a few days of confinement could hardly count as a punishment at all. Though I suppose it technically was one.
I won't be able to visit Rin's studio for a while. Well, a week at the very most. What could possibly happen in that time?
He wasn't coming.
After checking the clock more times than she could count, Rin finally heaved a sigh and put the wine she'd taken out back where it belonged. The dried meat she'd steeled herself to splurge on at the market met the same fate.
He was a man who always arrived at the same hour. If more than an hour had passed and he still hadn't appeared, then today, evidently, he simply wasn't coming.
Then again, it had been strange for him to come by every single day for over a week.
If this were a grocer's shop, maybe, but who visited a painter's studio daily? Still less one who arrived each time bearing gifts under the name of patronage.
At first she had suspected every sort of ulterior motive, but a man with that genuine an eye for painting had, at the very least, barely scraped past Rin's standards for approval.
And she couldn't deny that talking with him had been rather pleasant, either. Her days had been spent shut away in a studio no one ever visited, painting and nothing else—there were times she went from morning to night without speaking a single word aloud.
His skin was sunburned, and he'd mentioned coming in off a boat—must be tied up with trading company business.
This city was one of the largest in the east, and a port besides, with countless ships and merchant houses coming and going. He even traveled with that ill-mannered woman who addressed him as "young master," so he was surely something like the heir to a mid-sized trading company.
Considering the price of the fine wine he'd brought, the theory held up. After a moment's deliberation, Rin at last gave in and fetched the wine back out.
Just one sip.
Before she'd left home, she had loved wine well enough to call herself a connoisseur, and the temptation proved impossible to resist. The plan, of course, had been to share it with him—but the man who wasn't coming was, indeed, not coming.
It came as patronage, so what's the harm? He didn't seem all that fond of drink, from what I saw yesterday.
And yet the man had somehow managed to pick out a wine of this quality. Picturing her tanned, golden-haired customer, Rin let out a soft laugh.
"Cheers."
She hadn't cared for the "patronage" that noble second son had spoken of—but this kind of patronage wasn't so bad. So Rin decided.
The more she drank, the more exquisite it tasted, and she found herself tempted to drain the bottle right then and there—but she held back. She had to leave enough for the two of them to share.
Teaching him how to drink wouldn't be so bad, come to think of it.
As she mulled over how one would even go about teaching such a thing, Rin suddenly caught herself and blinked in mild surprise. After all, it had been a very, very long time since she'd thought about anything besides painting and debt.
Is this... what they call breathing room?
At an ease she hadn't felt in longer than she could remember, Rin sank into that pleasant sensation as the wine's gentle buzz crept steadily up on her.
Even if her reality was poor, and grueling, and lonely, and fraught with worry—
"Come to think of it, I never even caught his name."
—thinking of that man's modest patronage, and of the conversations they had shared, was enough to let her forget it all, if only for a little while.
Having savored the buzz and the rare sense of ease, Rin soon slipped into the studio. Not to put the finishing touches on her commissioned The Sorrow of Martego.
Well, he could practically be called a regular of the studio by now.
If you asked whether a single week of visits made a man a regular—yes, it did. The total number of customers who had ever set foot in Rin's studio didn't come to ten, and of those, the only one who had ever come back was him.
And a man with an eye for painting like his would surely see through to the intent and philosophy woven into the work as well.
Just as a cook is grateful to a guest who can truly taste, a painter, too, gladly welcomes the one who understands the intent and effort behind a canvas.
So Rin took up the brush he had brought her as patronage and let it dance across a blank canvas.
Strange—this was far lighter, far more joyful, than painting The Sorrow of Martego had ever been. It was the same act of painting, so why did the brushstrokes feel so utterly different?
The question dissolved into her concentration.
That day, no one came to Rin's studio.
The next day.
"...What?"
He wasn't coming.
Rin, who had stared at the clock yet again, soon found herself drawing the wine back out and cradling the bottle, a faint anxiety gnawing at her. The dried meat snacks from yesterday's market trip fared no better.
He was a man who always arrived at the same hour. Right up until two days ago, he had been.
For two days running, he had not come to the studio.
He must be... busy with work?
Surely that was all it was. Thinking so, Rin poured the wine into her glass with almost petulant force.
What an outrageous man. Here she'd thoughtfully saved wine for him, and he goes and skips two days in a row.
In the name of revenge, Rin knocked back glass after glass, then surrendered herself to the drunkenness crashing over her in waves.
I even went and painted something new, for his sake.
The painter, unmistakably, was her, and he was only a customer. What kind of customer leaves the artist pacing the floor in anxiety?
Suddenly irritated, Rin rose from her seat and went into the studio. Hanging there were the nearly finished The Sorrow of Martego and the new painting she had stayed up all night to complete.
Whether it was the wine or the temper, who could say.
Rin picked up a sharp-edged tool and tore to pieces the painting she had made for him.
Shnk! Rrrip!
"...Hmph."
It was all down to that man's rotten luck. If he'd come today, she'd have talked with him about the painting, kept the haggling going just long enough for show, and then simply pressed it into his hands as a gift.
Truly a man with neither luck nor sense of timing. Having settled on that verdict, Rin flopped onto her bed. Drunken, trembling hands were no state in which to finish The Sorrow of Martego, after all.
Yesterday's canvas had turned out satisfyingly enough even with her hands shaking from drink, but today, she sensed, would be different. That was simply how it felt.
That day, no one came to Rin's studio.
And so five days passed.
When even that day went by without a visit from the man, Rin finally understood.
"...Ah."
That he was never coming to this studio again. That Rin the painter had lost a customer, a regular, a would-be patron, a delightful conversationalist—and a drinking companion.
And the reason went without saying: because Rin had refused his patronage. His goal had been to patronize the painter called Rin—and in the end, once he had laid even his past bare and she still showed no sign of accepting, he had given up.
That was all there was to it. Rin had never intended to accept patronage in the first place, so it was an ending decided from the very start.
Rin's studio was quiet. As it always had been, Rin was its only occupant.
That day, no one came to Rin's studio.
And none ever would again.