The morning in Froikton was serene.
In the ground floor of an old house in the heart of the town, slanting winter sunlight streamed through a large window facing the street. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams of light. By the window stood six spare canvases, stretched taut on wooden frames. There were those woven from fine linen, coarse hemp, and medium-weight cotton. Though positioned back from direct light, the room glowed softly with the winter sun.
Beside them, three pottery jars stood in a row, each holding brushes sorted by size. Slender brushes of squirrel fur awaited for delicate lines, sturdy pig bristle ones for firm strokes, and thick horsehair bundles for covering broad areas in a single breath.
Shelves lined the walls. Bundles of dried plants hung inverted from the ceiling beams: indigo for blue hues, saffron for yellow, and madder roots for red. On the shelves, pottery jars filled with pigments stood in orderly lines. Each bore a wooden label indicating its contents.
The ink script on parchment had faded with the years. Nearby sat a corbeille holding dried eggshells, washed clean and parched. These remnants, after separating yolk from white, were ready to be ground fine into white pigment.
The worktable was crafted from dark oak, its surface etched with paint stains in places. Reds, blues, yellows, blacks—the marks accumulated over decades of painting. Seeped into the wood grain, these traces remained like shadows of ancient artworks, varying in depth from hasty wipes.
At the table's edge lay small glass vials of ground pigments: red ochre from finely milled red earth, deep brown burnt sienna, and white chalk powder. Each vial's lid was sealed tight with wax.
A leather apron, stained with myriad colors, hung on the wall. Its surface had hardened from hundreds of sessions. Layers of red, ochre, blue, and black had soaked in, the dried paint forming rigid patches.
Beneath it on the floor rested two palettes carved from tortoise shell. Their inner surfaces were smoothed to perfection, edges bearing remnants where paints had been laid.
The hearth occupied a corner of the room. Soot blackened the bricks within the ash-heaped firepit, built up from long years of kindling flames. Beside it, firewood was stacked neatly, and a box held flint and tinder—dry bark and resin-coated twigs.
A wooden staircase led to the upper loft at the room's rear. Its handrail gleamed from years of handling, the wood worn smooth. Ascending brought one to a small bedchamber.
Atop the straw-stuffed bed, a woolen blanket stirred. An old man with a white beard pushed it aside and rose.
His joints ached. The winter chill made his knees and fingers stiffer still. He sat on the bed's edge, rubbing his face with his hands. Rough palms scraped across his cheeks.
"Hmm... another chill morn, eh."
He donned a thick woolen coat draped over the bedside chair. Heavy but warm. Barefoot, he trod the cold wooden floor down the stairs. Each step creaked familiarly. The third rang especially loud. The fifth tilted slightly rightward.
Descending to the ground floor, he headed for the cistern in the corner. Carved from stone, it had been built with the house itself. A gutter from the roof channeled rainwater down to it, following the roof's slope along the walls. At the cistern's mouth, a cloth sieve strained leaves and debris.
Lifting the lid revealed water half-full, its surface still. Below, a mana stone embedded in the wall emitted a faint blue glow, purifying the water. Thus it stayed clear and unspoiled even after long storage. The stone endured well, needing replacement but once or twice a year.
"A fine contrivance, this."
He scooped water with a deep wooden bowl and poured it into a kettle. It sloshed as it filled.
"What a mercy in midwinter, no need to venture to the well. Trudging snow-packed paths to haul on ropes—that's too much for these old bones."
Carrying the kettle, he continued.
"And for painting, how much water one needs. Washing brushes, grinding pigments, mixing glue. Without this cistern, I'd be fetching buckets several times a day. Hmph hah hah."
He bore the kettle to the hearth. Last night's embers flickered faintly amid the ashes, red coals winking. Striking flint sparked the tinder, upon which he laid a few small logs. Flames revived, crackling through the dry bark. He hung the kettle on the iron hook above the firepit. The hook swayed under the weight.
Then to the worktable, where he fetched a loaf of coarse rye bread. Baked three days prior, it was firm. With a bread knife, he sliced it into pieces, pressing hard against the toughness. Crumbs scattered. He piled the slices on a wooden plate. From the shelf, he took a cloth-wrapped block of salted cheese and shaved thin slivers with the knife. A briny scent arose. Salt crystals gleamed on its surface. He added a handful of walnuts and hazelnuts to the plate. These nuts, shelled kernels stored in a wooden box, had been bought last autumn.
White steam rose from the kettle. Water bubbled, bubbles bursting upward. He pinched dried chamomile blossoms from a glass jar and dropped them into a teapot. Yellow petals settled at the bottom. Pouring boiling water released a gentle herbal aroma. Steam wafted, teasing his nose.
"Today... I must finish that painting commissioned by the merchants' guild."
He settled into the chair by the worktable. The wooden seat creaked. Taking a slice of bread, he chewed slowly. The hard crust softened with saliva. His jaw worked to crush it. He topped bread with salted cheese and ate together. A salty tang spread through his mouth. The cheese's oil mingled with the bread. Cracking a walnut with his fingers, he extracted the kernel and ate. Shell fragments crumbled between his digits. A nutty richness filled his palate.
He sipped the tea. Warm liquid coursed down his throat, awakening his body. Chamomile's mild flavor enveloped his tongue.
"If no new adventurer from the guild shows up, I can work the whole day through. Lately, those novices come calling often."
He bit into more bread. Added a hazelnut and chewed. The crisp texture pleased him. The nuts' sweetness complemented the bread's plainness. Another sip of tea.
"The guild wants a painting for their hall—one that evokes abundance at a glance. Fruits, wine, silks, coins... aye, that should do. It'll brighten the air in that hall considerably."
He popped the last bread morsel into his mouth. Finished the remaining cheese. Drained the tea and set down the cup. With his hand, he brushed crumbs from his beard. White flecks fell to the floor.
Rising, he went to the worktable and took out a mortar and pestle. The stone mortar was heavy, its interior worn smooth. He donned the leather apron from the wall, tying the waist strings. He wound them twice for a firm knot.
"For the fruits and wine's hues, I'll start with reds."
From a stone jar, he retrieved a lump of dried red earth, palm-sized. Into the mortar it went, struck with the pestle. A dull thud shattered it into pieces. He ground on, turning coarse chunks to fine powder. His arm strained. Wrist twisting, he pounded downward. Elbows moved, joints clicking.
"Hmm... age makes even this laborious. In youth, 'twas naught."
Ground enough, he fetched a sieve. Fine cloth over a bowl, he poured the powder and shook side to side. Red dust sifted through, falling below. Coarse grains remained atop. Tapping with fingers dislodged more. The remnants went back to the mortar for further grinding. Thrice he repeated this. By the third, nigh all passed through.
"Red ochre's ready thus."
He spooned the fine red powder onto a small pottery dish. Added a dab of glue and stirred slowly with a wooden spatula. Powder and glue blended into a thick paste. As the spatula turned, the mixture clung.
Next, burnt sienna. With tongs, he placed a lump of yellow ochre into the hearth flames. Fire enveloped it, the yellow glowing in the blaze. Gradually, it shifted to reddish brown, surface first, then inward. He withdrew the baked ochre to cool. Tongs placed it on stone; steam rose as it cooled. Cooled, into the mortar, and grinding resumed. The fired ochre crumbled easier.
"A reddish brown... fine for shading silk cloth. To capture soft fabric's feel, this color's essential."
Sieved, then mixed with glue. A deep reddish brown paint emerged. He held a spatula-full to the light. Profound hue.
"For grapes, a bright yet ruddy tone..."
From the shelf, a jar of dried raisins. Lid off, a sweet scent escaped. He grabbed a handful, scattering wrinkled orbs into a small pot. Poured a bit of red wine to soak them, then set the pot over the hearth flames. Soon, liquid boiled, bubbles popping. Wooden spatula mashed the raisins, red juice seeping out. As it simmered, steam rose, volume halving. Color deepened intensely.
"A transparent red glow... mixed with glue, it'll make a splendid grape hue..."
Off the fire, he let it cool on stone. Strained through cloth, removing dregs. Clear red liquid remained, translucent to light. Glue added sparingly—too much would cloud it. Held to light: transparent purple-red.
"Aye. This'll do for grape clusters."
He fetched a small glass bottle of linseed oil, its contents golden in the light. Lid off, a nutty oil aroma spread. Dropped a few beads into each paint. Wooden spatula stirred; paints smoothed, gaining sheen, surfaces glistening.
"Costly oil... must use sparingly. Yet for the merchants' guild, do it proper... neither lavish nor stingy."
Paints prepared, he approached the window. Touched the thin cloth curtain on the frame—translucent linen. Drew one side slightly, adjusting light's fall. Shadows shifted over the worktable. Adjusted the other. Light spread evenly.
"This much... a fine light indeed."
He stepped back to appraise. The worktable bathed in soft, non-glaring illumination. Light diffused gently. He nodded, satisfied.
Knock knock knock, knock.
A heavy rapping echoed on the thick wooden door.
The old man paused, wiping hands on his apron. Sunlight lit his face, deepening furrowed brow and crow's feet. One eyebrow rose slowly as he turned toward the door.
"Are you in?"
A young man's voice from without, clear and firm.
"I've come to commission a painting."