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its furniture, and the result was a cold, dark, and foul-smelling kingdom which was apparently ruled
by a madman.
But at least they had been accepted; no one had questioned, or indeed showed the slightest interest in
their claims to be a wayfaring poet and a painter. They had debated the use of pseudonyms as they
had ridden and rejected the idea, afraid they might slip up and draw attention by using their true
names. But no one had asked for introductions either. Apparently people truly did come and go at
Hever on a daily basis, without fuss or ceremony. The newcomers were presented with the stub of a
candle and a single match and told to sleep anywhere they could find.
This morning Trevor had risen early, with the first crowing of a cock that apparently resided out in the
hall. He had gathered from the evening before that LaRusse liked to paint by the light of the sunrise
and that he and Anne were in the habit of going to the gatehouse high at the top of the meadow to
work. Trevor had dressed in the semi-darkness and departed with his little leather notebook under
his arm, determined to assume his role as an early morning poet.
Rayley, more reluctant to abandon the minimal comforts of his pallet, had risen and gone down to
breakfast a half-hour later. Now, nudging a hen from a rickety chair so that he might claim her seat, he
found himself beside a lovely young woman who was dressed in an oversized man’s shirt and
trousers. While the rest of the colonists may have looked sullen and anemic, this girl was bursting
with health and she looked at the bowl in Rayley’s hand and said, with some sympathy, “Our gruel is
worthy of Dickens, is it not?”
“There’s nothing else to eat?”
“Not unless you have the time and inclination to follow around one of our chickens in hopes of an
egg,” she said with a chuckle, then extended a palm. “I am Dorinda Spencer.”
Rayley gladly shared his own name as he shook her hand, noting that her gloves, while made of the
finest kid and obviously expensive, were splattered with paint and the fingertips had been cut off,
evidently to aid in her artwork. She glanced down at them, for the first time appearing a bit selfconscious.
“I am a painter,” she said.
“As am I.”
“Ah,” she said. “Then you must come with me and I will show you where the paints are mixed.
Where I mix them, perhaps I should say. Do you use white? Some within the colony are afraid of it.”
“White paint?” Rayley said, aware he sounded a bit stupid.
She nodded impatiently. “They say it is full of lead. Enough to addle the brain of anyone who uses it,
which is where the notion first arose among polite society that all artists are barking mad. You hadn’t
heard?”
“I’ve been in France,” Rayley said weakly.
“And they aren’t aware of the dangers of lead poisoning there? I suppose that explains why they paint
those bright and airy landscapes, while British art remains so dark and gloomy. And perhaps it
explains the general temperament of the French as well.” She chuckled, amused at her own small