Mornings in the City of Coin were both ripe with promises of plump coin purses as well as headaches and laughable regrets of the night before but at the Wondrous Widow, the ladies of the night were still sound asleep behind thick curtains keeping away the sunlight to cast a cool shadow over every corner of the brothel. Madame Naldore, the owner, was of course always up at first light to visit Waukeen’s Promenade and purchase only the fruits and delicacies of the highest quality to spoil her dear swans so they may begin the day – or afternoon – with the smile and energy required to work.
Unlike in many brothels of the city, Madame Naldore took her employees very seriously and always supported them in their darkest hours – which so happened to be rather often, especially with the new arrivals. The women that worked there, she’d say, needed nurturing and guidance to grow strong, as many of them were impulsive and led much by their heart, making questionable decisions like marrying young to some dashing rogue that would get himself killed within days of the ceremony. It becomes obvious now, why her establishment was named what it was. There were only a few men that lived under her roof and half of them were eunuchs. The other half might have been interested in the former were it not for their condition, and thus didn’t grow annoying and dim-witted, as men tend to be when surrounded by women. The only exception to this room was her son, who had made it clear that he was married to his brushes and paints – he’d even stolen the auctioned wedding band of the late and famed painter Bolivar to prove it.
After preparing herself to leave, she left her room to lounge the balustrade of the upper floor and barge into her son’s room unannounced. Disarrayed and confused, he turned away from the cascading fresh darkness which covered the canvas that was propped on an easel to glare at her with the irritation that came with a night owl’s meeting with the sun.
-“By Lathander! You look ghastly Soliere.”
-“I was in the midst of revolutionizing Vendusec’s style, dawn sabotaged my nocturnal horizon.”
-“Ah, you were up all night again.”
-“Don’t say it like that. I’ve told you the sun doesn’t have a monopoly on creativity. Come, come – Tell me what you think.”
He beckoned her forth while his weary eyes returned to the canvas, and Madame Naldore crossed the doorway to sigh at the sorry sight Soliere’s room was: pigsty, cesspool, and bazaar those were the words she would have voiced out loud were he the type to listen to her. Her heart paused when she gazed at the unfinished painting that depicted the city’s skyline from the balcony a few meters before her. Every brushstroke concealed a dozen more beneath precision and perfectionism, only perceivable to a practiced eye, and even without any light portrayed in the work of art, one could discern the shapes of buildings and silhouettes of nightwalkers as though it was clear as day. There was no moon, no light, the only variations of darkness lay in-between the contrast of denser and lighter shadows. Yet there was one flaw that ruined the painting though to her it was easily ignored: the virgin patch on the canvas that hadn’t been touched by his brushes.
-“Well? What do you think?”
-“This is perfect!”
He suppressed a yawn,
“It’s unfinished.”
-“No – I mean. Yes. Complete it and it will be perfect – exactly what we will require this afternoon.”
The painter gave his dear mother a puzzled look.
-“I meant to tell you last night but Andris Paledrin, the jeweler I’ve been trying to sway into sponsoring our business for the past month, has invited us to his wedding this afternoon! He’s absolutely delighted by artists – and surrounded by them – and this is a perfect wedding gift for him to find yourself noticed by a grand patron of the arts. Two - no - three birds with one single stone. Do you realize how much this means to me, to you, to us?”
-“No. Wait.” The young man retreated to the edge of his bed to let the news sink in as though he’d just received a fist in the abdomen. After a long moment suspended in silence, he repeated again with anxiety.
“It’s unfinished.”
-“You have plenty of time to finish it – I will leave you to it now but we may speak of it later this morning when I return.”
As suddenly as she had waltzed in, the lady left in a gust of thrill that Soliere’s morose state of exhaustion was not prepared for. He heaved a sigh and stood as his mind began fabricating scenarios of how the afternoon would go. Somehow, the sudden urgency of the situation didn’t appeal to him, especially the bit where he had to part with his own work of art. But in the end, he knew how much the Wondrous Widow meant to his mother, and it was just one painting. And maybe it could open many doors, who knew? This revitalized him somewhat, and he picked up a thin brush to complete the skyline. A swirl on his palette to bring a touch of cobalt here, and a caress of gray above. A few strokes to marry the two and it would be a perfect filler; even though every instinct in his soul disagreed.
The sky looked hideous. Why was there a hint of green in there? Soliere glanced to his palette, realizing the faux pas he’d made – the colors had mixed when he’d sleepily dipped his brush into them.
“What the hell have I done?”
