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Maya Kirsten: handsome, clever and wealthy, with a comfortable home and happy disposition. She seemed to unite some of the best blessings in existence, and had lived nearly four and twenty years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
Once she loved nothing more than a little chaos and a twist of meddling, but after a particularly headstrong move which garnered her a concussion, she was irrevocably altered. She still delighted in mischief as little sisters do, but she became more reserved, stronger in conscience and mind with good principles and charming manners that were unmatched by any other lady her age.
Maya had become a great asset to her brother and sister-in-law—Mr Raphael Kirsten and Mrs Bernadetta Kirsten—as they launched the second phase of their business. After their joyous wedding, they all settled in the siblings’ hometown of Verona, a hamlet outside the Alliance’s capital city, Derdriu. During this time, Maya had decided to pursue art seriously, learning from masters and eventually became an art dealer, leading her to the self-sustaining career as an agent for a family friend, Ignatz Victor.
With Ignatz a well-known and sought after artist and Maya a lover of art, it was only natural that two would eventually open Leicester’s first public art gallery and museum, the Victor Gallery of Art. Ignatz was often given the luxury and burden of travel in regards to his talent. Maya, meanwhile, preferred to manage the gallery, making it her own. Until this pivotal point in her own history, she lived at House Kirsten in Verona with her brother and sister-in-law; once the gallery began to take up more of her time, she rented a private room in west gate buildings, akin to an apartment, and lived her life by and for herself.
The gallery was but a small shop, only one spacious room with enough wall-space for a few paintings and room on the floor for a few sculptures. While it was a small gallery, and in comparison to private collections of wealthy nobles was nothing much, it was her own and she lip took pride in such an accomplishment. Somedays Maya grew a little bored with the quiet of the shop, but those days were few and far between. Besides, she always ensured she had a good book to read to keep her amused.
This was one such day. Maya was lounging on the old sofa with delicately-stitched cushions beneath her which she and Bernadetta had made when one lady was in a state of confinement and the other was desperate for her company. In her hands was a very worn, very small copy of Saint Indech’s poetry and she was attempting to truly appreciate it, as any respectful lady should, when the door opened. She immediately forced herself up from her slouch, ensured that her curls was not mussed up and her dress unwrinkled and assumed the look of ladylike young woman.
“Good afternoon,” She said rather breathlessly. “and welcome to the Victor Gallery of Art.”
“Thank you, good afternoon to you too.”
Maya did not look at her new guest and instead, fighting a blush of embarrassment for being so careless with her figure and manners, busied herself with her book. The floorboards of the old gallery creaked as the guest traced the collection of work. She had organized a showing of works from the Empire, at her sister-in-law’s suggestion. Bernadetta was always so full of good ideas; Raphael would only suggest, yet again, a show of “meat pieces” or landscapes—and yes, the prior was exactly what it sounded like, just drawings of meats, both cooked and raw.
“Is this for selling?” Asked the guest.
Maya ceased reading and finally looked up to her guest. She was a short man with a tanned complexion. He was a little taller than herself with red-violet hair and dark brown eyes. He wore the coat and tails of a Leicester gentleman, but donned a sword on his hip like a member of the military, which made Maya uneasy. And there was a specific marking on his face that Maya struggled to decipher between a bit of jam that had got stuck on his cheek or an ink tattoo. But first and foremost—before all these other thoughts—Maya noticed that he was quite handsome.
He gestured to the painting behind his person and Maya had a hard time tearing her eyes from him to glance at it. When she finally stopped staring at the gentleman and looked at the painting behind him, she realized it was no painting at all. It was actually one of her favourite pieces in the exhibit: a map of Brigid’s isles sketched with thin pencils and dotted with a fine hand. Ignatz had met a cartographer upon his first voyage to the archipelago and studied under him for a few precious days while their ship travelled from island to island. While it was not a painting, nor could it even be classified as a sketch, it was Maya’s favourite for the possibilities that a map held in its parchment: the chance of some day going there, or simply knowing that places outside Leicester existed. She expected her guest to enquire about the painting of Fódlan’s Fangs, which had become a favourite amongst the visitors, or perhaps the mysterious ephemera Ignatz had collected from an Albinean scholar. So few paid attention to the recreation of the map, and those who did gave it a passing glance before moving their attention onto another piece.
She gave him a sad smile. “I’m afraid that one is not for sale, sir.”
“It is being a shame.” Said the gentleman. “The artist did very well to be capturing… Capture, the feeling of the isles. I am meaning their distance and closeness: and the respect that is being on a map. It is quite gratifying to be seeing.”
“He did. I know he put a lot of time and effort into it.” Maya said, getting up. She walked closed to the map and stared at it. “Whenever I look at it, I feel like I’m transported to Brigid. I wish I could go, but I’ve only ever been as far as Enbarr.”
“Brigid is a very beautiful place.” Said her guest. “Rich in history and culture, which you will not be finding in Fódlan.”
Maya studied him. “Do you take particular interest in Brigid’s islands?” He nodded and Maya cried, “How interesting! Few people here even know about them, even less care!”
“Well, I am supposing I am once of those who are… in the know, I believe is the wording in your language?”
Maya nodded and smiled and the two enjoyed the silence and peace of the moment. It was short-lived peace before Maya glanced at him not once but twice. Then before he could protest, she ordered, “Stay here.”
Maya hurried back into the storage room-and-office, took a leather portfolio of Ignatz’s other works, which yet to be framed. They were all of Brigid, all of the islands and of different life. Ignatz wouldn’t appreciate that Maya was sharing his not-yet approved works, but he would forgive her; he always did.
“This one,” she said with pride as she laid out the portfolio on the desk, “is his favourite. The artist’s, I mean. He said he hoped he captured the movement of the isles, the breeze and such, much better than he had hoped to. But still he’s quite hard on himself.”
“You seem to be knowing the artist personally.”
“He is a childhood friend of mine. The other owner of this gallery actually!” Maya beamed with pride. “Mr Ignatz Victor.”
“I should be most grateful to be meeting—meet him.”
“I’m afraid Mr Victor is currently on business in Brigid. He has a second residence there and spends the dreary winter months on the isles.”
The gentleman smiled. “Oh, how perfect!” He laid a hand on his heart. “I hail from Brigid. I shall find him immediately.”
Maya was taken aback briefly and her tone became doubtful. “That might be hard to do. Isn’t it a chain of islands? It should be hard, right?”
“Nothing that the guard cannot find. The Order of the Blue Sun are the finest trackers and servants to the land. No one, not even the finest of warriors or hunters, would compare.”
“Do you know them personally? I would have thought they’d be, you know, knights? Busy on quests and things? Saving lost kittens up trees, helping old ladies cross the street…”
The gentleman did not laugh at Maya’s rather lame joke and she blushed with momentary embarrassment.
“Let us say that I have… a personal connection to them.” The gentleman said. “Brigid’s knights are being much different than your Fódlani knights. They serve the people, they are protecting them. If I am not having mistakes, er, being mistaken, yours are private, like a guard?”
“Indeed. They’re mostly glorified mercenaries in uniform. Not terrible to look at...” She said. “Most noble families employ them like bodyguards.”
“The Order of the Blue Sun was crafted to promote independence from the Adrestian Empire; once that was being established, they turned to serve the commonwealth.” He explained.
“Oh. Brigid’s a much different place than I thought. Guess I’d better read more about it.”
“I am recommending the histories by the writer and philosopher Eyvel, if you are interested in learning about our culture.” He said, then offered with a smile, “I am having a spare copy in my trunks. Perhaps I might give it to you… If you would like to join me for tea?” In a slightly self-conscious tone, he asked, “That is what Fódlani people like, yes? Tea?”
Maya laughed. “Yes, we love our tea. It’s good for sharing secrets over.”
“Then perhaps we might be sharing the secrets of our countries.”
“That sounds like espionage.” Maya flirted back. “Although, words may be misleading? And what is a better account of Brigid than from one of it’s inhabitants, especially one so-versed in the knighthood; you must be a scholar, I do declare you must be.”
“I am afraid you are not correct. I am no scholar.”
“But you recommended texts and philosophers… Hmm.” Maya narrowed her gaze and said, “I shall wrinkle it out of you. I am quite good at figuring out those things.”
He smiled coyly and said, “There is no needing for ‘wrinkling’ as you so put it: I shall be telling you all, should you come out with me.”
Maya paused then agreed. “Alright. Are you disengaged on the morrow?”
“Yes. I am all yours, should you wish it, my lady.”
“Then you shall may call at this address.” Maya opened the drawer that held the artists and buyers’ information. She tore a piece of paper, wrote the address of the White Hart Teashop and handed it to him with a smile.
“I am looking towards—forwards, to it.” He smiled. “Pray, what is your name?”
Maya blushed, realizing she had a full conversation about art and Brigid and flirted with a man who she didn’t know the name of. She curtseyed and gave her name as he bowed cordially, a hand over his heart.
“Miss Maya Kirsten of Verona. And you are?”
“Sir Manu Macneary of Brigid.”
Maya scarcely had a moment to be conscious of who she was talking to—of who she was flirting with—before the door flew open and a young lady with an umbrella walked in, soaked through with the rain. In the time—Maya did not know how long it had been—since Manu arrived and they began their flirtation, it had begun to rain outside, coating Derdriu in what Maya likened to an oily glare.
The quiet of the gallery was overtaken with noise and the bustling of this young lady. Maya felt her brief embarrassment fade.
Manu recognized this young lady and spoke to her in another language that Maya could not understand. This was the contents of their conversation:
Manu: Selene, I thought you were at the haberdasher buying silk?
Selene: I was, but I got bored. I think Leicesterians are allergic to pink, everything was yellow or gold or some ugly orange. I should have known you wouldn’t stay with Andrey and wait outside for me. You’re really mean sometimes, brother!
Selene: But then again, I saw you eyeing this shop when we were walking past earlier in our trip.
Manu: I saw this map of Brigid. Look how it looks alike to our home. You know how I love our homeland, sister. Surely you cannot blame me for being patriotic!
Selene: No, no I cannot be sour to you for loving our homeland so. And I’m sure the comely shopkeeper has nothing to do with it.
Maya listened to all this with little comprehension. Manu looked a little stricken, excused himself and turned to Maya. “I beg your pardon, Miss Kirsten, this is my little sister, Lady Selene.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Maya said, curtseying politely; Selene laid a hand over her heart and inclined her head just as her brother did. “Sir Macneary was interested in the collection our gallery is showing.”
“It is very lovely.” Selene caught sight of the paper in his hands and smiled. “I am seeing that my brother is deeply interested in art. I am sure you are a very knowledgeable guide.”
“Er, yes,” Maya said. “Well, I endeavour to be.”
“Perhaps he is also interested in the very pretty art dealer…” Selene murmured under her breath. This did not evade Maya and she coloured a deep red. Suddenly she understood all the emotions and embarrassment she incurred on Raphael and Bernadetta.
Selene heaved a sigh, “Well, it is looking like it will rain for sometime. Perhaps we can take shelter in your shop, Miss Kirsten?”
“Of course,” Maya said before joking, “Though you might leave with a fine portrait in your possession by the end of it. I can be quite persuasive.”
“Oh I am certain my brother would buy everything from you.” Said Selene. Manu admonished her lowly in Brigidian. Maya, blushing, was equal parts delighted and mortified.
She entertained the Macneary siblings for the afternoon with tea and talk until it was decided that they could brave the light rain for long enough to get to their hotel. As they left and Maya waved to them through the shop window, she noticed a hidden guard move from his careful hiding spot between the gallery and the cobbler next door. Maya noticed a patch of blue fabric, in the shape of a sun, on his coat as he turned and followed the Macneary siblings.
Maya heaved a sigh, drinking in her mortification and cleaned up the chipped tea set she’d brought out with four-spice blend tea to entrain the Macnearys with. As she tidied up, Maya remedied to call upon Bernadetta and Raphael with deep apologies for her meddling so long ago as she finally understood what it felt like. But despite this deep chagrin, her cheeks glowed with a blush and she ever forwards—or toward—the morrow.