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It was not that Verso hated his father’s birthday.
For starters, hate was far too strong a word. Verso could not imagine hating anything associated with his Papa. It was more of an—well, an inconvenience. Or, more aptly, a humbling experience. These feelings shamed the boy, but he took some comfort in the fact that both Clea and Maman felt the same.
Year in and year out, Papa found them thoughtful and unique gifts. Year in and year out, they came up blank. Verso huffed, blowing strands of hair out of his eyes. The three of them—four, if you counted Alicia—had been brainstorming for the better part of an hour. They were no closer to making a decision. The flimsy excuse that they ‘had time’ was beginning to wear thin.
“He has everything he wants,” Clea grumbled, chin resting in the palm of her hand. His elder sister’s omnipresent mixture of disdain and disinterest was absent; she looked irritated, as if staring down an insurmountable case of artist’s block.
“Yes,” Maman agreed, lips pursed. Aline dragged a hand through her hair. Alicia stared up at her, beaming, before mirroring the gesture. Verso chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Worse, your father is a man with relatively few wants to start—he’ll say he has everything he needs.”
Verso thought back to the year prior when, in a fit of desperation, he had asked. Papa had offered that same excuse almost verbatim. He eyed his mother, wondering if she spoke from experience. The hard lines near the corner of her eyes and mouth said yes.
“He still hasn’t commissioned an official portrait,” Maman began, with the decency to speak in a faltering tone. He tried to imagine Papa getting all dressed up on one of his rare free mornings and shook his head—horrible.
“A gift, Maman, not a punishment,” Verso protested.
“A sculpture, then? Marble would suit your father quite well.”
“He’d hate it,” Clea stated, bluntly. “He wouldn’t say he hates it, but he would.”
Maman colored slightly. She liked the idea, terrible as it’d been. “My love, I would welcome any of your suggestions—”
“Why don’t you know? He’s your husband—”
Verso tuned out the remainder of the conversation, staring out towards the lawn. It was a rarely beautiful day, the sunlight shining, the air warm; he wanted so badly to throw himself out into that life. Perhaps he would wander down to the stables. There was still plenty of light left. He could smuggle an apple from the kitchen for Calypso.
It would be a fine way to spend an afternoon.
~~~~~~
They concluded their brainstorming session with the familiar refrain: they had time.
Verso put that failure out of his mind, hands stuffed deep in his pocket. The boy worried a pair of sugar cubes between his fingers—less than he’d been hoping to steal. The chef was fastidious about his ingredients. It’d been him in the pantry, not the pretty scullery maid who sometimes snuck him treats and always gave him little offerings for Calypso. He’d managed to talk his way into the two cubes and half an apple, a frankly Herculean undertaking.
But he would not be arriving empty-handed. There was some small grace in that.
The familiar scent of fresh hay, sweet and crisp, mixed with the other elements of the stable. The tell-tale smell of horse hung in the hair. It was a scent Verso really quite liked, one he associated with pleasant rides and family excursions. One of the stable hands tipped his hat to Verso. He nodded back.
At thirteen, he was more aware of ‘societal expectations’ and ‘decorum.’ He was also still young enough to resent these terms. Verso glanced around, established he was alone, and rushed to the furthest stall in the stable. Calypso whinnied at the sight of him, tossing her head, mane fluttering prettily. His mare was far smaller than Maman’s goliath, Psyche, or Clea’s steed, but she was by far the loveliest. She stared at him with her huge brown eyes, the color flecked with gold. He fished the sugar cubes from his pocket, offering her one, his heart swelling with love.
Calypso had been one of Papa’s gifts. His finest gift, almost certainly. Verso leaned his head against the side of the mare’s muzzle, snickering when she huffed to ruffle his hair—a beautiful girl to call his own once he’d proven himself sure in the saddle.
He set to brushing her coat, unaware of how much time had passed, until a familiar hand settled on his shoulder. Verso startled, turning to stare up into his father’s familiar face. Papa’s pale eyes glittered, flicking from Verso to the horse. “You’re fit to spoil her if you keep smuggling treats, my son.”
“She deserves it,” he said unrepentantly.
Papa hummed in agreement, reaching out to stroke the side of Calypso’s neck. The mare nosed his shoulder, snuffling around the breast pocket of his riding vest. Papa would have stolen treats of his own.
“I’m certain she does.” He smiled, purely relaxed and in his element as he turned the horse’s attention back towards her master. “I intended to ride Eros—would you care to join me?”
Boyish delight filled him. “May I?”
Papa chuckled, shaking his head. “Go on, get her saddled. I’ll wait outside.”
Verso rushed through the task, giddy. He swung up into the saddle with practiced ease, trotting out to meet his father.
~~~~~~
They paused near a copse of trees near the far side of the manor grounds. It was not a long ride. They were a wealthy family, yes, but Paris was Paris. Land was limited. Papa stared out over the yard with a distant expression on his face, wistful.
“Your grandmother’s family lived in the countryside,” he began, leaning forward to pat the side of the stallion’s neck. “Some of my favorite memories as a boy were in that home.” Verso smiled. A hint of nostalgia bled into his father’s voice, softening it, as he stared sightlessly out over their home—seeing another time, another place. “The world seemed so vast.”
Papa spoke of trips to the countryside—of riding with his own father and his brother. The wistfulness never went away. It was a taste of true freedom, he murmured, a sort of abandon that came from partnering with such a powerful creature, turning it loose to embrace its true potential. A horse could live in the city and a stable quite happily, but—
—but it was never truly the same, was it?
Verso’s chest clenched with boyish longing. “Could we visit?”
Papa bowed his head. “Perhaps. It is a matter of time and responsibility.” The right corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Some hobbies must be put aside.”
“But you miss it?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes.”
An inkling of an idea occurred to him as they turned back towards the stables.
Papa lacked the time to visit the countryside. But they were Painters, weren’t they?
Verso could—would—bring the countryside to the manor.
~~~~~
“What are you doing?”
Verso jumped, nearly dropping the book he’d snatched from his father’s bedside table. He shot an accusatory look towards the door. Clea stood there, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between judgmental and horrified. She did not, he noted, step over the threshold and into their parents’ bedroom.
Verso understood that hesitance. While he’s visited hundreds of times over the course of his life, stepping foot in their room without invitation felt fundamentally taboo. It was nothing more than guilt and paranoia—Maman and Papa had gone into Paris on Council business—but every moment felt like eyes on him, heavy and disapproving. Someone would report back and ruin him.
“Verso!” Clea snapped, stomping her left foot.
The boy picked his way back across the room, careful not to disturb anything. He would not touch the coffee table. He avoided the carpets to keep from bunching the materials. He moved like a ghost. When he was safely on the other side of the door, Verso breathed a sigh of relief. He held the book out to his sister.
“Research—I’ve had an idea for Papa’s gift,” Verso said. Clea regarded him dubiously. Still, she followed after him towards the little sitting area, settling on the arm of his chair as he thumbed through the book. The Last of the Mohicans—an American novel. Old—it would have been old even when Papa was quite young, but clearly well-loved. The pages were dog-eared and faded from repeated readings.
Over the course of the past week, snooping around the library and his father’s personal collection, he’d discovered a shocking number of westerns tucked away. Verso spirited a few away to his room. He spent the subsequent evenings lost in a far-off country, living in the wildness of the plains and falling in love with its vastness.
The boy concluded the Americans had the right idea. All of France seemed obsessed with moral philosophizing, misery, and death. Hugo’s works were dense. Verso could profess no great interest in the Parisian sewer system; the Writer deemed it of the utmost importance, dragging his captive audience along. Pages and pages of logistics and pontificating and—
No, he preferred the ease of the West. Cowboys as new-age knight errants, bringing law to lawless places, finding romance and friendship, and goodness. In the end, most of those heroes did not die ignominious deaths; they rode into the sunset to adventure again.
He liked that romanticism, that hopefulness. The publication date on some of the novels suggested his father’s tastes were similar throughout his childhood and young adulthood. Still felt that way, if the novel and his collection were any indication.
“You’ve robbed Papa, but you haven’t explained.”
“We’re going to Paint.”
Clea sighed. “Verso, what could we Paint him that Maman couldn’t?”
He pursed his lips, fighting the to roll his eyes. “It’s not that Maman couldn’t; she hasn’t thought of it.” He tapped the novel again. “At first, I thought of just painting the countryside, but anyone could do that. We’ll give him an adventure! Out west! Like the Americans have!”
She opened her mouth as if to dismiss the idea, only to stop short. Perhaps she was thinking of the stables, or the hand-carved wooden horse toys Alicia now gnawed on in the nursery—Papa’s old toys. Clea cocked her head to the side.
“We could do that,” she agreed, speaking slowly. “We’ll need references, not just your research.”
He sighed. “I was hoping there might be some in Papa’s books.” Verso offered her a tentative smile. “You like the idea, though? Is it good?”
She wanted to snipe at him; he saw it. Clea softened, taking the book from him and glancing through the pages. She shrugged. “Papa would like it better than anything else we’ve come up with—it’s thoughtful.” With a more long-suffering sigh, “You're good at thoughtful, Verso.”
“Incredible—”
“Don’t ruin the moment, idiot.”
“—You can be nice.”
Clea rolled her eyes, dropping the novel back in his lap. “Put this back before we get caught. Then, meet me in the atelier. We need to think.”
~~~~~
They found references.
Grandmother did not understand the minutiae of Painting. She did recognize her grandchildren's earnestness and her son’s interests enough to help. She was, in many ways, the ideal assistant. She had the adult freedom and adult funds that they did not, but enough trust and love not to ask too many questions. They spent an afternoon in Paris, perusing the library and print shops. When the time came, Gabrielle made the purchases. She kissed both of them on the cheek and left them to their task, amused, bemused, and ultimately content.
There’s no chance that they will awaken before either Maman or Papa. The pair often woke up just after dawn. Maman especially seemed intent on meeting the sun’s first light. The alternative was to wait until a time when they were both out of the manor. Clea smuggled the easel out. Verso stole one of the Canvases. There were enough of them that their parents might not notice its absence. Or wouldn’t until after the gift came due.
Clea agreed to put the first strokes of paint to Canvas. There was barely a year between them, but Clea’s skills far outpaced his own. He sat with his back to the wall, surveying the images they’d collected. A pang of something like nostalgia or homesickness for a place he’d never seen seized him. He wished to travel across the ocean, wished to walk on those foreign shores, and adventure.
“Verso,” Clea said, her voice pulling him from his reverie. His sister swayed, staggering forward a step before catching herself. She’d adapted to longer stints in the Canvas, but the initial outpouring still took its toll. He stood, holding her by the elbow. “It’s ready.”
They began.
First came the land, most of it flat, sprawling fields of grain. A raucous blue sky, untouched by pollution, untouched by man-made creation, stretched as far as the eye could see. They added short trees to mirror what they’ve seen in photos. Verso painted wildflowers in the meadows. Clea dug streams into the countryside. Together, they carved deep chasms out of the earth, massive and majestic. Verso walked amongst the red stone, fascinated and enthralled by its beauty. They created something wondrous.
Still, try as they might, they could not manage to create life. Verso filled the towns with his gestrals to make them feel less empty. It was a salve. But they could not manage birds for the skies or the horses they desperately needed to add life to this place. Clea tried and failed half a dozen times before her pride ultimately led her to say, “We’ll have to ask Maman.”
They wanted it to be a surprise. The need for the Canvas to be perfect overwhelmed their desire to maintain creative control.
“You go to her,” Clea grumbled. “She won’t bother you.”
That was a bald-faced lie—Maman would always be bothersome when it came to painting. The lone difference was that Verso had learned when to pick his battles; sometimes, it was better to give ground. Clea, by contrast, believed every battle worthwhile.
He had only realized abstractly how rarely his parents were apart. Now that he needed Maman, Papa’s constant presence at her side was an irritant rather than a charm. In the end, Clea volunteered to distract their father while Verso snuck up to the glass house.
Maman glanced at him, swiping hair out of her face with one gloved hand, leaving a thin streak of dirt behind in its wake. The boy chuckled, striding across the space to brush it away.
“You’ve been following me,” Maman said by way of introduction, dove-gray eyes glittering with clear amusement.
Verso scoffed. “Not following you. We live in the same house, Maman. It would be more difficult to avoid you.”
“Mm.”
He pursed his lips, glancing back towards the stairs. Verso lowered his voice. “I did want to speak with you.”
“Without your father around, clearly. Verso, what’s wrong?”
“I’m trying to—” he sighed, holding up one hand. “Nothing’s wrong. Clea and I had an idea for Papa’s birthday, and we—well, we’ve hit a bit of a snag. We need your help.”
“Is that where you’ve been sneaking off to in the evenings, mon ange?”
“It’s Clea’s room. She can’t exactly sneak there,” he grumbled.
Maman chuckled, stroking his cheek. She held out her hands; Verso rolled his eyes, huffing in exaggerated effort as he pulled her to her feet. The boy made a show of protesting as she pulled him against her side, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air around him. Soon, he would be too old for these displays. For now, he allowed himself to fall into it, associating the heavily floral scent with affection and comfort.
They slipped into the adjoining studio in Clea’s room. Maman lingered for a moment, gaze flicking over the fresh sculptures and half-finished paintings. She made as if to touch one before recalling herself. Verso shook his head, moving to the far side of the room, pulling a sheet off the Canvas. Unlike many of the pieces in Papa’s atelier, the swirl of paint and ink was brighter, nearer to white/yellow than the traditional grey/purple. Maman cocked her head to the side. He took her hand, leading her to their creation, nodding his consent. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Looking at their work with fresh eyes, Verso allowed himself to feel a swell of pride. The Canvas not only looked right, it felt correct. They’d managed to mimic the scent of a warm summer season, the air thick with pollen, the hum of nonexistent insects lingering in the air. Near the stable, the smell of horses grew more pronounced. The town had one inn, now staffed with gestrals going about their day. In the evenings, music drifted from the saloon. Gestrals didn’t eat, but they did cook (or attempted to) in the evenings.
Maman’s eyes widened in surprise, breath catching. She glanced from Verso to the vastness of the countryside. The shock gave way to a slowly blossoming pride. She took a step forward, the hem of her skirts dragging across the dusty street. She would have to visit the tailor if she meant to stay, looking out of place and far too refined.
Or maybe, Verso thought, mind alight with ideas, she’d just stepped off the train. A wealthy noblewoman come to the Americas from Paris to New Orleans, and New Orleans to here, looking for a new lot in life. He liked that idea.
“You did all this?”
Verso scrubbed the back of his neck, smiling and nodding. “And Clea—Clea did a lot.”
“There are minor adjustments that should be made—the architecture is a touch—” Maman stopped short, scanning his face. Instead of finishing, Maman crossed to him, setting one hand on his shoulder and tipping his chin up with the other. “You have done something magnificent, Verso. My children never cease to surprise me.”
Surprise, not impress, he thought grimly. But the awestruck look on her face as she inspected their work suggested she was impressed. He took her hand, leading her through the town.
“Your father will adore it,” Maman said.
“It’s not right yet; it’s why we need your help.” The pair settled at one of the tables in the saloon. Maman watched, fascinated, as a gestral in a vest and bolo tie ambled over to their table with two bottles of sarsaparilla. Verso had, admittedly, had to guess at the exact flavor. “Clea’s tried, I’ve tried—they always come out wrong. And Papa can’t exactly go riding if there’s no horses.”
“That does complicate matters.” She took a delicate sip of her beverage. The entirety of her face screwed up in naked distaste. She slid the bottle away from her.
It did, admittedly, taste almost exclusively of sugar.
“You could Paint them,” Verso insisted.
“I could,” she agreed, still eyeing the gestral behind the bar. “And amend that while I’m at it.”
“They don’t have wine in the west, Maman.” Probably untrue, but it didn’t change the fact that she was getting distracted.
She raised an eyebrow. “Spoken as an authority, I see.”
“Will you help? Please, Maman?”
It was a silly question: of course, she would help.
She would also, almost undoubtedly, find a way to turn this into a lesson.
~~~~~
“It’s wrong,” Clea declared.
Maman pursed her lips. “A tremendously helpful observation, ma chérie. Would you like to try?”
Clea did not respond. In truly un-Clea fashion, his sister glanced away, shrugging. She did not mention, Verso noticed, that she had already made no fewer than a dozen attempts at some of the more exotic creatures. More than a few nightmarish horrors now roamed the Canvas as byproducts of those experimentations. Up to and including a deer without a hint of skin on its face because, in her own words, she “could not get the flesh to hang correctly.”
He shivered.
Maman worked efficiently. During her first foray to the Canvas, she’d added birds, cows, horses, dogs, and a medley of other creatures. With their permission, she’d gone so far as to add additional wildflowers and bits of greenery to add some depth to their landscape. The tailor’s offerings, Verso noted, had likewise expanded since he last looked. It didn’t bother him. The core of their work remained fundamentally unchanged. Maman sought only to provide an extra hint of realism.
“Maybe if you studied the references more,” Verso offered. His mother shot him a look so deeply withering, he fell back a step, digging the toe of his boot in the dirt. “Just a suggestion.”
Maman turned her nose up, making a vague gesture with her brush to vanish the creature—a shoddy attempt to recreate a bison. She switched her attention to their newest area of interest instead: the bayou. Logically, Verso knew it was too near the plains, but it was their Canvas. He wanted a bayou. With Maman’s assistance, it went quickly. She carved out the river, filling it with steamboats as per his specifications. His favorite was a mixture of rich and seedy, filled with gambling and moonshine.
Maman did study. In the evenings, sitting together by the fire with Alicia settled by her side, she sketched the animals Clea and Verso still wanted. The toddler watched, fascinated, as Maman adjusted the bison to meet her own exacting standards. When it was perfect, she passed it to Alicia for inspection.
His baby sister laughed. Verso was unsure there was a more perfect sound in the entire world.
~~~~~
The Canvas was better than good. In Verso’s opinion, it was perfect.
Near the end, he’d spent as much time exploring for his own benefit as he had refining the world. He’d stumbled into caves that Clea Painted, a lantern in hand, captivated by the way the light flickered off the stone walls. He found a bear nestled with her cubs in one such den, the bones of old kills scattered about. He fished off a dock near the edge of a small river town (another of Maman’s additions), kicking his feet, watching boats drift lazily by, catching drifts of music as they went.
He hoped, more than anything, that Papa would find it as compelling.
Maman promised to keep Papa away from the atelier for the morning. They managed to steal the Canvas downstairs. All that was left was to wait. Their parents wandered downstairs, hand in hand, just before noon, whispering to one another. Papa leaned in to press a kiss to the top of Maman’s head, his eyes bright and posture relaxed. For the first time since Verso could remember, they’d planned no birthday event. The day was his.
Papa raised an eyebrow, expression fond as it swept over his older children. “What a unique pleasure—all of us gathered together in the atelier.”
“We finally thought of a gift for you, Papa.”
“Ma chérie, you and your brothers are the finest gifts I might have received.”
Clea rolled her eyes. “An actual gift.”
Maman slipped her arm around his waist, squeezing him tightly. “They’ve been working tirelessly, Renoir.”
He shook his head, motioning for them both to come near, dragging them into an embrace when they did. “The effort was not necessary, but is appreciated, my loves. Come, show me what you’ve made.”
The look on his face as they emerged into the prairie town made all the hours of effort worthwhile. Papa’s eyes widened, first in wonder, then in something like boyish excitement. Verso reached for his hand, tugging, speaking in a low whisper as he pressed against his father’s side. “Maman painted horses. Clea and I made sure you could ride for days and still not find the edge of the Canvas.”
A slow smile blossomed across his face. “Truly?”
Verso nodded. “And there are towns and adventures. All kinds of things to do.” The boy brightened. “You wanted to get away, and this seemed better than just painting our countryside.”
He passed a hand over Verso’s hair, drawing him against his side. Even Clea didn’t protest as Papa held her close. “This is more than generous. It—” he swallowed, struggling to find the words. Something about that made Verso want to panic. Papa was always sure, always confident. His father chuckled, bowing his head. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
Maman’s voice, mercifully, broke the tension. “You’ll need to be outfitted, mon coeur. Off with you, to the tailor. Verso, fetch the horses.”
He went without complaint.
As far as he was concerned, the day was already a success.
~~~~~
A handful of hours passed in the real world. They spent just over a month in the Canvas.
Verso rode out with his father across the plains, hunting and exploring. They camped under the stars, listening to the sounds of crickets in the grass. Papa played his guitar. Clea allowed Verso to drag her into a clumsy dance, before falling into an exhausted sleep.
They met with Maman later, lovely in a cornflower blue dress. Verso wasn’t surprised when Papa tipped his hat to her, the two playing out some silly first encounter that was patently less interesting than their other adventures. Verso wandered off to find other, better entertainment. Whatever had happened, it was enough of an excuse for Maman to come along for their next outing, riding on the back of Papa’s horse.
They gambled with gestrals on the riverboat.
They found gold hidden away in an abandoned fort.
They spent a week tucked away on a ranch of their own. Verso tended the livestock. It was a simple life, a welcome reprieve before they hit the trail again.
Before they departed for the waking world, Papa gathered them close again, voice thick with affection as he embraced his children. Over the years, the Dessendres would visit the Canvas half a dozen times or more, an excuse to escape the rigors of Paris. On the next visit, Alicia joined them, old enough to merit a pony of her own, purely enraptured.
To Verso, to Renoir, to their family, it was a purely perfect gift.