This is not a fantasy piece per se, but I feel compelled to break my own rule with my blog because it is such a great little story and I want to share it. And it is fantastic in its own way. A really nice story, David K.
You can find more of his work at Occasional Dreams.
Our families’ traditions had been connected for centuries. We commissioned the paintings and the Arringtons maintained them. But Father had explained to me that they weren’t just paintings, they were special, breathing pieces that demanded alterations between the seasons to bring out their best qualities. But only special artists like the Arringtons could see and tease out these changes.
He came by at the start of each season, and just before he arrived, the servants would remove and lightly dust the huge collection of paintings from the walls of our home and place them on the cloth-laden floor of the great hall.
The first time I met him, I had sat at the drawing room window awaiting his arrival since breakfast. And then I saw his black Morris Oxford approach as it kicked up dust from our tree-lined, gravel driveway. The car stopped in front of the house and a tall man with round glasses stepped out. It would always strike me how someone so acquainted with the intricacies of colour dressed…
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