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“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do after my residency ends,” I confess. “I love art, but it feels… I don’t know, pointless now.
Like people will only care about it now because of who I am and not because they actually like it.”
“Perhaps people will only pay attention because of who you are now,” she says, which isn’t exactly reassuring. “But that’s not
necessarily a bad thing.”
“What?”
She turns to face me fully. “The role of a Luna isn’t just to stand beside the Alpha and look pretty, Iris. And the role of a wealthy
heiress isn’t just to be… well, wealthy.” She chuckles. “You’ve got people paying attention to you now. You can use your medium
to your advantage–find a way to do some good with your art now that you don’t have to worry about scrabbling your way to the
top.”
Before I can answer, she goes on, “I know you care about children–your suggestion earlier for community service was brilliant.
Putting Selina through that will not only be good for her as a person, but also for the children, and for your image. I could see you
doing similar things with your art.”
I frown skeptically. “Sure, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
She considers for a moment, then says, “If you want a suggestion, then I will say that arts education is being cut from schools all
over the country, especially in poorer districts. Children who might have discovered a talent or passion for painting or music
never get the chance. Children like you were, growing up in that orphanage. You could find a way to help them.”
The idea strikes a chord in me. I think about how art saved me during those difficult years–how a single art teacher who
volunteered at the orphanage noticed my talent and encouraged it, even bringing me supplies when the orphanage couldn’t
afford them.
“I’ll… I’ll consider my options,” I say, looking at her. “Thank you… Mom.” It still feels weird saying that. “I appreciate your
advice. I’m not used to this. Any of this.”
My mother’s eyes glisten with unshed tears at the term, and she reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of my face. I
instinctively lean into her hand, feeling a surge of emotion at the fact that I always yearned to have a mother’s touch. For a
moment, we just sit like that, her hand cupping my face and both of our eyes misted over with tears.
“I spent years coaching Selina on these very matters,” she finally says, rising. “If you ever need insight or advice, I’m here.” She
smiles. “I’ll always be here, Iris.”
After she leaves, I remain by the fountain, my mind racing and my eyes wet. As the tears fade and my thoughts slowly organize, I
begin to truly consider my mother’s words. I begin to think that maybe she’s right. This doesn’t have to be the end of my
authenticity as an artist. I just need to shift my reason for making art to something less focused on earning money to survive and
more focused on helping others survive.
I pull out my phone and open the notes app, starting to jot down ideas for my final presentation at the residency exhibit. Instead
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of just displaying my art, I could use the opportunity to launch a charitable initiative.
Maybe something that combines my artwork with a cause–specifically, promoting arts education for underprivileged children.
I’m so absorbed in my notes that I don’t immediately notice the soft footsteps approaching. When I finally look up, I see an
elderly woman standing a few yards away, watching me. She’s dressed in a simple gray dress–a servant, perhaps, although it’s strange for staff to be up at this hour.
Our eyes meet, and something in her expression makes me uneasy. She’s staring at me with an intensity that feels inappropriate, almost intrusive. For a moment, she seems frozen in place, then her eyes widen slightly as if in recognition or shock.
Before I can say anything, she turns and hurries away, leaving me confused.
