Desmera smiled again, this one more catlike than before. âI would say thatâs dependent upon the piece and the artist,â she pointed out. âJust because something is overrated does not make it any less significant.â Desmera had a way about her at times, where she felt compelled to get the last word in, helpful or not thought it might be. Her eyes moved toward the portrait once more. âI would agree, however,â she said calmly. âThat it could use a little more light. Clearly this room was never meant to be an art gallery; the set-up of the walls and the shadows precludes it.â
The catlike smile returned to her lips and it widened somewhat in lieu of a verbal response. She inclined her head as the other woman began to speak of the Martells having some of the series â they had not been overly horrendous to deal with, Desmera had found, but they certainly knew how to drive hard bargains. âThe one in Oldtown is on a loan. It goes to Riverrun in a couple of months,â she said, voice helpful and yet so very knowing. âItâs a set of about one to two dozen,â she agreed. âToland was incredibly prolific. The problem with this series is that many were given as gifts and so there arenât any reliable provenances. There are stories, of course, but I would bet money there are at least three unaccounted for through official channels.â
She expected that her response had hit the other womanâs consciousness as intended and Desmera inclined her head. âIt can be a thankless job some days,â she mused with a wry grin. Her eyebrow arched at the next comment and Desmera turned her head, looking over the pieces of art hanging on the wall this time, ignoring the centerpiece that she so very much wanted. Her lips thinned before she pointed to a nondescript painting on the far wall. It was of a young girl holding her pet rabbit and though it was nearly meaningless to the greater art community, a footnote in a great artistâs catalogue, to her it held sentimental value. âThat one,â she remarked. âIt hung in my bedroom until I turned twelve.â
âNot always.â Sylva smiled, happy to let her have the last word. There was no need to press any further, and she was casual enough that it didnât matter to her. It wasnât like Sylva was convinced that this woman truly cared about her opinion too much, especially after sheâd so brazenly interrupted her solace.
âHeâs pretty beloved in Dorne - I wouldnât be surprised if people were hiding them out down there.â Sylva knew how protective her people were of their cultural heritage, especially when they were so often at odds with the rest of the continent. There were some seriously old money families down in her neck of the woods, and it wouldnât come as a shock to think that someone had kept their possession of pieces in Tolandâs series a little quieter than people would have liked. âItâs not too far to Riverrun from here, Iâll have to sneak up sometime and see it.âÂ
There had been a time when this Redwyneâs womanâs world might have been her own - maybe if sheâd had the motivation to finish her studies, she might have met her in a slightly more impressive context than this. It was unlike Sylva to be desperate to make a good impression, but when a beautiful, powerful woman had her fixed in her gaze, the norm was thrown out the window. It was probably pointless, women who had gallery-quality pieces of art in their childhood rooms and a surname connected to one of the largest fortunes in the country were usually lost causes. âThatâs as good a reason as any.â She drawled, her free hand going into her pocket as she leaned against an empty patch of wall. âIs that what made you fall in love with all this stuff, do you think?â Perhaps it was an assumption to make the leap that she loved art rather than just collected it as financial assets, but even if she was wrong, there was very little care in her for making faux pas.
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