The Artist: The Half-Fae Series, #1

By Saffira Raine

Discover a world cloaked in the unknown, where the fragrant air of Tuscany is as heavy with magical energy as it is with the scent of sun-warmed olives...

 

For Shaina Ingram, a summer retreat in an idyllic converted barn was meant to be a salve for her creative block, not a doorway into chaos. But when an earthquake shatters her silence, Shaina's life is turned upside down by the arrival of tiny, ethereal creatures with startling news: it seems Shaina's life is intertwined with the fate of two realms.

 

As the earth trembles and magic spills over into the human world, Shaina must grapple with prophecies that entangle her estranged daughter, Liv, as well as Liv's unborn child, in a legacy they never asked for. Now, Shaina must navigate a world of fairies and treachery, where her artistic abilities may be the only key to mending a rift that threatens the very fabric of both worlds.

 

This book is for you if you love:

• The mystical allure of Fae courts and their shimmering machinations
• The power and binding ties of maternal love across generations
• The challenge of embracing a destiny you never knew existed
• Rich, well-crafted world-building that invites you to get lost in magical spaces
• Paranormal women's fiction with a unique twist
• Multi-generational characters facing extraordinary circumstances

WARNING: Within these pages lies a tale of resilience, a rekindling of the maternal bond, and the embracing of an unwanted legacy. If you prefer the mundane over the magical, then this may not be the journey for you. Here, legends walk hidden in the daylight, and the brush may wield more power than the sword. Dive in if you're prepared to be swept away to a world where art is magic, and the Fae realm bleeds into our own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saffira Raine
• Release date: Apr 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223913719

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER 1

The summer of 2024 found me hiding out in a Tuscan barn.

From the front, the converted studio looked like an artist's dream, framed by the rugged landscape while the late-afternoon light painted everything gold. From the back, though, it was just another blank canvas.

I walked to the side entrance and stepped inside. No one locked their doors in Tuscany, a fact I'd only just started getting used to. No need for deadbolts when the only intruder around for miles was the olive-grove scented breeze.

I stood before the half-finished painting set up on the easel in front of the main arched window. Its weathered frame curved gracefully, spotlighting sloping vineyards that stretched out to the horizon. The heat of the day had been seeping in steadily, warming the paints on my palette and releasing a complex aroma of oil pigments and mediums.

Oh, how I loved this place. It had once belonged to the famous artist Vittoria Moretti, and I'd rented it out from her family for three months thinking I'd do some of my best work here, undisturbed.

The fact that I'd barely painted anything in weeks wasn't the studio's fault. Sure, I could have blamed the heat, the distracting view, the endless solitude. But the real problem was me.

I tilted my head and stared at the disjointed piece on my easel. The potential was there. I could see it, just out of reach. I'd been working on this painting for weeks now and the layers of paint I'd used to cover up all the false starts showed like a thick layer of scar tissue on top of the linen base. I didn't mind the added texture, but I hated that I couldn't make it work.

I stepped back and turned on the radio, letting Vivaldi's hushed strains clear some of the confusion in my mind. The canvas leaned slightly to the right, and I took my time adjusting its position on the easel.

I knew I was stalling, but I didn't care. I dithered a little longer by taking a sip of room-temperature coffee from the mug that had been sitting beside me since morning.

For God's sake, Shaina, this isn't brain surgery. Just make a mark.

That was my usual pep talk when I found myself frozen in front of a canvas. I was so afraid I'd ruin… what, exactly? This piece was already a giant mess.

I sighed and turned away from the canvas. My gaze idly traced the light as it played across the studio floor. I looked up to glance through the window, and for a split second I caught a reflection in the windowpane—a flash of startling emerald green, more vibrant than any hue I'd ever seen in nature. I blinked and the flash of color dimmed before disappearing altogether.

This wasn't the first time my eyes had played tricks on me out here. Over the past few weeks, I'd seen shadows move in the corners of my vision, rainbows that imbued everything with a pastel glow, and even the occasional flicker of movement from the flat shapes on my canvas.

The solitude was clearly getting to me. It hadn't helped that I'd come across a stack of Vittoria's old journals. In nearly every entry, she documented her firm belief that magic infused this barn—and as a result, her own work.

I could use some of that magic right about now, I muttered. Heck, I'd take fairy dust, a good old-fashioned miracle, or even divine intervention. I wasn't picky.

I grabbed my favorite sable brush, frowning as I lifted it from the wide-mouthed mug in which I kept all my tools. I could have sworn I'd left it in the jar of paint thinner. It wasn't a good habit, and it would certainly ruin the brush much quicker than if I'd taken proper care of it, but, honestly, most of the time I just couldn't be bothered. Yet here it sat, its bristles smooth and clean. I must have done it, but I couldn't remember when.

Great. At the age of fifty-two, I was also starting to lose my memory. I'd need to keep an eye on that before I found myself forgetting to turn off the gas stove or wandering into the olive groves wearing nothing but high-heeled shoes.

I transferred the brush to my left palm. I'd read somewhere that switching to your non-dominant hand was a good way to deal with artist's block. I dipped the clean bristles into cadmium red, gathered up a drop of linseed oil, and stabbed the brush against the canvas. The gesture was wild, unrefined, almost violent. A splash of crimson—meant to be the blooming centre of a peony petal—dripped down the canvas like a bloodstain.

Damn, I muttered, watching the red streak distort the muted tones of the background. So much for some kind of epiphany coming from using my non-dominant hand.

A knock at the door startled me, and I gratefully set the brush in a jar of paint thinner.

Signora Ingram? The voice was tentative, youthful, and laced with a local accent I recognized.

I opened the door to see Luca, the young man who ran Arte di Luci, the only art supply store in the nearby town of Montebello. I made a point to visit the shop a couple of times a week. I loved the warm, cramped space, its nooks and crannies crammed with brushes, paints, and stacks of fresh canvases waiting to be brought to life.

He held a package out and grinned at me. The supplies you asked for arrived today. I thought you'd want them right away.

I took the beautifully wrapped parcel from him and remembered the tubes of oil paint I'd ordered last week, back when my optimism had led me to believe I'd be needing them.

Grazie. I didn't expect a personal delivery.

Luca shrugged. It is no trouble. This place is on my way home.

Would you like a cup of coffee? The words spilled out before I could consider whether I even wanted company. Then again, any distraction from the canvas would be welcome.

His green eyes brightened. Sì, signora.

I led him inside, past the painting-in-progress and into my tiny studio kitchen. If the mess on the easel appalled him, he was too polite to say anything. I poured from the same pot I'd brewed that morning and handed him a simple ceramic mug marked with flecks of turquoise glaze.

As he accepted it, the corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. This is American, is it not?

There was no judgement in his voice, and I saw no point denying it.

Folgers. I refused to apologize. It's my drink of choice when I'm painting. It's just bad enough to keep me awake.

He laughed, the sound easy and spontaneous, a refreshing change from Vivaldi's melancholic strings.

I grinned back and my cheeks protested. How long had it been since I'd done anything other than frown at my uncooperative artwork?

As Luca sipped his coffee, I took another gulp of mine. It was bitter and acrid, no doubt worlds away from the rich, aromatic espresso he was accustomed to.

My nonna used to say 'Il caffè è un atto d'amore.' Coffee is an act of love.

That's how I feel about making art. I sighed and leaned against the counter. I'm starting to think I'm lousy at both.

His eyes widened. That is not true, signora. You are a celebrated painter. Maybe no barista, but do not doubt your art.

I snuck a glance at my canvas. If he only knew the turmoil that peony represented. The years of struggle. The self-doubt, the sleepless nights, the challenges and frustrations.

And not just with my art.

I'd planned to title the finished piece "The Maternal Peony." It was the fifth in my Seasons of Self series, an autobiographical exploration through flora, with each painting representing a significant period in my life.

This one was meant to personify my transition into motherhood. I'd thought about it for months and decided the peony would be a perfect symbol for that period in my life. With its lush, abundant petals, it was supposed to depict a flower in bloom tempered by its own fragility. The peony is voluptuous, yet it can be weighed down, overwhelmed, and even broken by its own load. That's exactly how I felt during those early years tending to a child.

I knew what I was aiming for, and the process itself should have been simple. I'd painted thousands of flowers over the course of my career. Still, I couldn't make it work. Oh, I could detail the flower's outline and determine its place in the composition. But when it came to adding color, life, and realism to the blossom—there was nothing.

I let out a soft breath. Even celebrated painters get artist's block.

He stared at me intently. The studio… it is not speaking to you?

It's not that. It's me. I was blocked long before I came here. I thought a change of scenery would help, but, well, you know what they say… no matter how far you go, you always take yourself with you.

A small frown appeared over the bridge of his nose. But have you not been listening, signora? This place has much to say, if one is willing to open their mind.

I didn't know what to say. Was this some kind of metaphor whose meaning was lost in translation, or was Luca genuinely suggesting the barn walls would start whispering sweet nothings in my ear?

My phone dinged from across the room, saving me from having to answer. I jerked upright, splashing coffee over my hand.

Excuse me, I murmured. I set the cup down and wiped my wet fingers on a towel. The notification chime was a sound I'd rarely heard since coming to Tuscany. I had turned off every alert but one.

My phone lay on a bookshelf, sandwiched between heavy tomes on Caravaggio's chiaroscuro and Da Vinci's sibylline sketches. I grabbed it and the screen flicked to life.

I'm pregnant.

That was it. Two words, stark white against a dark background, like a crack of lightning in the night sky.

Liv. My fingers trembled. I tightened my grip on the phone, rereading the message again and again.

Signora Ingram?

Luca's voice startled me. I'd forgotten all about him.

He must have seen something in my eyes, because he jerked his head in the direction of the door. I will go. Thank you for the coffee.

I muttered something incoherent and watched him leave. When the door closed in his wake, I turned my attention back to the screen.

How long had it been since I'd last heard from Liv? Years, surely.

I'd been texting her a few times a week, but I knew better than to expect a response. My calls went straight to voice mail, and the gifts I sent on her birthday remained unacknowledged.

This was the relationship I'd had with my daughter since divorcing her father nearly a decade earlier. It was one-sided, sure, but I accepted that's how it would always be. I'd pour my heart into texts and voice mails, casting them into the digital abyss. And she'd forever remain silent and detached, like a star I could see but never reach.

"A child," I whispered.

My child was having a child.

I stood motionless, unable to think past the rush of emotions that clashed within me—joy, fear, longing, and so much regret it made my heart ache.

I stumbled over to the nearest chair, a rickety wooden thing that had seen better days, and collapsed into it, phone still clutched in my hand. The room tilted and swirled around me as if I'd spun around too fast and stopped suddenly while the world kept whirling. The coffee threatened to repeat in my throat, sour and unpleasant.

My fingers shook as I clumsily typed out a reply.

Congratulations, Liv. That's wonderful news.

I hesitated before hitting send. No, that was too impersonal, too formal, too detached. Besides, I had no clue how she felt about the news. I knew so little about her life. Did she have a partner? Did she want a child? I couldn't even begin to guess.

So, I tried again.

I'm here for you. Always.

I pressed send before doubt could seize me once more. The message whisked away into the ether, and with it went a piece of my heart.

By the time night fell, so quiet and still I could hear my breath rattling in my lungs, I'd resigned myself to the fact that Liv wasn't going to reply. It was just like her to get my hopes up and then dash them. No doubt she thought I deserved it. Maybe I did.

A languid humidity swelled inside the studio, making sweat appear on my upper lip. I tasted the salt, then wiped it away with the back of my hand. The heat seemed to draw out the wood's aroma from the beams overhead, a mix of aged cedar and pine.

I thought about stripping out of my soft blue t-shirt. It was one of the comfiest pieces of clothing I owned, and it hung off one shoulder asymmetrically since its threads had begun to unravel. I chose to keep it on, along the worn, stretchy yoga shorts, in favor of fanning myself with a brochure for an art gallery I'd visited earlier that month.

Moonlight filtered through the grand, rounded window, cascading over the worn terracotta floors. I had turned on a single lamp and had been sitting at the small, round kitchen table for hours. The cell phone lay in front of me, silent and mocking, its screen as dark as the night pressing against the windowpane.

It had been a long day. My thoughts hadn't stopped swirling since that first notification sent my heart racing. A multitude of memories flashed through my mind. I regretted so many unspoken words… and remembered all the spoken ones that shouldn't have been.

I traced the edge of my cell with a paint-stained finger. I was so tempted to text Liv again. A slew of possible messages composed themselves:

Does your father know?

How far along are you?

How do you feel… really?

The impulse to reach out was like a pebble in my shoe—nagging and insistent. I held myself back, but just barely. I didn't want to push too hard, or step over the boundaries she'd put up between us. As much as it hurt, I understood her desire for distance, and I respected it. God knew I didn't want her to see me as overbearing.

And I certainly didn't want to repeat my past mistakes.

I sighed and glanced at the canvas perched on the easel nearby. The peony stared back at me, the crimson red stain still wet and glistening in the dim light. My fingers itched to grab a brush and return to it, but fear kept me paralyzed. I was so afraid of screwing up again: with the painting, with Liv⁠—

The phone buzzed with a digital trill and my heart leapt into my throat. I reached for it with trembling hands.

Signora Ingram, there is an art exhibition happening in town in two weeks' time. I thought you may want to show your work.

A photo of a flyer accompanied the text.

Not Liv, then.

Luca.

I appreciated his kindness but resented the intrusion. Besides, it's not like I had any new art to show. I marked the message as