The face and demeanor of the girl were exactly like Iris herself, standing before the easel.
"Iris," composed of countless petals, stood on the ground, her skirt still fluttering in the wind, with a dreamlike beauty.
Iris's eyes widened in surprise; she covered her mouth with her hand, hardly believing what she saw.
She cautiously extended her fingertips and lightly touched a rose petal hovering before her.
The touch of the real petals told her that all of this was not an illusion.
Karl looked at her surprised and delighted face; his smile deepened, and he asked quietly: "Now... feeling inspired?"
"However, we'd better hurry. If we're a little later, your father and the others might return."
Iris recovered from her shock, and a bright smile bloomed on her face, full of life and inspiration.
She nodded vigorously, her eyes like the brightest stars, and immediately focused on Karl.
Carefully studying every detail of his face, every change of light and shadow.
She quickly picked up her brush, dipped it in the rich paint already prepared on her palette, and began to smear it across the canvas with full concentration.
At that moment, all the turmoil of the outside world seemed to have nothing to do with her; she was completely immersed in the passion of creation.
...
Time passed quietly in the gentle friction between brush and canvas; over three hours later,
Iris finally put down the brush in her hand and breathed a sigh of relief.
She carefully wiped the fine beads of sweat trickling from her forehead with the back of her hand, which had long been focused.
Although her face was tired, after completing her masterpiece, she was more satisfied and excited.
She took two steps back and carefully examined the painting before her. On the canvas stood Karl in profile, tall and elegant.
He slightly lowered his head, his eyes gentle and focused, and he gently held the palm of "Iris," made from countless petals.
The entire scene was bathed in a soft, dreamy light, and the colorful petals in the sky were like dancing elves.
Falling from the sky, they surrounded the two, creating an atmosphere that was both romantic and spiritual.
Iris smiled with great satisfaction and secretly decided in her heart that she must cherish this painting.
She couldn't let her father and mother take it to auction for cold crowns.
This was hers, a unique burst of inspiration and emotional support.
Seeing this, Karl also stepped forward, his mind moving slightly—Iris, made of petals, hovered in the air, and a rain of flowers flew across the sky.
They had fulfilled their mission at that moment, quietly dispersed, turned into the most primitive petals, and silently drifted back to the ground.
He walked to the easel, his gaze fell on the painting, and his eyes suddenly lit up.
In the painting, his face was clear and three-dimensional, the lines smooth and expressive.
His eyes were bright and deep, with just the right softness, and he looked lovingly at Iris, who was condensed from petals, gently holding her palm.
However, with his vision, he immediately noticed some areas of the painting that could be improved.
Especially the outlines of the house in the background and the details of the flowers planted around it seemed a bit generalized and blurred.
Although this created a dreamy feeling, it also lost some authenticity and layering.
He thought for a moment and carefully took the brush from Iris's hand, who was still slightly immersed in the afterglow of creation.
"Hey? You..." Iris looked at his actions in surprise, subconsciously wanting to stop him from modifying her work.
But the next moment, her movements and words abruptly stopped.
She saw Karl with the brush, standing before the easel, his wrist moving slightly, his movements so fast they left afterimages.
The brush seemed alive, quickly outlining and detailing the places on the canvas that needed supplementary details.
He didn't obscure the original painting, but added the fine textures and rich layers that were originally missing in those blurry areas.
Iris watched as the falling petals on the painting instantly gained clearer context and three-dimensionality.
On the walls of the houses in the background, the fine bumps in the masonry and the traces of time could be seen, and the branches and leaves of the trees in the distance became more vivid.
Even the dappled spots of light filtering through the gaps in the leaves were subtly expressed...
After a few seconds, Karl put down the brush.
At that moment, the entire painting was reborn. Compared to the previous free and dreamy beauty, it became more realistic and stunning.
If someone looked closely, they could even see a maid walking in the window of the house in the background.
The folds of her face and dress were clearly depicted, as if the moment had truly been frozen on the canvas.
Iris's gaze darted between the painting and Karl, her eyes full of incredible shock and deep gratitude.
At that moment, she got to know the noble Grand Duke before her again.
She asked quietly, her voice filled with question and curiosity: "Mr. Karl... are you, are you also an artist? Your brushstrokes... are simply... incredible."
Her words were very regretful: "It's a pity... my parents, they... never allowed me to go out and socialize, to learn from other artists."
"They even refused to let me visit artists of the opposite sex, and I could only grope around the manor myself..."
Hearing Iris mention this again, her controlling parents, there was still unresolved resentment and helplessness in her words.
Karl slightly shook his head, returned the brush to Iris, and explained: "No, I am not a professional artist."
He looked into Iris's puzzled eyes and frankly said: "I just... have a better memory, and my observation is a bit more detailed than ordinary people."
"The details I added are a more complete restoration of the scene I saw on the canvas."
"That's completely different from relying on inspiration and skill to create."
Iris smiled reluctantly and sighed: "Painting like you said, many people can't do it."
She looked at the just-completed, vivid work on the easel, but there was a gloom in her eyes incompatible with the painting.
"When I was a child... they treated me no differently than other nobles treated their children."
"In food, clothing, education, they never lacked." Her voice was a bit dry—from fatigue after long depression.
She unconsciously tapped the palette with the tip of her brush, making a faint clicking sound.
"But everything they gave me was marked with a price, and I had to walk exactly along the grid they drew."
"Learn etiquette, practice painting, and even the curve of a smile... all must be correct, let alone have my own ideas."