Maria had expected landscapes. Beautiful scenery, perhaps. Flowers, like the ones in the garden. Maybe a portrait of Cassius, or of the estate, or something else entirely.
Not this. Not herself.
Yes, herself!
Every single painting depicted her in different styles, different settings, different moments of her life.
The first showed her in her church robes, standing before a long line of hungry people, a ladle in her hand, a look of gentle determination on her face.
Behind her, pots of stew bubbled over a fire. In front of her, gaunt faces reached out with empty bowls.
The second showed her sitting in a sun-dappled valley, surrounded by children. She was reading from a book, her expression soft, and the children leaned in, captivated, their small faces upturned with wonder.
The third was starkly different—a battlefield. Smoke rose in the background, and soldiers clashed in the distance.
