Tristam took out her paints and brushes from under the floorboard where she kept them from any untrustworthy servants or squires. She thought over what she was going to paint for a moment, and then took some of the white paint. She saw clearly in her mind what she was drawing, and concentrated on every small detail. She carefully put her brush to the wall, and then brought her hand to the side, creating a perfectly curved white line. She painted for four hours , almost in a trance, still dreaming, yet still painting. She stepped back to admire her work. Reflected in her eyes was a garden of peaceful white magnolias, tiny, dangling bluebells, and many other flowers. The realism of it made you want to reach out and touch the dew on the petals, or smell the fragrances. She almost laughed. "Listen to me" she thought, "Why I am getting quite sentimental". She took a deep breath and washed off her brushes in a small bucket of water. While hiding her supplies under the floor, she glanced up briefly to see if anyone was watching her. She spotted no one, so she blew out the candles, and made her way to the court yard, having to hold up her dress because of the length. Tristam stepped outside into the warm sunlight, grateful that she didn't have to be trapped in the ballroom all day, and miss how wonderful it was. She walked out into the garden, admiring the daffodils, and roses. All of a sudden, a thought occurred to her, something that she had not thought about for two years. Which is quite surprising as it was a very important thought. She wondered about her parents. This obviously had not been their doing. They had made it their life commitment to make her life as miserable as possible. So what about them? Have they been worried these past two years? What about the Duke? Had he gone off and married another poor innocent child? How was the rest of her family getting along? She thought over these for a moment, and then continued walking. She spotted the children playing on the grass, and a small smile played at her lips over how happy and carefree they looked. then she frowned comparing this to how her childhood had been. Not happy or carefree at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. The only people who had made her life the least bit happy had been her aunt and her grandmother. Her aunt was a beautiful lady, and a painter as well. She had been the one who had first taught Tristam to hold a brush, and how to perfect different strokes. She had made Tristam laugh, and inspired her to become someone amazing. But sadly, her aunt had died tragically when Tristam had just to turn 9. Her aunt had had a brilliant inspiration for a painting, and while she was running down the halls, she bumped into her easel, the force knocking her off her feet, and she was stabbed by her paintbrush. Tristam got tears in her eyes when she remembered the night she had found out. She hid up in her room crying, trying to not to think about the fact that her aunt had been killed by something she had loved so much, and trying to think that she was in a happier place. Tristam wiped away her tears and took a deep breath. That had been 6 years ago. And her life was no longer miserable, or pointless.