CH 18

I had no recollection of ever napping as a child, at least within my parents' home. There must have been times where I fell asleep hiding beneath my bed, but that didn't count.

Vaguely I recalled a large bed in a brightly lit room with frilly curtains. There were fabric walls with a floral print that was made of velvet in shades of red, green, and cream along with brass candlesticks on a lovely wooden chest of drawers that seemed to tower over me.

The bedroom smelled overwhelmingly like roses, which as a child reminded me of being in a garden while as an adult made me think of funerals.

There was an older woman with a long braid of brown hair who looked as though she had stepped out of a storybook. She had cheeks like apples and a pointed chin and she helped me climb into the enormous bed. There she would cover me with a blanket tucked beneath my chin that she would smooth out and ask if I was comfortable.

The answer was always yes. It was the only time I could recall when anyone had asked me such a question and the only moments I knew for certain I felt a sense of security.

I knew for certain it was not Bjorn and Gyda's home as they had few furnishings and none of the walls were papered, nor had they ever entertained guests as far as I could recall. And I was fairly certain the woman lived a distance away as I also recalled a little pony and a cart that came by Bjorn's house a handful of times.

The woman with the braided hair would allow me to hold the reins as the cart jiggled down the road beneath a canopy of trees. She would smile at me and tell me I was good, and I would wish to ride in the cart forever, comforted by her presence and praise that seemed so foreign.

For years I would think of her out of nowhere, of her soft hands that were starting to show signs of wrinkles and veins. I would recall the way she would tuck me in so tightly that I couldn't move my arms. It should have been alarming given the way Bjorn treated me, but she was so gentle, so dreamlike in her demeanor.

Long ago I had forgotten her features, but I thought of her whenever I saw chestnut ponies with blond manes, similar to the one who pulled her cart. I also thought of her on the rare occasion when exhaustion pummeled me into submission and I crawled into bed when it was still light out, my erratic sleep pattern taking a toll on me to the point where I could no longer keep my eyes open.

In the moments before my mind finally quieted, I would stare at the ceiling and wonder why she had stopped coming for me. I would have liked to have seen her again, and to know if I had done something that made her abandon me so completely.

I was fairly certain I loved her. The abruptness of her no longer taking me away made me question if she felt the same.

oOo

It was the middle of the morning on Friday and I was dressed in pajamas. I wrapped my quilt around myself and slept facing the sun, recalling what it had felt like to lay in bed completely immobilized, watching the tree branches quiver in the breeze while the sunlight warmed my face.

The memory lulled me to sleep long enough to feel refreshed and prepared to spend a few hours of my afternoon at the university.

There was no official class on Friday, but both first and second year students were aware that the studio was available to them the last Friday of the month.

Some came in to sit on the window ledge and simply look out at the street and courtyard below, daydreaming with a sketchbook in hand.

Others came for additional feedback on their assignments, and-every time the door was open-someone simply fell asleep on the sofa used by models for portraits, content to nap for ninety minutes uninterrupted.

I spent the first thirty minutes alone in the studio, organizing the bin of lost and found articles that seemed permanently affixed to the desk. I went through all of the supplies and tossed out any pencils that were shorter than my thumb, of which there were far too many. The windows were washed, the ledge cleaned, and stray papers collected and placed in a bin for reclaim. Somehow I found a shoe and shook my head, wondering how in the world someone had walked out without realizing it was missing.

One of my second year students walked in as I finished folding the blanket draped over the sofa, asked if she could take a nap, and promptly made herself comfortable using her coat as a pillow with the newly folded blanket serving as a cocoon.

Another student came in to borrow a museum pass for the weekend, followed by another first year student wanting advice on painting waves.

Two more came in to draw each other using some of the props I had on hand and giggled while selecting a top hat and a wooden pistol. They moved one of the two tub chairs across the room and posed in various positions for one another, including upside down, causing more giggles.

I watched them for a while, listening to bits of their conversation while I supervised the first attempt at creating waves.

With thirty minutes left, the one taking a nap woke and went on with her day, waves were coming along nicely, and the two drawing each other put the props away, moved the chair back to its original position without my prompting, and waved as they exited.

"See you Monday, Flan!"

"Stay out of trouble until then," I said as I put the finishing touches on a pony and began to close my sketchbook.

There was a soft knock on the open door and I looked up, half-expecting the janitor to ask if I would be leaving soon so he could clean while also rifling through loose leaf sketch paper. There was honestly no telling what one could find rummaging through drawings in the studio.

"Ink," I said. "My apologies, but it's too late in the year for me to call you Linc."

He stood tentatively in the doorway, his scarf wound about his head and a hat covering his eyes.

"I apologize as well, Monsieur Kimmer, I know I'm late."

"Not at all. The door is open for another twenty-six minutes."

Still, he didn't walk inside. I placed my sketchbook into my satchel and stood.

"What may I assist you with today?" I asked.

Ink loosened his scarf and removed his hat, revealing his swollen eyes and bruised cheeks. He looked better than he had on Monday, but still nowhere near his usual self.

"I will not be in the studio Monday," Ink mumbled.

He took a step back and started to turn away when I cleared my throat.

"Come inside and close the door behind you," I told him.

Ink hesitated. He looked out into the hall, took a breath, and walked into the studio, closing the door behind him.

Since he seemed pinned to the door, I gestured toward the sofa by the window. When he remained up against the door, I crossed the length of the room first and sat in the chair. With my satchel on the ground beside me, I folded my hands and waited for Ink to decide what he wanted to do.

"Do you need Monday's assignments today?" I asked once he accompanied me.

He placed his hand onto his knees, the right one heavily padded with a bandage. "No, Monsieur."

I sat back, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I'm returning home tomorrow," he said.

His body tensed, shoulders held up to his ears as he leaned to one side as though he expected me to strike him.

"How do you intend to submit your final assignments from Chicago?" I asked.

Ink's lips twitched. He searched my face briefly, then turned his attention to his hands resting on his knees, head hanging low. "I am dropping out, Monsieur Kimmer."

I considered his words for a long moment, inhaling as I tapped the heel of my foot on the floor and looked past him at the window overlooking one of the courtyards.

"May I ask the reason for your resignation?"

Ink managed a shrug despite his shoulders seemingly attached to the sides of his head. "I don't think I should stay."

"Hmmm," I said. "I disagree."

He started to reach for his hat, but I sniffed and shifted my weight.

"I informed the dean in a letter, but I wanted to tell you in person," Ink said apologetically.

My breath hitched. The dean, I suspected, would accept Ink's resignation from the university without a second thought. However, I also suspected it would be much more difficult to have Ink reinstated at the university if he had officially dropped out and I was certain the dean would want Ink to pay some ridiculous fee to continue his classes.

"You've already told Monsieur le Behr?" I questioned.

"No, he was in a meeting," Ink said. He sheepishly pulled the letter from his trouser pocket. He turned it over in his hand, then placed it onto the sofa cushion. "I wanted to hand it to him in person at the very least."

"Good, I'm glad you haven't yet." I sighed in relief. "Then I still have the opportunity to convince you to stay."

"I've already purchased a train ticket."

"Yes, and as someone who has traveled by rail on many occasions, that ticket will still be valid in May when the school year has come to an end."

Ink exhaled. "I can't stay."

"Why not?"

"Because I can barely hold a pencil with my right hand," he reasoned.

"Learn to use your left."

Ink pursed his lips. Monsieur Kimmer–"

"It's Kimmer," I said. "Or Phelan. Or," I rolled my eyes, "Flan, apparently."

Ink smiled to himself and looked over my left shoulder, avoiding my gaze. "Please understand, my decision is nothing personal."

"I would hope not. I'm an absolute gem to the university as well as every single student who comes through that door."

Ink grunted. "Agreed." He shifted his weight. "It's just that…I don't feel like I belong here."

"In my studio?"

"No," he said quickly, his bright blue eyes temporarily meeting mine. "No, not like that. Your studio is one of the few places I feel at ease."

"In Paris, then?"

"Yes," he said, sounding rather hopeless.

I shrugged. "Well, quite honestly, sometimes I don't feel like I belong here either."

Ink studied me. "Truly?"

"That seems unusual to you?" I questioned.

"I suppose you seem so…well-suited for Paris, I suppose."

"Well-suited?"

"I believe that's the correct term. Like you are part of the city."

"You know that I am not originally from Paris?"

His eyes narrowed. "I…yes, I did, in fact."

I raised a skeptical brow.

At the start of the year I provided a brief biography, which I assumed was largely ignored. The first year I wrote a single, exceedingly boring paragraph that stated my age, place of birth, previous occupation, mentor, and the mediums I preferred.

Finding myself bored by my own self-description, the following year I wrote one paragraph of dull details followed by two more of utter nonsense which no one questioned, which led me to believe they weren't paying attention as I was certain if they did read it, they would want to know more about how I spent my formative years.

"Ink, you can admit that you never read my biography and I will not be offended. You'd hardly be the only one."

"I read it," Ink insisted. "But I don't know if I translated the words correctly." He made a face. "There was something about a hot air balloon and Napoleon if I'm not mistaken." He leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Were you…were you a spy for the government?"

I gave an appreciative chuckle. "Heavens, no. I enjoy making up parts of my biography to see if anyone is paying attention. Thank you for humoring me."

Ink continued to study me, brow furrowed as if he was still considering the spy part.

"I would rather have you voice what is on your mind than stare at me like that," I said.

"I suppose I was wondering, now that I think about it…you have not been here in Paris since Napoleon, correct?"

I raised a brow and briefly closed my eyes. "Napoleon died twenty-three years before I was born, but thank you for reminding me that I must seem ancient to all of you."

Ink blushed and looked away. "I meant no offense."

I grunted. "None taken. And the Napoleon remark aside, I've been here since I was a few years younger than you. I'm originally from a village in Northern France that is probably the equivalent of a grain of sand on a map," I said. "Moving here was not my idea."

His attention turned swiftly back to me, and for a long moment he looked me over in silence.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked. "I don't know your age."

"And I am not asking you to guess my age either," I said. "I've lived here long enough, although some days it feels like far too long."

"Would you return to…?"

"No," I said with a shake of my head. "At least not permanently."

"Is your family here then?" he asked.

I hesitated and forced a smile I knew was uneasy. "I have no immediate family."

The only family I wished to find could have been anywhere.

Ink immediately frowned. "I apologize, I didn't mean–"

"You needn't apologize." With a wave of my hand, I dismissed his words and took a deep breath. "Paris has chewed on me for years, like a piece of fat sucked clean of the meat, but will not easily spit me out. I've been in more than my fair share of disagreements and altercations, but this city will choke on me before I leave voluntarily."

"I've never been in an altercation before," he blurted out without meeting my eye. "At least not before last Friday."

Quite frankly I was surprised he mentioned the incident at all. I sat back, allowing him a moment to speak whatever was on his mind uninterrupted.

"I didn't know what was happening." He swallowed, flexing his bandaged hand. "Not until…not until they had me on the ground. Someone struck me in the face and I thought it was an accident, but then it continued and I…I begged them to stop…but they didn't listen..." his voice trailed away.

One of my earliest altercations had happened weeks after moving to Paris. An argument that had been broken up by one of Val's new friends turned into me being followed back to his aunt's home later in the night.

I hadn't realized anyone was behind me until I heard someone whistle, turned to see where the sound had come from, and took a fist to the side of the head. I'd hit the ground hard and was immediately at a disadvantage.

It was hardly the first time I thought I'd die, but it was truly terrifying all the same and no matter what I said or did, my assailant was relentless.

"Did you fight back?" I asked.

Ink abruptly paused, his lips forming a thin line. "The gendarmes didn't give you the report? I'm certain they said I was to blame for being…" He looked at me and shook his head. "Different."

"Who in the hell wants to be the same as everyone else?" I groused.

"I do," he said quickly. "Every day, especially after this. I wish I had gone into acting instead of painting. Perhaps I would have become more proficient in covering up who I am."

I frowned at him and his desire to be someone else. "Understood. And to answer your question, the clerk handed me a form to sign, but I didn't care to read it."

"Because you already know that I'm a…?"

"Because nothing will change my opinion of you, short of a violent crime, which I don't believe you are capable of committing, Ink.

"Every single person who walks through my door is valued as an artist and a person," I continued. "My job as your professor is to assess your skills and encourage you to be better than you were at the start of the year. That is and will continue to be my primary concern."

His jaw worked in silence for a brief time before he pursed his lips and nodded, his gaze distant.

"And I will add that whoever is responsible for last Friday is a despicable coward. If I discover who they are and if they attend this university, I will do everything within my power to have them expelled."

Ink studied the back of his bandaged hand. If he knew who was responsible for his injuries, I doubted he would tell me.

"I should probably…" he said under his breath.

I glanced at the clock near the door. It was past the time I normally would have returned home, but I remained seated, hoping he would speak whatever was on his mind to clear his thoughts and perhaps decide to stay until the end of the year on his own volition.

"I suppose my family would be embarrassed if I returned like this," he said, his voice so low that I barely heard him. "I think my father would…"

Ink didn't finish his thought and I didn't ask him to proceed. Whether it was being outright disowned by his family or beaten within an inch of his life by his father, he didn't deserve either.

"I don't have the authority to make you finish this semester, but if you would consider staying for two more weeks, we can revisit this conversation at that time."

Ink slowly nodded. "Thank you for listening to me."

"Of course. If you still wish to return to Chicago, I will not say another word on the matter. But honestly, I am certain your state does not have anyone who could possibly compete with me and that should be reason enough for you to stay put."

"I'm not actually from Chicago."

"Of course you are. You said you were from Illinois."

Ink's lips parted. "You do realize that Chicago is a city and not a state, Mons…Flan?" he said, flashing a devilish smile.

"I suppose you will have to teach me the difference over the next two weeks. If you decide to stay, that is. Otherwise I'm certain I'll continue to have no geographical knowledge of your little country."

"Why two weeks?" he asked. "Is there a quiz?"

"There shall be a quiz, yes, but I have something for you."

He eyed me curiously. "May I ask what it is?"

"Of course not. You'll see it in two weeks. If you're still here."

Ink stood and I did the same, grabbing my satchel while he reached for his hat. He started to offer his injured hand, but pulled away. With a pat on the shoulder, I nodded to the door.

"I will see you Monday morning," I said.

He hesitated, but still nodded. "Monday morning," he confirmed.

The letter to the dean remained on the couch unnoticed. I waited until Ink was out the door before I tore the envelope into several pieces and tossed it into the refuse.

oOo

Despite the extra time spent at the university, I still managed to return home, feed Elvira, trim my beard and change my clothes, all while arriving at The Social twenty-five minutes early and with six pieces of art inside my portfolio, which I placed beneath the table.

Theo arrived almost twenty minutes late, which I found unacceptable, but kept the thought to myself.

"My apologies for being tardy. There was a matter with my brother that needed my attention," he said, leaving it at that before he ordered a stiff drink.

"Two whiskeys?" he offered, eyeing me.

I shook my head. "Coffee," I said. "Actually, tea for me."

The last thing I needed was another night wide awake.

"The meal and drinks are complimentary," Theo reminded me. "Courtesy of Goupil and Cie. Order whatever you like."

"Grateful as I am, my choice remains the same."

While Theo looked over the menu, I observed the room with a bit of disdain.

The Social had replaced one of my favorite restaurants, a place that served a hearty breakfast starting at four in the morning. Unfortunately, the restaurant I preferred was rarely busy and closed in the fall, much to my disappointment. It sat vacant for several weeks, and as much as I hoped another breakfast establishment would take its place, The Social opened their doors at four in the afternoon six days a week for those who enjoyed nightlife instead of early mornings.

Out of protest for my beloved breakfast spot, I had sworn never to step foot inside of The Social, but the restaurant was Theo's choice, not mine, and I discovered quite rapidly that the food was not to my liking.

Alak, being a fisherman by trade, frequently returned home with every type of fish imaginable from pickled to dried and salted, smoked and fresh. I detested the smell of anything from the water and the texture of oysters and octopus turned my stomach.

Naturally, The Social served mainly seafood with one entree that was still in the water, but lacked fins: roast duck.

"We are out of the duck, Monsieur," the waiter informed me.

I chuckled to myself. But of course they were out of the one item I would have preferred. "Leek soup then."

"An excellent starter. And for your entree?"

"A bigger bowl of soup. Perhaps with more leeks," I dryly said.

I could feel Theo staring at me, but didn't meet his eye.

"Tell me about yourself, Phelan," he suggested over a serving of warm bread and truffle butter.

There was no question that I disliked more than being asked to talk about myself, particularly in a way that was not specific. It felt like a test to see whether I was interesting enough and I was absolutely certain I would fail.

"I was in finance for a number of years," I said. It was truly the most dull topic I could imagine and I wasn't certain why I bothered mentioning it at all.

Theo made the sort of face that was meant to project his interest, but he appeared like an actor on the stage attempting to reach the very last row with his exaggerated expression. It was off-putting, to say the least. I was beginning to feel as though I'd made a rather large mistake in agreeing to supper as well as brokerage.

"That's wonderful," Theo said.

It was not, but I slathered butter onto my bread and nodded in agreement.

"And now what is your occupation?" he asked.

"I teach art."

"At a salon?"

"At the university."

He looked more interested. "You're an art professor?"

"According to the plate on my studio door, yes."

My words were meant to be taken lightly, but Theo seemed more offended by my sardonic tone.

"Have you been painting for a while?" he asked.

"I've been drawing since I was quite young, but I didn't pick up a paintbrush until I was sixteen."

He turned his head to the side and nodded. "What made you decide to start painting?"

"There were artists in the park. One day I joined them."

"Just like that?"

I nodded.

'Just like that' I had stuffed a set of nearly empty paints and some forgotten brushes left beneath a tree into my satchel and took them back to the windowless room in Nettie's home where I spent hours practicing with my knees bent and a board serving as an easel with little more than a candle to illuminate my workspace.

I was thrilled, having a new form of art to explore. Financially I couldn't afford to purchase the brushes and paints needed and made something of a habit of searching the park for forgotten or discarded supplies.

Mostly I took bottles of paint that were nearly empty, but once I got caught stealing a sketchbook, I became far more careful.

"I'm surprised I've never heard of you before now," Theo said once our meals were served.

I couldn't imagine how, considering he had recently made his debut from his mother's womb and I was practically standing in my own grave.

"You're a bit younger than me," I said.

Theo looked across the table at me, his eyes slightly hardened. "I sense a bit of concern over my age, Monsieur Kimmer."

"Observation, not concern," I said, hoping my tone was pleasant and not condescending. My mouth had a tendency to get me into trouble well before my fists.

"I can assure you, Monsieur, I am quite competent at my occupation," he firmly said. His pale eyes confirmed that he was annoyed with me.

I stirred my soup in silence, wondering if I was truly a combative bastard or if I had been told as much for so long that it was simply who I'd become.

You come across as abrasive, Hugo had told me after I started at the university.

Because I am abrasive, I replied.

I disagree.

Then what am I?

You're frightened to death that people will see you for what you are, Hugo said to me.

I recalled that my heart had fluttered. He was correct; the last thing I had ever wanted was for anyone to know me below the surface of flesh.

And you're mortified that when they do know you, they'll actually like you.

Hugo's words lingered.

"You mentioned you have a brother," I said.

"Vincent, yes." Theo perked up slightly, and I was hopeful I could salvage our meeting.

"Is it just the two of you?"

"Here in Paris, yes."

"You have other siblings?" I asked.

"I do."

"I have a younger brother," I mentioned despite Theo asking me no further questions. I had the impression he had no desire to suffer through another moment of conversation with me. "My brother's name is Erik."

I couldn't tell if Theo thought he was being terribly rude for not inquiring about my family or that I was being rude for providing unnecessary details.

"You said your brother paints?" I asked.

At last Theo smiled. "Yes, he's been painting now for a number of years after a few attempts at other occupations that didn't suit him or his creativity." He took a bite of food and shifted in his seat. "He's incredibly gifted and such a prolific artist, but he struggles sometimes with…the world, I suppose."

I nodded in agreement. "The world can be difficult to navigate when you see how it is before your eyes and what it looks like on a canvas."

Theo slowly nodded. "Perhaps that's it. I sometimes have difficulty understanding why he struggles," he said, an air of sadness to his words.

"The fact that you wish to understand him is a testament to your affection for your brother."

Theo offered a genuine smile. "You are very kind to say so, Monsieur. Some may think me mad for encouraging Vincent as I do, but no matter what, I will do whatever it takes to support his endeavors."

"That's quite admirable," I said. "Vincent is clearly fortunate to have you."

"Forgive me for not asking earlier, but does your brother live in Paris as well?"

I paused and shook my head. "He's actually…we haven't been in contact for quite some time."

Theo examined me in silence. I imagined the questions forming in his mind. Why haven't you been in contact? How long has it been? I wonder if Erik knows how fortunate he is that he doesn't have to put up with you.

"That's unfortunate," he said.

His words disappointed me as I expected a question that would allow me to elaborate more on my brother, especially to someone who seemed to have a similar connection with his older brother that I had experienced with Erik.

"Was it an amicable parting?" Theo questioned.

My jaw tensed. It wasn't a question that was simple to answer.

"It wasn't that we were driven apart. My brother went missing when we were children."

Theo blinked at me. "Oh." His expression turned remorseful. "How terrible. I apologize."

"I would do anything to find him again," I said. "He was–he is–dear to me."

Theo slowly nodded. "I understand," he said. "Completely."

oOo

The rest of our meal was quite enjoyable, and it felt as though Theo and I had come to a mutual understanding of one another based on our fondness for our siblings.

After our meal, we moved to the back portion of the restaurant that was partitioned off to host larger gatherings. There was a longer table at the very back where I was able to spread out my portfolio for Theo's consideration.

"I understand you don't like fish, but what about frog legs?" he asked.

"Abhorrent."

"Ecargot?"

"Like eating out of a tissue."

Theo made a face of utter disgust before he burst out laughing. I wasn't certain if my remark was truly that amusing or if it was more the two whiskeys he enjoyed with his dinner that fueled his reaction. Regardless, the conversation was comfortable enough.

"I apologize for bringing you to a restaurant that serves fish," he said. "If I had known of your aversion, I would have suggested another establishment with a broader menu."

"The soup was good," I admitted, although I was fairly certain I'd consumed an entire loaf of bread with a bowl and a half of leek soup.

Theo licked his lips as he studied the four drawings and two smaller portraits on cardboard that I'd brought with me for him to evaluate.

"Before I get started, I should tell you my broker fee is thirty percent for sales directly through our firm and between fifteen and twenty depending on the gallery and if you are showing alone or with a group of artists," he said. "For the first year or so I would fully expect your work to be shown alongside a few other names, such as De Gas, whom I believe is the featured artist of the next show you are in."

"Yes, that is correct."

"There is of course no fee for that show as you've already committed on your own, however, if you are interested in my expertise, I would be more than happy to take a look at what your collection currently offers and make a suggestion or two of what I think would be suitable for the show. This way you can hopefully maximize the potential from the show and create decent revenue."

"I would appreciate your assistance, Monsieur."

"Since I am young enough to be your son, I insist you call me Theo." He grinned back at me.

"Theo, I would tell you to call me Monsieur Kimmer, but not even my students treat me with such formality. I will insist that you call me Phelan. Unless you prefer Father."

He chuckled to himself and I felt relieved that he displayed a sense of humor.

"If you find the terms agreeable, I will have you sign a contract with Goupil and Cie and officially consider you one of my clients."

"Tonight?"

"Whenever you like. I fully understand if you'd like to take the contract home with you and have the weekend to consider."

"I would."

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, light blue eyes narrowed as he reached the end of the table. As much as I didn't want to blatantly stare at him, it was strange having someone the same age as my students decide what he found favorable as far as my art was concerned. Clearly he had a knack for business and I hoped by representing my work that it would lead to bigger and better opportunities than I'd been able to reach on my own-which was very much lacking.

"I will take this one if and when you decide to sign with us," Theo said. He plucked a charcoal drawing of my empty studio off the table for a closer look. "Have you considered an asking price?"

I blew air past my lips. Having been under the impression that Theo merely wished to view more of my work, I hadn't considered placing a value on any of my art.

"I have not."

"Would you accept three hundred?"

I stroked my beard, brow furrowed as I pretended to consider his offer as if I had any idea how much revenue one of my own drawings should generate.

Every year the university hosted an art show where students displayed and could offer up their work for a fee. Most carefully inscribed 'negotiable' on the cards bearing their names, home towns, name of their work, and medium, but those who set more firm prices either sold themselves tremendously short or mistook themselves for da Vinci.

I had become quite proficient in advocating for my students who didn't see their full worth, but giving a price to my own art seemed impossible.

At last I inhaled. "Three fifty," I said firmly.

Theo took another look at the drawing, his eyes narrowed. Agonizing seconds passed before he at last nodded. "Very well. I shall purchase it if my broker fee is acceptable to you."

He started to hand me the sketch, but paused and picked up the drawing of the girl from the opera house steps that I'd done in the early hours of the morning. "This is intriguing. A bit different style from the rest. Darker. More intense."

"It's a rough draft for a painting."

Theo nodded. "I'd like to see it when it's complete. If it's anything like your two paintings that were sold at Stefan's, I can almost guarantee you that I will have a buyer willing to pay four thousand, possibly more."

I attempted to remain as composed as possible and nodded despite the thrum of excitement pulsing through me. Four thousand francs, while not as much as the other two paintings from the previous show, was far more than I would have expected to ask let alone receive from a buyer I didn't know personally.

"I would like to see a contract if you have one available," I said, feeling almost light-headed from the possibilities.

Theo warmly smiled. "Of course. Take a seat."