Ch 47

Celeste was in the hall with the Bohemians when I approached my studio nearly forty minutes before class started, and despite not needing to be at the university until after the first class, she was quite excited to sit in on the lesson and beside herself with glee when I asked her hand out the notes I had prepared.

"How on earth is Professor Kimmer going to keep this studio organized without you?" Ink teased her before he left for the day.

"You'll help him, won't you, Daniel Lincoln?" Celeste fretted.

"The biggest help Daniel can provide is showing up to class on time," I said.

Ink chortled at my remark, hugged Celeste good-bye, and told her to have a wonderful trip home to Brussels.

"Your final day as my cleaning assistant," I said once the first class exited into the hall. "As short-lived as your employment was here in my studio, I must say I will miss you helping."

"Put me to work," she insisted. "I want to be your very best cleaning assistant ever."

I had two hours in between class and typically chose to leave the campus and run errands or walk to the park and back with Elvira depending on the weather, but instead looked around the studio for tasks that needed to be completed.

"Return whatever colored pencils were left out to the cabinet in order," I said. "They are numbered for your convenience."

I had never seen anyone so thrilled to organize in my life and took pleasure watching as she put the pencils back into the cabinet, standing on the tips of her toes to reach the containers on the top shelf.

"How did you get so many pencils?" she asked, a half-dozen pencils of various colors and lengths clutched in her left fist.

"I inherited most from Hugo," I answered.

"Why did he have so many?" she asked, browsing the bins I had labeled in my first year. Organizing Hugo's absolute chaos had been an arduous yet satisfying task.

"Most likely because he forgot he had hundreds already and decided to purchase more when he walked past Bloom's. You are more than welcome to take a few if you want to draw on the train."

"Truly?" she asked, losing her balance as she looked over her shoulder at me. She stumbled backward before righting herself, and I found myself truly perplexed by her clumsy nature.

"Of course. Take as many as you'd like."

There were hundreds of pencils in every shade, most of them unused. It would be years before I ran out of reds and blues.

"Are you looking forward to your train ride?" I asked as I pulled out my sketchbook and looked through drawings I'd left unfinished from the start of the school year. Most were portraits of various students making a variety of expressions.

Celeste readily nodded. " I have a new outfit for the train from your friend Madame Soward," she proudly told me. "And look at this!"

She whirled around to face me and picked up the hem of her skirt, revealing two small buttons on the underside.

"What is that?" I asked.

"It's a secret pocket," she said. "I can store banknotes in it and no one will know." Her grin widened. "Or pencils."

I nodded in approval. "I'll be certain to count what funds you have remaining so that you can keep some of your money in your secret pocket."

Celeste finished putting the remainder of the pencils away and took a seat across from me. She slid three of the shorter pencils into the secret pocket.

"You don't want to take a few more?" I asked.

Celeste shook her head. "I will be fine," she replied. "I'm not an artist anyhow."

"Everyone is an artist whether they know it or not. Your form of art is vocal, not visual, but you are not limited to one medium."

"I do like drawing, but I'm not good at it," she replied. "Just as I loved seeing my parents dance, but I am not a dancer." She bowed her head. "I was not pleased with grace, as you may have noticed."

It would have been impossible not to notice. She was like a foal stumbling around seconds after birth, but I feigned surprise in order to spare her feelings over her bumbling ways.

"Professor," Celeste admonished, issuing a significant look in my direction. "I am aware that I am not light on my feet."

"Barely noticeable," I murmured.

"Like a bull in a china shop."

I smiled to myself. "Your words, not mine, Mademoiselle Frane."

Celeste chuckled to herself, which ended with an unexpected snort of amusement. Immediately she covered her mouth with both hands and sat back in her chair, legs swinging as she continued to laugh.

"Do not fall out of your chair on your last day, Cleaning Assistant. I cannot send you off to Brussels with your skull cracked open. Bernard Montlaur would never let me hear the end of it."

"I won't fall," she promised.

I went back to my notebook, placing a check mark in the lower right corner of the drawings I intended to clean up and use as inspiration for charcoals or paintings in the future.

"May I write to you, Professor?" Celeste asked.

"Of course," I assured her, glancing up from my notebook.

"And Bern too? May he write to you as well?"

"I have every intention of keeping in touch with both of you."

"Good. I think Bern would appreciate that." She looked away from me and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "I am worried about him."

My brow furrowed. I turned the page, seeing a rough sketch of my brother, and looked up at Celeste. "You are worried about Bernard?" I questioned. "Why is that?"

Celeste pursed her lips and took a breath. "I told him all about Brussels, and once I finished speaking, I felt sad." She glanced at me and frowned.

"Why did you feel sad?"

"Because after I finished speaking, I realized that you will have Hugo, your students, and Madame Soward here in Paris and I will be with my aunt and friends in Brussels and Bern will be alone in Wissant."

"Wissant and Brussels aren't terribly far from one another," I pointed out. "If your aunt has no opposition, I am certain Bernard will be glad to visit you."

Celeste chewed on her bottom lip and stared past me at the blackboard. I held my sketchbook toward my chest so that she was unable to see the drawing of my brother, concerned over her potential reaction if she saw his unusual features.

"Professor?" she questioned.

Immediately I snapped the book shut, giving her my undivided attention.

"What will I do if my aunt decides I am too much of a burden and doesn't want me to stay with her?"

I traced along the leather edge of the sketchbook and considered her inquiry. "Do you have grandparents? Other aunts and uncles, perhaps on your mother's side?" I asked.

Celeste solemnly nodded.

"In Brussels or elsewhere?"

"Elsewhere."

"Have you met these relatives?"

Eyes averted, she shook her head. "Not that I recall."

I inhaled. "Well, if your aunt is unprepared to accept you into her care, I would put out an ad on your behalf in the nearest local newspaper stating that we are searching for your next of kin," I offered.

Celeste slowly nodded. "What if no one replies?" she asked.

My breath hitched. I'd spent more years than I wished to count placing ad after ad in newspapers from Paris to the nearest town outside of Conforeit searching for Erik. I had spent thousands of francs, sometimes forgoing supper in order to search for my brother, preferring to retire for the night with an empty stomach rather than a starved heart.

I would not have wished the years of wondering on anyone, least of all a mere girl who had lost her immediate family to illness.

"If no one answers, then we will keep searching and in the meantime, we will seek an alternative place for you to stay."

"What if someone replies, but they do not wish to take me?" Her light green eyes were filled with concern that I knew quite well as I'd been treated like a stray dog Val had brought with him from Conforeit to Paris.

"For the time being, we will not concern ourselves with the 'what-ifs' and focus first on your Aunt Drucinda. If she is not prepared to accept the responsibility of caring for her brother's child, you will not be forced to stay where you are not content."

Celeste pointed at herself. "Me?"

I nodded.

"I will have a say in the matter?"

"Within reason," I replied. "If you do not like the color of the bedroom walls or the flowers in the window box, those are not reasonable complaints. However, if your aunt is cruel or neglectful, then more suitable arrangements will be made so that you are comfortable."

"You would do that for me?" she whispered.

I had spent years wishing someone would whisk me away from both my uncle and Val's aunt, far from the homes where I had felt like an outsider.

"What sort of professor would abandon his favorite cleaning assistant to a dismal fate?"

Celeste looked around the studio. "Do you think Bern would allow me to stay in Wissant for a few weeks if my aunt is not able to accept me?" she asked. "While you're looking for members of my family? I know I can't stay at the Gold Medallion."

"I cannot speak for Bernard, but I do believe as your self-appointed guardian, he would do whatever was necessary to keep you safe."

"I know Bern misses his daughter," she said quickly. "Perhaps he would not want me to stay long if it makes him sad."

"And Bernard is aware that you miss your family. He would not want you to fret over where you are welcomed."

"I don't want to intrude," Celeste quickly added.

"I would advise that you speak to him yourself and see what has to say. There is no use for assumptions."

Celeste's expression turned a little less gloomy. "Thank you, Professor, for easing my mind a bit."

OoO

After my second year students exited the studio and I was done with classes for the day, I promised Celeste I would be at the train station to see her off and make certain she had the remainder of the bank notes I had in my possession.

She walked out of the studio, explaining that Bernard had insisted on a late check-out for her and she intended to lounge until it was time to be at the train station.

No sooner had she walked out that someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," I said as I placed my sketchbook into my desk drawer.

"I was afraid I'd miss you," Theo said as he walked into the studio and gazed around.

"Another five minutes and you would have," I said. "How may I be of service, Monsieur Van Gogh?" I asked.

Theo clasped his hand behind his back and smiled at me. "I have excellent news," he said.

My heart stuttered. "About the art show?" I questioned.

"Yes and no."

I blinked at him. "By all means continue. You have my rapt attention."

"The drawing," he said, "of the boy on the back steps."

I raised a brow as he paused dramatically.

"It sold yesterday," Theo said.

I stared at him for much longer than necessary, feeling a mix of elation and disappointment that the drawing I had wanted to keep for myself now belonged to someone else. It felt as though a piece of my heart had been scooped out with a grapefruit spoon and tossed aside.

"That's wonderful," I said, forcing the words from my lips. "Who was the buyer?"

"Anonymous."

My mixed emotions swiftly turned to outright disappointment, and I felt my shoulders sag. "Another anonymous purchase?"

Theo turned his head to the side. "A very generous anonymous buyer," he said as if somehow this would improve my reaction. "The drawing sold for nearly double what you asked."

I attempted to mask my emotions, knowing full well there was no need to be melancholy over my second sale in a matter of days. The amount of the purchase, however, was secondary to losing a piece of my brother. Twice now artwork depicting Erik had found its way into the hands of buyers. The first I knew belonged to the vicomte de Chagny. The drawing I had grown quite attached to since completing the work would remain a mystery.

"May I guess the name of the buyer?" I asked.

Theo thought for a moment. "I suppose you could, however, I am under no obligation to tell you if you are correct."

I guessed Jean, Hugo, Florine, and Raoul de Chagny, all of which were incorrect.

"It wasn't Edgar, was it?"

Theo outright laughed at my final inquiry. "De Gas? Heavens, no."

I shrugged. "Then I suppose I shall never know unless he or she comes forward."

"I apologize if you are unhappy with the circumstances. Being that you are fairly unknown still I thought you'd be delighted to have sold a drawing that has been on display for a matter of days."

"Not unhappy," I said. "Concerned that it will be covered in dust or stuffed in an attic forgotten and unappreciated."

"For the amount paid, I assure you, the drawing will be in respectful hands, and while I cannot reveal the name of the buyer, I can tell you that this individual was very interested the moment they stepped into the gallery."

In the back of my mind, I imagined the buyer was Erik, who recognized himself in the drawing and could not wait to have it framed and hanging on the wall of his sprawling estate, hung high on the wall above the mantel and away from the grubby hands of his young children. He would wait for me to notice the drawing, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face once I gaped at my beloved, long-lost work of art as well as my beloved, long-lost brother.

"I also have another bit of exciting news, but again, the buyer would like to remain anonymous," Theo said.

I chuckled at the absurdity. "I am certain I have set some type of record for an artist with buyers that have no desire to be identified."

"These things do happen," he said. "You needn't be offended."

"What else sold?" I asked.

"Flame-colored tanager," Theo stated.

"To Madame Fabienne," I said. "I was aware."

Theo shook his head. "Your painting had another admirer, who paid a visit to Madame Fabienne and convinced her to withdraw her name from the purchase."

I narrowed my eyes. "That has to be Jean," I said. He was certainly the type who would have made a fuss over something he desired and stamped his feet until he had what he wanted.

"It was not Jean Moreau," Theo insisted. "I cannot say anything more on the matter other than the painting sold for nine thousand francs."

I inhaled sharply. "I beg your pardon, but you mean to say nine hundred."

Theo shook his head. "I absolutely do not, Phelan. I came here to personally congratulate you on two more sales. And to inform you that the interest from these two pieces of art has caused quite a buzz at our gallery. I have no doubt at least one more painting will sell before the show closes and, I might add, I have several buyers sending their collectors this Friday. If there is nothing that they find to their liking, they will come to our main gallery next week and I do hope at that time to have a few more of your pieces on hand to show them."

My heart had no idea if it should beat more rapidly or cease beating altogether. Like a dumbfounded fool, I merely stared at Theo, my mind reeling.

"This is what you wanted, is it not? To sell more of your art?"

"Forgive me for staring like a daft fool, but this is quite possibly the greatest week of my entire life and I have no idea how to respond to such unexpected news," I said, standing to shake his hand.

"The first of many great weeks, I am certain," Theo replied. "Congratulations, Phelan." We shook and he grinned at me. "And I will add a stipulation to the next sale that says the purchaser cannot remain anonymous."

"Please do."

oOo

I very well could have floated on a cloud down the street, but once I left the university, I walked swiftly to Abigail's shop to sort through the rest of the receipts and match as much as I could with the ledger, hoping to find the inconsistency.

"Phelan!" Abigail exclaimed before I had shut the door behind me.

I looked across the room at her, my mind still buzzing with the prospect of selling more art, and smiled at her enthusiastic greeting.

"Thank goodness. I am in need of your assistance in an urgent matter," Abigail said.

As much as I desired to simply blurt out that I'd sold more paintings, I merely arched a brow. "You have ninety minutes of my undivided attention and perhaps another ten to fifteen of my divided attention."

She chuckled at my words and motioned me forward. "This will take but a moment and requires you to merely stand here."

"Such a complicated task," I said, feigning irritation. I removed my satchel from my shoulder and set it on the floor by the counter and out of the way.

Abigail shook her head at me and turned away, gathering a neatly folded garment from her long table covered in various cuts of cloth, buttons, and the like. With a step stool in hand, she walked up beside me, placed the stool to my left, and proceeded to unfurl the garment.

"I finished it last night, around two in the morning," she said.

I started to ask what it was before I noticed the glint of light off the sequins and realized it was the evening cloak commissioned by the mysterious individual from the opera.

"This is the urgent matter?" I questioned.

"Well, since Howard isn't tall enough and refused to stand on a stool for me, yes," Abigail explained. "I've been waiting for you all morning."

"For which I don't blame him one bit. This is quite the arduous ordeal. Where is your brother, anyhow?"

"Not here," Abigail muttered, "and quite frankly I am relieved to have some peace and quiet."

Despite how abrasive Howard had appeared, it still saddened me that Abigail seemed less than pleased to see her own brother, considering they lived on different continents.

"How long is he visiting?" I asked.

"Originally it was a week, now it's two weeks," she answered. "Three if he can convince me to allow him to stay longer."

"Permanently sounds feasible as well."

"Bite your tongue, Phelan Kimmer," Abigail playfully warned as she draped the cloak over my shoulders and clasped it at my throat. She smoothed the fabric over my shoulders and tugged at the sides, hopping down from her stool to make certain it laid correctly.

"This fits you remarkably well," Abigail commented as she stood behind me and ran her fingers over the sequins. "The length suits you, the width at the shoulders is surprisingly perfect. I feel as though I have tailored this to your measurements. Perhaps you are the mystery client?"

"Never. The sequins are a bit garish," I said, making a face as I lifted the hem and noticed the lining was blood red satin.

From the corner of my vision I noticed someone outside peering through the window and turned my head. Immediately I realized it was the Daroga, face pressed to the glass and hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

He stared at me for a long moment, a peculiar look etched into his features, before he straightened his spine. He took one last look at me, shook his head, and walked off.

I had half the mind to toss the cloak aside and catch up to the Persian, wishing to inform him that the garment was not mine, but remained still for Abigail's sake.

"Who was that?" Abigail asked.

"No one," I answered.

"Ah," she said under her breath.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "Nadir Khan," I said, amending my first comment. "A Persian detective."

"Persian Detective Nadir Khan certainly sounds like no one to me," Abigail said dryly.

"Our paths have crossed a time or two," I replied.

"Are you wanted by the Persian police?"

I chuckled to myself. "If he didn't place me under arrest for wearing this outrageous cloak, I believe I'm safe."

To my surprise, Abigail reached beneath the fabric and pinched me in the side.

"Ow!"

"Stand still," she ordered. "Or I shall pinch you again."

"Quit pinching me and I shall stand still."

"Did you see the clasp?" she asked.

I looked down, drawing my chin into my chest for a look at the brass clasp. "A skull?"

"Indeed."

"How fantastically morbid."

"A warning, perhaps?" Abigail speculated.

"Quite the statement."

"I appreciate a bit of dramatic flare when it comes to fashion."

Abigail was still behind me, thankfully unable to see the furrow of my brow as I wondered what she thought of my conservative tastes. There was not a single article of clothing in my wardrobe that could have been considered 'bold', aside from perhaps a red cravat gifted to me by Jean that I'd never worn as I had nothing that it seemed to match.

I thought of Florine, whose entire collection of clothing contained various shades of yellow, a vibrant color that drew attention to her. Even Valgarde had various articles of clothing that stood out; a bright green waistcoat with silver pinstripes and an orange lawn shirt with a floral pattern that I would never have considered purchasing.

"What is it?" Abigail questioned as she stepped in front of me and cocked her head to the side.

"I beg your pardon?"

She placed her hands on her hips. "You turned as rigid as a board the moment I mentioned bold fashion."

"Given that you are quite familiar with my wardrobe, you are aware that bold fashion is a topic foreign to me."

Abigail motioned for me to remove the cape. "Have I offended you?"

"Offended? No, I wouldn't say I am offended."

She blinked at me. "What would you say?"

I fixed my sleeves, noticing they were a particularly drab shade of gray, and frowned. "I would say that I'm a bit dismayed by my taste in clothing."

Abigail looked me up and down. "You are always impeccably dressed," she said. "You don't need to be a peacock strutting around."

"Instead I am a very dull bird," I muttered.

Abigail turned her head to the side. "You are offended."

"Believe me when I say I am much more offended by the amount of receipts haphazardly left on tables and stuffed beneath the counter."

She returned a sheepish grin. "In my defense, I start to put them into the box, then someone comes in and I become distracted and suddenly there are twenty receipts and none are entered into the ledger."

"Yes, I can see that," I said as I pulled the box out from beneath the counter and opened the ledger.

Abigail folded the cloak and placed it into a long box, which she tied with a black ribbon, while I silently went through the dates and checked each one off that I found in the ledger.
"Fourteen-fourteen certainly comes up a lot," I said.

"Hats," she said.

"And twenty-six sixty-two," I said.

"Blouse and a skirt."

"Sixteen-twenty is trousers, if I am not mistaken," I said, finding a receipt with my name on it.

"I still think I should hire you for the shop," Abigail teased.

Comfortable silence settled between us. I worked through the numbers while Abigail began cutting a pattern on the table across from me. Twenty minutes later, I had a third of the month complete.

"Phelan?" Abigail said without looking up from the pattern. "What are the gallery hours?"

"Until seven, I believe."

"I haven't been to see your show yet. Perhaps tonight."

"The gallery is closed Mondays. And it isn't my show, it's Edgar De Gas and Others. I am most certainly the least significant of the others."

Abigail glanced up at me. "I will be there before it closes," she promised. "Requesting to see the paintings specifically by the artist claiming to be the least significant of the others."

"You are under no obligation to attend," I said. "It's clear on the other side of town."

"Not an obligation, but I would like to see your paintings. This is very exciting to know an artist whose work is worthy of display."

I smiled to myself, still surprised that anyone would want to stroll through the gallery to view my artwork. Val had never taken much interest in my paintings, finding it to be a fruitless hobby that took up far too much of my time and generated no income. His father had given me supplies here and there; paper and pencils to satisfy my need to create, but he'd never praised my artwork or asked to see any of my drawings and I suspected Val's opinion had formed due to his father's indifference.

Hugo had been the first to put his hand out and ask to see what I was working on, and his request had left me petrified as I knew he was an art professor and respected in the community and his own paintings had been well-received. If he furrowed his brow, frowned, and told me my art was amateurish or fine for a hobby, I would have been devastated and lashed out.

"If you would like to attend this week, I will meet you there," I offered as I smoothed a crumpled receipt with no date on the line.

"A private tour?"

I chuckled to myself. "If you are expecting a grand tour with in-depth commentary, I'm afraid you'll be quite disappointed. However, if you would simply enjoy company, I would be honored to have you as my guest."

"I accept your invitation."

Abigail went back to her pattern and I continued sorting the last of the receipts I could find. Every once in a while I would look up at the people passing the storefront, oblivious to the two of us silently working.

"Has anything else sold?" Abigail asked suddenly.

"As a matter of fact–" I looked up, my neck aching, and studied her for a moment. "Are you one of the anonymous buyers?" I asked.

Abigail's lips parted. She pointed at her chest. "Me? No."

"Hmm." I felt a thrum of disappointment. If anyone had purchased my drawing of Erik, I would have hoped it to be Abigail as I was certain she would have lovingly glanced at it every time she passed the frame hanging on her wall.

"But that obviously means you've made another sale, which is wonderful."

"Yes," I agreed.

Abigail issued a peculiar look. "Then why do you appear so miserable?"

I exhaled, staring down at the receipts and jumble of numbers that blended together in an incoherent mess.

"Because that particular drawing had been in my possession for quite some time, tucked away in my apartment studio within a folder mostly out of my view. I gave it to the art dealer who represents me at Goupil and Cie, who intended to send it to their gallery in Brussels, but it sold here and for more than I had expected. Quite a bit more, actually."

"I still don't understand why you are unhappy."

"The drawing was quite personal in nature," I answered. "As foolish as it may seem, I was not pleased to learn the buyer wishes to remain anonymous. Quite frankly I find it insulting that they have a part of me and I will never know who it is."

"What is the drawing of, if I may ask?"

I remained silent for a moment, debating how honest I wished to answer her inquiry.

"Oh," Abigail said under her breath. "It has something to do with Erik, doesn't it?"

My breath hitched. "H-how did you know?"

Abigail offered a gentle smile in return. "I cannot think of anything or anyone closer to your heart. Not that you are terribly forthcoming with personal details, but…" She shrugged. "I do know how much your brother means to you."

I turned over one of the receipts and noticed there were scribbles on the back of it, hastily drawn flowers and stars.

"What was the drawing like?" Abigail asked.

"It was…" I paused, attempting to choose my words with care.

Theo had made his own assumptions concerning what the drawing depicted rather than asking me about the drawing and I had accepted his interpretation, deciding it was easier to simply agree that it was a boy off to do chores and not a more personal matter.

Abigail stared back at me, her moss green eyes filled with patience.

"It was Erik putting his own boots on the evening he disappeared," I answered.

My heart ached despite the image ingrained in my mind. There was truly no need to keep the drawing in my possession as I had spent decades imagining Erik's final moments on the steps. I envisioned the light swiftly fading, how he had to tug at the laces and adjust the tongue of his boots to slide his feet inside, how meticulous a task it was to tie the laces with his long, thin fingers. It must have taken him a good ten to fifteen minutes to complete as he'd never done it on his own previously and he always became frustrated.

He had ten to fifteen minutes of me being completely oblivious that he was outside alone and then another twenty minutes of wandering the dusk toward the beach–if he'd made it there. I had no idea where Bjorn had been lurking or how he found Erik.

"Could you ask your dealer to deny the sale?" Abigail questioned.
"I could, but I imagine Theo would void my contract and I'd never sell another piece of art again."

"Could you recreate it?"

"Yes, I suppose that would be possible. I could draw it on the back of this receipt," I replied.

"I think Erik deserves better than the back of a receipt," Abigail said. "And if you could make another drawing of your brother, I would love to see it."

I reached for my satchel, which I had tucked beneath the desk, and felt along the spine of my sketchbook. Abigail eyed me curiously for a brief moment before she reached for a pin and attached the fabric to the pattern.

Outside of a handful of people, I had not shared depictions of Erik with most people out of fear of their reaction. I was aware that he was not what anyone would have described as handsome; his bottom lip had not formed correctly, his cheek and nose misshapen. His flesh was thin and webbed, his right ear smaller than the left.

He is hideous. My God, you should have left him outside to die. How could you possibly look at that face and not feel sickness in your gut?

Those were the words I expected to hear from everyone who looked at the drawings of my beloved brother. Masking their disgust would be downright impossible and their reaction to Erik's visage would anger me beyond my ability to curb my temper.

To my relief, Hugo had merely narrowed his eyes and turned my drawing at different angles, remarking on the art itself and not my brother's appearance at first. He had eventually asked what had happened to cause such scars, but his inquiry was not malicious in nature and if he had been alarmed or disgusted, he'd not shown it.

Elizabeth was aware that her missing uncle had been born with scars to the right side of his face. She had not seemed surprised by the drawing I'd shown her.

"I, um…" I started to say to Abigail.

I have a drawing of Erik in my bag. Would you like to see it?

She inhaled and placed more pins into the fabric. "How many drawings do you have of your brother?" she asked before my thoughts turned to spoken words.

"Dozens?" I guessed.

Abigail smiled to herself. "This commissioned cloak," she said, patting the box she'd set aside. "I spent hours working on it, until I was practically cross-eyed. Once the clock chimed midnight, I wanted to toss it into the refuse bin and start over."

"Why?"

"I don't know if the purchaser will find it to his liking."

"He would be a fool to think it wasn't perfect," I replied. "I hope that you did not take my remarks on the style as an insult to your craft."

"I did not, but I know it isn't perfect," Abigail replied. "I can assure you that there are several flaws. But I suppose those flaws make it unique, and despite losing hours of sleep, I do rather like this garish cloak." She looked up at me and wrinkled her nose. "Are you absolutely certain you didn't commission this?"

"Positive."

"What a shame. I would have been quite tickled to know you are behind the entire charade, including penning an entire opera."

"My brother was the musical type, not me."

Abigail looked as though she wished to reply, but two women walked into the shop and whatever was on her mind remained unspoken.

I smiled to myself as the ladies greeted one another and pulled my hand from the satchel, leaving the sketchbook tucked inside, deciding I would not chance Abigail's reaction to my perfectly imperfect brother–at least for the time being.