The artist's studio smelled of linseed oil, turpentine, and the faint sweetness of crushed pigments. Finn had claimed this space years ago—an attic room at the top of the north wing, with a slanted ceiling full of skylights and walls that had long ago surrendered to splashes of color. Canvases leaned everywhere: half-finished landscapes, portraits with eyes too knowing, abstract storms of red and gold that looked like battles no one had won. The floor was scarred with paint drips that had hardened into small, multicolored mountains. In the center stood an easel, larger than the others, holding a fresh canvas stretched taut and waiting.
I had come after supper, when the palace quieted and the corridors emptied of nobles. Finn had left a note slipped under my door: no words, just a single brushstroke of emerald green across cream paper, the color of my eyes. I understood the invitation immediately.
