The second door on the left stood slightly ajar. Adrian hesitated, his fingers hovering over the brass handle. Lettered boldly on the frosted glass: Prof. A. Bexley — Tutorial Counselor. From within, he heard the low shuffle of papers and the scratch of a quill pen, a sound sharp enough to make his stomach tighten. He pushed the door open.
Professor Bexley sat behind a desk cluttered with ink pots and ledgers, a brass clock ticking with maddening precision. Hawk-like in his thinning hair and sharp nose, he wore a dark wool coat that looked more like armor than attire. His slate-grey eyes lifted with irritation, as if every interruption were an assault on his time.
Beside the desk, near a high window streaked with rain, Adrian noticed her first by the sketchbook, frayed and ink-spotted against her hip. Stray wisps of dark hair brushed pale cheeks as she turned, and graphite smudges marked her wrists. Then her eyes met his, storm-grey, steady, reflective, and he felt as if she were already sketching him.
"Close the door," Bexley said, without looking at him again.
Adrian obeyed; the click of the latch seemed too loud.
"So," Bexley went on, still writing, "you're here about the conditional terms." He paused, set his pen aside, and fixed Adrian full on. "I've seen your complaints. Here's the thing; we don't change assigned themes." He let that hang like a weight, then resumed marking the page.
Adrian swallowed. His throat felt dry. "Sir, I don't believe I can do it justice. Love, it feels too abstract. I have tried, but my work..."
"Fails," Bexley cut in sharply, his pen scratching to a stop. "That's what you're telling me. That your hand isn't steady enough to paint what drives kings to war and poets to ruin."
Adrian flinched. He could feel Bexley's eyes on him, cool and observant, as if silently measuring him.
"I—I can capture grief. Despair. Even obsession," Adrian said, his voice shaky but insistent. "But love? It feels dishonest when I try. Like I'm forging someone else's truth. I can only express what I feel is the truth.
Bexley finally set the pen down. He leaned back, studying him, "Truth." A thin, dry sound that might have been a laugh. "Naïve. Much of what we call love is built on lies—decorated, defended, believed. Choose the lie, show it convincingly, and you've expressed more truth than half our exhibitions. That is what we want, Mr. Vale."
Selene shifted, her sketchbook sliding slightly under her arm. "Professor," she said softly, "may I…?"
Bexley waved a hand, granting permission.
Selene shifted, her sketchbook sliding slightly under her arm. Her gaze lingered on Adrian for a moment before she spoke. "What have you tried so far?" she asked, her voice neutral but laced with curiosity.
"Everything," he admitted.
Selene tilted her head slightly. "Perhaps you're trying to paint an answer when you should be painting a question."
Adrian blinked. "A… question?"
"Yes," she said simply. "What is love to you? Start there. Even confusion has a shape if you let it."
Bexley grunted. "Don't coddle him, Selene. This is St. Aldwych. We're drowning in would-be artists. Conditional terms exist to find the ones who think beyond display pieces. That's how the great work is made poems, prose, sculpture." He jabbed a finger toward Adrian. "You have less than a year to impress the board or you'll be another ghost on Tanner Gate. Four months gets you an early review. Do that, and you're in contention. Miss it, and I strike your name from the ledger."
Adrian's chest tightened. Four months. The clock had just started ticking.