my teacher. Miss Swanston wasn’t what anyone would call fetching, but she was handsome, and far younger than most of the rest of the staff. I wanted to like her for that alone. She had hazel-gray eyes and a long nose and wide lips. In close quarters she always smelled of charcoal; I finally realized it was from the sketching pencils she carried in the pockets of her skirts.
Her head tilted; she was studying the line I’d just added. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed. You’ve captured the illusion of depth in the water quite well. Chloe,” she said, turning in place. “Do come here and have a look. Do you see what I mean?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Chloe, indifferent.
“I’m referring to our previous conversation. You asked about the use of transparency for depth. Eleanore has provided us with an example of a wash of separate colors to achieve her desired effect. Notice the dark beneath the light?”
Chloe pretended to care. “I suppose.”
Jesse moved nearer still. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the beige of his shirt through the shoots.
“Blue under ocher, violet under green. Opposing colors that, when joined, create a perfect illusion of a shimmering whole.”
“But isn’t that only a trick, Miss Swanston?” asked Beatrice, from across the circle. “I mean, there isn’t really any special skill involved in putting two colors together, is there?”
Miss Swanston smiled. “One might argue that all of art is trickery. A landscape is not merely a representation of what one sees but also how one sees it. Using pigment and paper, Eleanore has suggested quite nicely the idea of water and of what exists beneath the water. But her vision is unique.”
“Rather,” muttered Chloe.
“As is yours,” said Miss Swanston, turning back to Chloe. “And yours, and yours, and all of yours. That is what makes art both perfect and imperfect.”
“But a fish should look like a fish,” insisted Beatrice.
“In your world, then, yes. But to someone else, a splash of red might be a fish, and that is fine, too.”
“I hardly think splashing color about is art,” Beatrice griped, just loud enough to be heard.
“Art,” replied Miss Swanston, “may take its form however we wish. That is its joy.”
A throat was cleared behind us. We all looked; Mrs. Westcliffe stood at the doorway, a taller figure in the gloom behind her.
“And that will be all for today,” concluded Miss Swanston smoothly. “Leave your brushes and trays where they are for Mr. Holms to clean; thank you, ladies. We shall save the fish for our next lesson. Kindly place your smocks in the hamper there by the fig tree.”
Jesse had ventured to the edge of the bamboo, clippers in hand. He was looking at the doorway, at Mrs. Westcliffe walking toward me, Armand Louis in a dapper tweed suit at her side.
I quickly checked the rest of the circle; none of the other girls seemed in a great hurry to leave. Most of them were watching either Armand or me, folding their smocks into squares, lingering around the hamper. Whispering.
The smocks were of rough cotton and tied in the back. I yanked at the bow of mine and felt it contract into a knot.
I yanked harder, swiveling back to my easel, closing my eyes as my fingers fumbled with the cloth.
I am invisible. Invisible. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
Surely they weren’t here for me. Surely Armand was here to visit Chloe. She was still standing right there beside me, practically licking her lips with anticipation. She’d removed her smock already and had it arranged elegantly over one arm.
I pulled at the knot again and heard threads begin to pop.
“Allow me, Miss Jones,” said Armand, right at my back.
There was no gracious way to refuse him. Not with Mrs. Westcliffe there, too.
I exhaled and dropped my arms. I stared at the lotus petals in my painting as the new small twists and tugs of Armand’s hands rocked me back and forth.
Jesse’s music began to reverberate somewhat more sharply than before.
“There,” Armand said, soft near my ear. “Nearly got it.”
“Most kind of you, my lord.” Mrs. Westcliffe’s voice was far more carrying. “Do you not agree, Miss Jones?”
Her tone said I’d better.
“Most kind,” I repeated. For some reason I felt him as a solid warmth behind me, behind all of me, even though only his knuckles made a gentle bumping against my spine.
How blasted long could it take to unravel a knot?
“Yes,” said Chloe unexpectedly. “Lord Armand is always