The Portrait of Our Fate

The afternoon sun always hit the third-floor studio of the Hawthorne Fine Arts building at exactly the right angle, turning the dust motes into suspended gold. It was Clara's favorite time of day. The campus outside the large mullioned windows grew quiet, the brick pathways emptying as students drifted toward dining halls or dorms, leaving her alone with the smell of turpentine, linseed oil, and raw canvas. Well, usually alone. "Your proportions are getting better," a voice murmured, deep and smooth, just over her shoulder.