Lily licked the tip of her pencil and leaned closer to the sturdy paper secured to her easel to trace a darker line around the eye of the bird on the page. The real creature had flown away twenty minutes ago, but not before posing just long enough for her to put a rough sketch down. It had stood there on the tree branch, mostly obscured by leaves, peeking out at her. Curious but hesitant.

She’d snapped a photo first, and no doubt that would turn out better than this. But she did like to work on her other media too.

“You have such an eye for composition, Lily Love.” A smile lit Mama’s voice as she turned from her own easel to take in Lily’s. “It never ceases to amaze me. That’s always my biggest struggle in a painting.”

Lily looked over at her mother’s work in progress—a watercolor today, since it was easier to transport and would dry quickly. Not what Euphemia Blackwell was famous for, but she often used them as practice for her commissions. Lily could sit for hours and watch her work, try to pick up her methods. Or she had once, when she had the time to spare. This leisurely morning in the park with her mother had become more the rarity than the norm. “If you struggle with composition, no one would ever know.”

Mama laughed. “Because I struggle with it, I put much time and effort into it. Not like you—you make it look so easy. Just lift your camera at the perfect moment, click, and there you have it. A perfectly composed piece of art.”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s just that simple. Much like you lift your pencil, scratch a few lines on the page, and have a masterpiece.”

They shared a chuckle and both turned back to their easels. “I’ve missed this,” Mama said on an exhale, dipping her brush into her water jar. “We haven’t had nearly enough time to draw and paint together since the war began.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” She tilted her head a bit, debating whether the markings on the wing needed darkening. No . . . she’d darken it with pigment later.

“I suppose this has been good preparation for me, though.” Her mother’s voice had a note of sorrow in it . . . but more loudly, a note of probing. “Soon enough you’ll be married and off on your own, both of you. I’ll need to learn how to get used to a quiet house.”

Lily looked over again, a burst of laugher escaping. “Subtle, Mama.”

Her mother shot her a grin, only seconds long before she turned back to put a masterful stroke of purple onto her paper. “I still can’t quite believe your father finally found gentlemen you both like, and that they happened to come together. Quite convenient, to my way of thinking.”