Flynn needed this project to go right. His eyes wandered to the framed canvas that was set on the dais of the apse. It was an image of Mary, her expression soft and serene, the baby Jesus settled in her arms. When Flynn had painted it five years prior, he’d had the copy he’d seen of Raphael’s painting of the Madonna del Granduca in his mind, the brilliant colors and beautiful lines providing all the inspiration he’d needed.

And he’d executed that portrait extraordinarily well, Flynn thought, feeling another wash of the aching, angry sadness that festered every time he looked at it now. That portrait had earned him a place on this commission, but all the enthusiasm and ambition that he had possessed five years ago had since been lost. Destroyed, perhaps, would be a better word. And now he found himself adrift and jaded, cynicism replacing the joy he had once—

“It’s exquisite.”

“What?” Flynn started, realizing that he was no longer alone. There was someone standing in front of him, his form and features half obscured by the light behind him.

“The portrait of the Madonna and her child. You captured her inner peace with incredible skill. Raphael would have approved.”

Flynn scowled, shifting and squinting against the light to better see the person who seemed as familiar with his previous work here as he was with a Renaissance master. He sounded young, whoever he was.

“My apologies if I’ve intruded. Mr. Lisbon indicated that I could find you here. I wanted to take the chance to introduce myself.”

Flynn pushed himself out of the pew and stared at the youth before him. He had a bulky canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a long, leather-covered tube for rolled canvases strapped across his back. Dammit, had Lisbon gone against his wishes and hired him an apprentice? Did he think Flynn had the time for such foolery? His scowl deepened. “Who are you, exactly?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. And then, “I’m Charlie Beaumont.”

Flynn goggled at the boy. He was tall and lanky, with short brown hair that fell carelessly around his ears and over his forehead. Eyes the color of warm caramel matched the hue of the baggy, slightly rumpled coat and trousers he was wearing. His voice was soft and raspy, his cheeks smooth above his bright red scarf, and Flynn wondered if the boy even shaved. This was Charlie Beaumont?

Jesus Christ.

“You can’t be serious,” Flynn snarled. This was the last thing he needed. His own twenty-nine years had been questioned as being inadequate to execute a project of this magnitude, so to have a…a child as a partner was ridiculous.

“I can assure you, Mr. Rutledge, I am quite serious.” The boy simply gazed at him with steady eyes, shifting his bag on his shoulder. If Flynn’s manner fazed this boy, he wasn’t showing it.