“I’ve not heard of him.”

“So?”

Flynn took a deep breath. “Is he any good?”

Two dark brows shot up. “You’re questioning my judgment now?”

“Of course not.” Flynn pinched the bridge of his nose. “But this work has to be spectacular. My name is going to be on this.”

Lisbon’s expression darkened. “So is mine. And as such, I’ve hired the best. But if you are reconsidering—”

“No. That’s not— I’m not reconsidering anything.”

“Good. I’m glad we had this talk.” Lisbon brushed by him.

“But Beaumont is a mere boy.”

“He’s an artist.”

“At the very least I think I should take a look at some of his—”

The architect spun. “Listen carefully, Rutledge. I did not hire you because you went to the right schools or studied in the right countries or exhibited your work in the right places. I hired you because of your skill. What makes you think I hired Beaumont for anything less?”

Flynn could feel his teeth clench. Why did this man have to sound so reasonable?

“The next time you have something to share with me, Rutledge, I am confident that it will be on paper. Now go do your job, or I will find someone who will.”

Flynn watched the architect retreat, trying, with effort, to relax his jaw. He took a deep breath and turned to stare sightlessly in the direction of the apse. He needed to relax. Getting frustrated with fate was one thing. Taking that frustration out on Lisbon or Beaumont or anyone else in the chain of events that had deposited him here was not helpful.

“I believe this is yours.”

Flynn jumped. Dammit, the boy moved like a cat. “What?”

“Your sketchbook.” Beaumont was holding out the heavy book of pressed paper to him. “You left it on the pew.”

Flynn took it from the boy’s hands. Delicate hands, he couldn’t help but notice. Long, tapered fingers that had not suffered manual labor but were stained with colorful pigments in the crevices of his nail beds. Flynn supposed he should find that somewhat reassuring. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, wondering how much Beaumont had overheard.

“I’d enjoy seeing any sketches that you might have for the panels,” Beaumont offered, sounding hopeful.

Flynn scowled. He couldn’t show the boy sketches because he didn’t have one he was happy with. Everything that he had done so far seemed…less than impressive, even the rough preliminary drawings that he had submitted months ago to Lisbon. They were missing a dimension, as though the soul of each was absent. And that terrified him to no end. Because no matter how many drawings he did or how many sketches he started, he couldn’t seem to reclaim something that had once come so easy to him.