“Of course.” The boy had flushed a shade of crimson so intense it suggested that banging headboards would not ever disturb his sleep. Just as well.

“Any other questions?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Beaumont replied, his color slowly returning to normal as he looked past Flynn at the wood panels that had been secured against the far wall. Twin scaffolds had been assembled in preparation for the work, and long tables awaited supplies. The murals would be painted here, away from prying eyes, and then moved into position once they were complete.

Flynn considered the towering blank surfaces before him. “Have you painted on wood before, Mr. Beaumont?”

“I have,” came the polite reply. “Many times. Canvas was not always…available when I was learning.”

Flynn eyed the boy as he moved forward past the scaffolding, running his hand over the smooth, sealed surface. Properly prepared canvas had rarely been available when Flynn was learning either. Paint had generally been begged, borrowed, or stolen. At least until his craft had managed to pay for itself.

“Sealed oak,” Beaumont said without looking back.

Flynn wasn’t sure if that was a question or not. “Yes,” he answered anyway.

“Sufficiently aged?”

“Yes. There is little chance of them warping.” At least the boy was asking the right questions. Perhaps he wasn’t completely clueless.

Beaumont’s hand dropped, and he gazed upward, toward the rounded edges of the upper portion. “Soldier or savior?” he asked suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Flynn moved a step closer.

“St. Michael. Soldier or savior?”

“I suppose it depends on the individual,” Flynn replied slowly. He saw Beaumont smile briefly as though he had found something amusing in his answer. “Why do you ask?” he demanded.

“These panels will tell a story. I’m curious which one it is you intend to tell.”

Flynn’s fingers tightened around the edges of his book. He had no idea. Which, he realized, was exactly the problem. Leave it to a bloody boy to put into words so succinctly what Flynn had been unable to. “I am assuming the clergy and the parishioners would like to see the savior.”

“Hmm.”

“You disagree.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But nor did you agree.”

Beaumont turned from the panels and jammed his hands into the pockets of his baggy coat. “I think St. Michael is both. And should be painted as such.”

Flynn’s lips thinned. “That sounds…cluttered.”

“Cluttered?” Now it was Beaumont who looked unimpressed.

“Yes, cluttered. Chaotic, slovenly, disorderly. Too much going on in a single space. These panels are meant to inspire. Not give the viewer a headache.”

“Funny. I suspect someone said that to Michelangelo when he painted the Sistine Chapel,” Beaumont retorted. “Yet I might argue that it is that aspect which makes it inspiring. Every time you gaze upward, there is something new to be discovered.”