Rutledge stood, not waiting for her to respond. He moved to her other side and dropped into a crouch again, reaching for another drawing. This he held up, his eyes flinty in the light. It was her sketch of St. Michael descending toward a void of blackness, extending a hand to a soul reaching up. She’d spent a great deal of time on that one, feeling a deep kinship with both the angel and the soul being rescued. Proof that one could be reinvented. Saved from a prison of purgatory.

“He’s not tending a fire in that one either,” Charlotte said before she could think better of it. “Though I suppose one might argue that, if one were speaking in metaphors.”

Grey eyes met hers over the top of the sketch. “This one is actually quite arresting.”

“Oh.” Charlotte could feel herself blush all the way down to her toes at the unexpected praise, and she averted her eyes, shying away from his assessing gaze. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Beaumont. Because while this one has merit, your other drawing is hopeless.” Rutledge rose and set the purgatory sketch aside on a low table.

Charlotte scrambled to her feet. “You have something better then, Mr. Rutledge?” she asked, trying not to sound like a sulky child, but like a professional. Because in truth, she knew that her sketch of the avenging St. Michael had been less than inspiring.

“Of course I do.” He retrieved a leather satchel from just inside the door and opened it, withdrawing what looked like his own bundle of sketches. He rifled through them until he found what he wanted. He set everything else aside on the end of the table except for a single drawing and then hesitated, a curious expression on his face.

“Are you going to show it to me?” Charlotte asked as pleasantly as possible.

“Yes.” He made no move to hand the sketch over.

“Today? Or should I return next week?”

Rutledge seemed to start. He set the drawing beside Charlotte’s purgatory sketch and stepped back. Charlotte eyed him, but he had turned his attention to the wood panels that still waited, silent and empty.