Bree drew a deep breath, savoring the momentary solitude. There was a strong touch of fall in the air, though the sun was bright through the window, and a single late bumblebee hummed slowly in, circled the disappointing wax flowers, and bumbled out again.

It would be winter soon in the mountains. She felt a pang of longing for the high rocks and the clean scent of balsam fir, snow, and mud, the close warm smell of sheltered animals. Much more for her parents, for the sense of her family all about her. Moved by impulse, she turned the page of her sketchbook and tried to capture a glimpse of her father’s face—just a line or two in profile, the straight long nose and the strong brow. And the small curved line that suggested his smile, hidden in the corner of his mouth.

That was enough for now. With the comforting sense of his presence near her, she opened the box where she kept the small lead-foil tubes she had made, the ends folded over to close them, and the little pots of hand-ground pigment, and made up her simple palette. Lead white, a touch of lampblack, and a dab of madder lake. A moment’s hesitation, and she added a thin line of lead-tin yellow, and a spot of smalt, the nearest thing she could get—so far, she thought with determination—to cobalt.

With the color of shadows in her mind, she went across to the small collection of canvases leaning against the wall and, uncovering the unfinished portrait of Jane, set it on the table, where it would catch the morning light.

“That’s the trouble,” she murmured. “Maybe …” The light. She’d done it with an imagined light source, falling from the right, so as to throw the delicate jawline into relief. But what she hadn’t thought to imagine was what kind of light it was. The shadows cast by a morning light sometimes had a faint green tinge, while those of midday were dusky, a slight browning of the natural skin tones, and evening shadows were blue and gray and sometimes a deep lavender. But what time of day suited the mysterious Jane?

She frowned at the portrait, trying to feel the girl, know something of her through Fanny’s words, her emotions.

She was a prostitute. Fanny had said her original drawing had been made by one of the … customers … at the brothel. Surely, then, it had been made at night? Firelight, then … or candlelight?

Her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of Angelina’s laughter and footsteps in the hallway. A man’s voice, amused—Mr. Brumby. And what’s he thinking just now? Is he pleased about the battle, or dismayed?

“Mr. Salomon is in my office, Henrike,” he was saying over his shoulder as he came in. “Take him something to eat, would you? Ah, Mrs. MacKenzie. A very good morning to you, ma’am.” Alfred Brumby paused in the doorway, smiling in at her. Angelina clung to his arm, beaming up at him and shedding white powder on the sleeve of his bottle-green coat, but he didn’t appear to notice. “And how is the work proceeding, might I ask?”