He has moved the dusty bed to the far wall and unpacked his few clothes and personal belongings into the tallboy to one side of it. There is a low trestle table, which will serve very well for his artist’s materials, two scruffy armchairs, a full-length mirror, a washstand with jug and bowl, a chamber pot, a tin cupboard with mesh door (in which he is able to store food safe from mice), and a hat stand. Being so sparsely furnished makes the attic singularly suitable for his purposes. It will make a better studio than it will living quarters, but he prefers it that way. It feels workmanlike. Professional. Gives a clear indication of where his priorities lie. He sets up his easel so that the north light will fall upon the canvas it holds and whatever he is painting, and stands back to admire his new domain. It is not hard to imagine what his parents would make of his chosen home. He knows his mother would be appalled at the lack of hygiene, the dangerous stairs, and the general dilapidation of the place. His father, on the other hand, would be aghast at the rowdiness of the children, Gudrun’s manner of dress, and what he would no doubt deem the corrupting morals of the Mangans themselves.

Looking at the pristine blank canvas in front of him, Bram is overwhelmed by the urge to begin, to actually paint. He has been so taken up by the mundane business of settling in, and so distracted by those he now shares a house with, his attempts to start work have been frustrated.

But what to paint? I have no sitter, no subject. Except perhaps …

He hurries over to his stock of paper and pulls out the sketches he made in the graveyard. It pains him to see how inadequate they are, but they are all he has. Looking at them now he can clearly recall the mood of the scene, the sharp shadows, the glare of the sun, the angle of the girl’s jaw as she turned her head away.

And those eyes. The second time fate placed her before me, when she stood outside that shabby house in Bluegate Fields, those eyes shone with such an intensity of color, her skin appeared so pale …

He finds a pin and secures the sketches to the wall behind his easel. Next he takes up tubes of oil paints and selects a limited palette—burned umber, raw sienna, lamp black, chalk white, cadmium yellow—colors he knows will assist him in finding the drama of what he saw.