Marianne sat by the window—her window. The little ivory stool she occupied was situated next to a canvas stand.
"Straight strokes, Maria," she said in a commanding tone.
The maid maintaining the statue garden nodded. "Yes, Miss."
Marianne turned away from the window. The sunlight was nice, but the sloppy work of the servants wasn't.
With a steady hand, she stroked the canvas with her brush.
The finishing touch.
It was sacred to her and her father.
She took the complete picture and hung it on the wall, covered with paintings of a unique nature.
And her latest one wasn't any different. It was an oil painting of her and Charles—of him sinking in the soft embrace of her bosom.
She was dressed in a white dress, and he wore a black suit. Thorned vines climbed up his figure. All the while, their expressions remained neutral.
The lines, the curves, and the colors—they were all rather surreal.
Marianne appreciated the painting without batting an eyelid.
The scene transitioned.
