Chapter 63
The next morning.
Seren woke early to find, as usual, that Lennon was nowhere to be seen. All that awaited her was the familiar breakfast and a note.
After she finished eating, she made her way to the study.
Even though her work was done and there was no need to go to The Antiquarian’s Gallery, she kept to her daily routine of practicing the fundamentals. Mastering a craft, after all, relied not only on talent but perhaps more importantly-on relentless practice and discipline.
Mid-practice, Seth called. Quentin had brought Old Mr. Shepherd over to inspect the painting, and Seth asked if she could come by the gallery, too.
Without hesitation, Seren hung up and headed out.
Arriving at The Antiquarian’s Gallery, she stepped into the reception room and immediately spotted Seth, conversing with an elderly gentleman.
The man wore a tailored suit with a waistcoat and gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His hair, slicked back to perfection, shone under the lights-each strand meticulously in place. He exuded the air of a retired statesman: dignified, quietly commanding.
At that moment, he was wearing gloves and holding an oversized magnifying glass, scrutinizing the painting Seren had just completed-Peaks Piercing the Spring Clouds-on the easel.
Beside him stood Quentin, hands folded obediently at his sides like a schoolboy, his usually mischievous, wandering gaze now fixed straight ahead.
Seren could easily guess the man’s identity.
Quentin’s grandfather, Old Mr. Shepherd.
Seren didn’t interrupt his inspection. She exchanged a glance with Seth and Quentin, then quietly waited by the wall.
Seth’s expression was unusually serious. He trusted Seren, but in this world, some clients were notoriously hard to please always looking for flaws, no matter how small.
Quentin also glanced at Seren. Old Mr. Shepherd was known for his discerning eye and exacting standards-most people simply couldn’t meet them. Even though Seren was the direct protégé of Mr. Shaw, Quentin knew she’d spent three years in the Powers family, her skills left to rust. Three years was a long time to be out of practice.
But Seren was calm, utterly composed. Whatever the verdict, she knew she’d done her best.
Old Mr. Shepherd meticulously examined the painting, magnifier moving up and down, left and right, missing nothing-not a single detail escaped his scrutiny.
Half an hour passed before he finally set down his magnifying glass.
He adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, a look of genuine admiration crossing his face.
“I’ve seen dozens of copies of Peaks Piercing the Spring Clouds over the years,” he said, “and most capture only the surface flesh and bone perhaps, but none of the spirit. This one, though-this one has it all. Form, soul, and a spark of something greater. A true
masterpiece p>
Paintings, in his view, fell into four ranks: competent, skillful, inspired, and transcendent-the last being the rarest and most prized. Old Mr. Shepherd had
just given Seren’s work the highest possible praise.
Seth let out a silent breath of relief; clearly, Old Mr. Shepherd was a true
connoisseur, not a difficult customer out to find fault.
Quentin stared at Seren, stunned-shocked, even.
He’d been surprised enough when Seth told him Seren was Mr. Shaw’s only disciple. But today’s
demonstration surpassed anything he’d imagined Seeing was believing
and now he’d witnessed Seren’s ability firsthand.
His grandfather’s collection of old masters was legendary, filled with rare and priceless pieces, yet the old man had rarely ever called a painting “transcendent.” Part of that, of course, was his particular fondness for Peaks Piercing the Spring Clouds, but even so, Serens skill was beyond question.
Quentin couldn’t help but wonder-how blind and foolish had Sheridan been, to
let someone as talented as Seren slip away?
Old Mr. Shepherd slipped the magnifying glass into his pocket and finally addressed Seth. “Didn’t you say you’d called the artist here? Is she here yet p>
Seth gestured toward Seren, palm open in polite introduction. “Old Mr. Shepherd, this is Ms. Seren-the artist herself, and the well-known disciple of Mr. Shaw p>
Old Mr. Shepherd’s brows shot up in surprise.
He’d noticed Seren, of course-a young woman, clear-eyed and quietly striking, with a spark of intelligence in her gaze. He simply hadn’t made the connection: the artist he admired was this unassuming girl.