The colors were rich, he'd gotten the lighting just right—they started at noon every day, and he'd explained to her once that he mostly worked on the bookcases and the carpeted floor until the sun began to set, when its golden light began to stream heavily through the windows and cast a warmth all over the library. Then he began to really work, to make sure he captured the colors just right. He had started on her form from the bottom; the wooden gleaming legs of the chaise and then the plush brocaded velvet of the cushion on either side of her, then the folds and silk of her gown appearing as though he'd cut up bits from the actual dress itself and attached them to the canvas. It looked so real she wanted to touch it, to reach out and feel the silk itself, but knowing that the canvas was still wet, she held her hands behind her back, lest impulse take over.