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“Yoo hoo!”

Snapping open her eyes, she peered in the direction of the voice. Her gaze fixed upon a lady standing in front of an easel, paintbrush in hand. Tucked between two large bushes, the elderly lady appeared fragile in comparison, but her bright smile belied her appearance.

Angel hastened forward. “Oh, good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Stone?” She slowed her steps as she took in the lady’s appearance.

Though wearing a beautiful printed gown edged in delicate lacework, the lady’s head was uncovered and her hair wild about her face. A pointed lace collar rose about her neck and was smeared with red paint, creating a grisly image. Similar streaks of varying colors spoiled the delicate printed flowers of the dress.

The lady waved a paintbrush at her, sending splatters of paint in Angel’s direction. She ducked them, mouth agape.

Mrs. Stone smiled broadly. “Do you like to paint?”

“Well, I—”

“I certainly hope so. It is a fine talent for young ladies to have, and there is nothing more charming than watching abeautiful young lady painting.” Mrs. Stone unfurled a hand and beckoned to her.

Angel placed her fingers in hers and allowed herself to be tugged over to view the painting. “Oh.” Angel tilted her head to eye the painting. “It is—”

“Yes, yes. It is excellent.” Mrs. Stone waved a hand, sending more paint splatters about. Several plopped onto Angel’s lemon-yellow gown. The lady did not seem to notice nor care. “But tell me what do yousee?”

Scowling, Angel studied the floral composition and compared it to the flowers in front of the easel. Mrs. Stone had used unusual colors, instead of replicating exactly what was in front of her, and there was something even more odd about it—as though each petal and stem was out of place and yet exactly in the right place.

“I see…um…distorted beauty..?” She swung a questioning glance at Mrs. Stone.

Mrs. Stone chuckled. “It’s flowers, dear.”

“Well, yes, of course.” Angel felt heat tinge her cheeks. “But, er…”

“Are you any good at painting, dear?” Mrs. Stone peered at her through a narrowed gaze, her faded blue eyes sparking bright for a brief moment of curiosity.

Pursing her lips, Angel shook her head. “I am afraid to say, I am not. My mother despaired at my lack of talent as a girl.”

“You must have had a terrible teacher.”

Angel thought back to poor Miss Hill who struggled to handle Angel and Minerva. Though Minerva was not deliberately ill-behaved, she preferred reading to taking lessons and could be hideously precocious as a child. She had grown out of being precocious for the most part, but her sister still adored books over anything else.

As for herself, well, she found it hard to stay still for long at all. After all, there were so many things in life to entertain. Who in their right mind should wish to remain cloistered in a single room, reading from books and attempting to paint a still life from a dull arrangement of flowers when there were so many other things to do?

“I think she tried her best.” Angel shrugged. “Perhaps I am unteachable.”

Mrs. Stone made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. “No one is unteachable. After all, art is in the eye of the beholder. You see distortion. I see the wildness of this earth, demonstrated in this fusion of color.”

The old lady waved a hand back and forth, and more paint flecked from the brush. Angel blinked when one wet splotch landed on her cheek, but she had no chance to rub it off as Mrs. Stone thrust the paint brush into her hand.

“Do not think of the rules.” Mrs. Stone picked up a blank canvas and switched it with the painting of flowers.

Angel grimaced at the expanse of empty paper then looked to Mrs. Stone, whose expression brokered little argument. This old lady was going to be harder to look after than Angel thought. She’d anticipated a tiny, wrinkled old prune of a thing who would not be able to leave her bed and Angel would be forced to spoon feed her soup or play endless games of whist.

Well, Mrs. Stone was certainly wrinkled. And she was tiny. But liveliness governed her movements, even if they were stiff on occasion, and passion sparked in her eyes.

“Paint with your heart.” Mrs. Stone pressed a boney hand over the organ in question. “Forget what governesses have said, what books have taught you. Paint with abandon, for there is no other way to live life.”

Angel would have taken the time to agree with her new charge but a persistent hand to her back urged her forward, andthe brush struck the paper before she was ready, leaving a thick blue mark in one corner.

“There, that is an excellent starting point. Just remember, nothing in art is wrong,” Mrs. Stone informed her.

Swallowing, Angel lifted her gaze to the flowers in front then dropped it back to the seemingly endless blank space in front of her. “I—”

“Paint,” Mrs. Stone urged.