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LILY
I wakethe next day with a new determination in my bloodstream. Nero heads into the office, making me promise to keep Kyle close as my new official bodyguard, leaving me in our bed, watching the sun stream through the windows. My words from last night echo, and I turn them all over in my mind.
For the first time, I’m owning my choices. I’m not a helpless victim here. And if this is my life, then I need to ask myself: What do I want? It’s easy to focus on the physical with Nero, our passion is overwhelming, but it goes much deeper than that. I have a chance for a future here. I could maybe find real happiness, and I’m not just focusing on my relationship with Nero when it comes to that.
Back before all this drama started, when I could allow myself to dream, there was more that I wanted for myself. A home, a career, a chance to pursue my passion… That got lost under the mess of Witness Protection, and then the years in hiding, scraping by to support Teddy.
I thought my dreams were out of reach.
But what if they’re not?
* * *
“And if you’llcome this way, I can show you the new digital media wing…”
My heels click on the polished floors, as I follow my guide down the hallway. My nerves are tangled in my stomach as I look around at open doorways, revealing classes in progress and studio space. It only took a quick call to Marissa to get be connected to a woman she knows in the Alumni office at the Newton School of Art, a school just a couple of blocks from Washington Square Park. They’re a college-level program, but they have a massive extended education program too, offering classes on everything from portraiture to sculpting- and digital media.
The school had always been on my dream college list, back when I was in school.Now, as I walk the halls, touring the buildings, that same sense of possibility sparkles in my veins.
“Is there a particular discipline you’re interested in?” The woman asks, friendly.
I gulp, self-conscious about my lack of experience. “I… Well, my background is in painting. Oils, watercolor. But I’d love to learn new things.”
“Well, we take an interdisciplinary approach here,” the woman says. “We encourage you to sample classes widely and experiment out of your comfort zone. You never know what new media you’ll connect with—or how those new skills can broaden and enrich your core work.”
“That sounds amazing.”
She shows me around the photography department, with an incredible exhibition on display. Plus the ceramics studio, the lecture halls, the library…. The facilities are state of the art, and I know that I can learn how to be the best artist possible here.
Ifthey accept me.
“But, since your passion is canvas…” my guide pushes another door open and beckons me inside. “This is probably where you’ll be spending your time.”
I walk inside and look around. The space is large and open. There are empty easels set up everywhere in a semi-circle around a large platform.
“Hello?” a voice says, and I turn to see a woman emerge from a washroom in back.
She’s wearing a navy apron with paint splatters all over it. Her brown hair is pulled back, and her eyes are the color of honey. She looks so familiar, but I can’t place her. I’m sure we’ve never met.
“Oh, Professor Keene,” the tour guide says, seeming flustered. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know you were here.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” the professor says. She has a kind smile. “I’m just cleaning out the paintbrushes and palettes. People tend to underestimate how important it is to keep everything clean in a paint studio,” she adds, with a teasing grin. “It can ruin an artist’s day when the muse strikes, but they have to stop to prepare their equipment. I often wonder how many great pieces of art have faded into the ether because an artist couldn’t hold onto inspiration while washing out their paint brushes.”
I laugh. I like this woman.
“I’m Lily,” I say, giving a small wave as the woman wipes her wet hands off on a towel.
“Miranda Keene,” she replies, and my jaw drops.
Now, I know why she looks familiar. Miranda Keene is a huge name in the art world. Her paintings are beautiful.
“The Miranda Keene?”
She’s chuckles. “Probably not the only one in the world, but I am the artist, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
Of course, she is.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t realize the teachers here were, well, like you.”
