Golden hour light is filtering through my studio windows as I stare at the half-carved limestone block—at the half-baked, half-formed thought—that is supposed to be the centerpiece for the Lunel family’s courtyard. The more I look at it, the more I hate it. The more I look at it, the more its raw curves and unfinished details stand out.

I hate it.

I hate it because it is not him.

Nothing my hands ever carve again will be like him, and that is perhaps the worst realization I could possibly have. Nothing will have his eyes, his softness, that perfect curl to his lips.

The more I look at this incomplete, inferior hunk of stone before me, the angier I become. Until I am red inside, until I am burning. I pick up the mallet laying upon my tools cart and swing. And swing, and swing. Each ring of wood against stone sounds like release. It sounds like his name, over and over and over again. Santi, Santi, Santi.

When I finally stop, there is nothing left but a mangled half-statue, edges broken and jagged, sticking out of the block. Light filters through the dust lingering in the air. Pieces of limestone are scattered over the floor of my studio. I grit my teeth.

“Is everything alright in here, Sir?” I turn toward the door to find Arvid standing there, one of the Academy’s custodians and assistants. The hard look in my eyes turns to something more companionable, something more easy. “Everything is fine, Arvid. Just an accident is all,” I say smoothly, locking my bright blue gaze with his earthen one.

“I’m going out for some fresh air and inspiration. You’ll clean this for me, won’t you?” the corner of my lips curl up in a smile, as I brush close to him. He nods obediently and steps further into the studio, already beginning to pile pieces of broken rock off to the side. “Oh, and Arvid?”

He turns toward me, attentive. If only my students were as willing to listen to what I have to say to them. My eyes narrow slightly, “... You’ll tell no one.” I press down the halls of the Academy and out the front doors, into the bright gold evening light.

It takes only a short time to find myself within the city, where I am easily recognized on the street. If not by the school’s benefactors then by student’s families or aspiring artists hoping to one day join. But I know all of them. What I am looking for is someone, anyone, who I do not know.

She is easy to spot, the way that she is practically dancing down the cobbled streets of Terrastella’s court. I know that, whoever she is, she does not see me even though my glacial eyes scarcely leave her. Her face is turned skyward, eyes—eyes which from here I cannot discern the color of—presumably feasting upon everything that they see. The Dusk Court is known for its stone walls and archways, dark, heavy wooden doors, wrought iron detailing. In the spring and summer crawling ivy and climbing roses claim many surfaces.

I don’t blame her for looking. In fact, her awe and wonder are what draw me closer with curiosity. She may not be watching where she is going, but I certainly am. When our skin brushes together and she gracefully steps away, I am already wearing a smile. We are the same height, and looking perfectly into each other’s eyes.

Her eyes—the right is red and the left gold, like the leaves of an autumn tree.

Curling rams horns, a pair of no doubt strong and powerful wings, long, floating feathering. She is dark, like a late autumn night, but burning with points of deep gold. Though I do not know whose, I do know that she was someone’s canvas. An impeccable one, at that. I am quick to spot such effortless work.

“No apologies necessary,” I say, in that voice of mine that is a little bit cloaked, like smoke. In that voice of mine, that reverberates just a little bit in my throat. “It can be difficult to take your eyes off of something so brilliant.” I step back just slightly, as though to regard her more fully.

My eyes observe her with a carefully disguised hunger, with easily presented composure. “My name is Elliot de Clare, madam,” finally I consent to pull my gaze away from her, to turn them toward the buildings that surround us, the equines that pass by. “Is it possible that you’ve just arrived in our fine little corner of the world?”

The way she talks about the city inspires something in me; an old feeling, like an ember returning to flame. Her wonder, her awe, it is almost contagious. I am imagining the expression on her face carved delicately, just-so from stone, so that it might never falter. Might never become jaded, with the realizations of the world.

I want to share her amazement with the world.

“It is quite a feat. The architects certainly knew what they were doing, but it’s the people who made every nook and square their own.” Painting their shutters, their doors, hanging plants from their windows, growing beautiful gardens. It was only a bunch of stone when it was first built, but now, now it’s a marvel.

The sound of my name on her tongue is a brilliant thing, and when she bows I am both impressed and chagrined. She has manners, some class, but I do not want her to bow to me. It is an odd feeling, and one that I’m not entirely familiar with. I smile, a slow curling of my pale lips, as she straightens. “The pleasure is mine, Nicnevin,” her name suits her, and I like the way it feels as it rolls across my teeth, “You have a beautifully exotic name.”

And no, it does not surprise me when she confirms my thoughts that she is a new arrival to Novus and Terrastella. I watch her contemplatively as she tests the word “city”, as though it is foreign and strange. Where she comes from then, there are no stone walls and buildings aching for the sky. She is not the first, but she is the first to appreciate what is here instead.

“I do, yes,” I turn, as though offering her my side; an escort. “Just outside the city, actually. I run a school for the arts, which has been in my family for many years.” I walk slowly, leisurely, so as to give her the chance to look about as she wishes, should she choose to join me. There is a place in the city that I think she would like, that I wish to show her.

“You see, I am a sculptor,” I glance sideways at her, my pale lashes fluttering against my cheeks, “It is why your wonder strikes me so, as you look at the city.” To have someone who so unabashedly enjoys what she is seeing, rather than walking on by. Especially considering some of the statues within the city are his own—well, it makes him want to know her.