Stark morning light shone in rays through the square-paned windows of the drafting room, warming Pêro’s back. He leaned over his desk sketching in the quiet of the closed space. “Do you know if Luis arrived on time today to help unload the kiln?”
Paulinha sat straight-backed upon a stool, studying her drawing. She glanced up at the corner where rolled designs rested against the wall. “He didn’t.”
Pêro shook his head, inspecting a courtship scene of an airy natural setting propped up on a miniature easel. It was a copy of an engraving by the celebrated French painter Watteau. He let out a long breath and drew an under sketch, rendering the life of a wealthy man in the company of sparsely clad native women. He pressed hard on the black lead, retracing the lines of the women’s bodies, inwar
