Jasmine wiped her hand across her eyes. Perhaps it was out of her reach, but she was going to give it her all and go down fighting. If she wasn’t good enough, it wouldn’t be for want of trying.
It was already three o’clock. Only a few hours left so she needed to make the most of them. She pushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears, and reached for a pencil. Taping a clean sheet of paper to her easel, she moved the easel in front of a plaster cast of a fragment of intricately folded robes from which two feet emerged; the upper body was absent. Jasmine set to work on a new drawing.
On her third drawing, Jasmine had lost track of the time, until the caretaker arrived to tell her there was a black man waiting outside. His expression was dubious. ‘Shall I tell him to leave
