Dana was stunned, another aspect of his character having just appeared unexpectedly. It was an aspect of unworthiness, as if in this one place in their house, Ariel was absolute ruler, he an interloper; and Lucien now had nothing but disgust for the memories her painting studio gave him.
Shaking off the surprising moment, Dana went about the room, excited to view yet another of Ariel’s inner sanctums, the most intimate of all she would suspect – that place right at the heart of the woman’s convoluted psyche. It was in form like most artist’s studios, a random, eclectic disarray of easels and tubes of oil and brushes. Under drop cloths there were canvases that had never been framed and likely never seen by anyone but Ariel, and perhaps her husband. Though she almost doubted that by his res
