2.8
The sunset muted from crimson to a diffused apricot. Back at the flat, Yvette had arranged her art materials in a row on the sofa. A soft glow infused the room. She gazed at her paints covetously, still stunned by the gift, at once marvelling over the surreal unfolding of her new life in Perth; already filled with chance encounters and good fortune, it had taken on a sort of mythic reality, as if she’d slipped between the covers of a fantasy novel simply through her chosen quest to fulfil a prophecy. She couldn’t fathom the cause of the events. That inquiry seemed to her taboo. She absently stroked her chin, before reaching for the charcoal.
Her preferred medium was oil, but she had so far sketched nothing worthy of the concentration and labour required for an oil painting. Besides,
