A few days away from the ball, I was pouring through A Young Lady's Guide to Etiquette trying to minimize my chances of causing a disaster at the ball. I was in the middle of a particularly fascinating (morbidly boring) chapter on using the salad fork when Papa summoned me to his studio. I passed Louis on my way there and shot him a look of death.

"You better not have told him," I hissed.

"Do you really trust me so little?" he protested.

"Yeah, maybe because you almost told him yesterday! And you called me crazy!" I shot back.

"You must admit, it all sounded rather difficult to believe."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to call me crazy!"

"Well, you are a bit crazy!" he exclaimed.

"Ugh! You are impossible. I can't believe I thought you were gonna be like a handsome Victorian Era guy from a BBC miniseries or something!"

"What? What are you talking about?" Louis said, rubbing his temples like he had a headache.

Someone cleared their throat behind me. I saw Louis pale, and I turned around—to face Papa. He was staring at Louis with a disapproving look etched on his face.

"Clara Marie, would you like to come to my studio and help me instead of talking to that boy?" he suggested, lifting one eyebrow, not breaking eye contact with Louis, who was frozen in embarrassment.

"Yes. Yes, I would," I said, glaring at Louis. As soon as Papa turned away, he glared back. I followed Papa, sticking my tongue out at Louis. He rolled his eyes.

As we walked, Papa explained what he needed help with.

"I wanted your opinion on a painting," he began as we walked to the studio. "I know you find painting boring, but your opinion is always useful."

"I'd love to see some paintings!" I exclaimed, clasping my hands together.

"Really?" he asked, looking taken aback.

"Yeah!"

"Alright, then. I'm glad you're excited," he said. He was smiling, but his brow was furrowed as if he was perplexed by my willingness to help. Didn't Clara Marie like helping with his paintings? How could art be boring?

Papa's studio was beautiful. It smelled like graphite and paint. There were canvases scattered here and there, some blank and some partially filled in. A few were in the corner covered by tarp, and golden light streamed through the tall windows.

Papa walked over to the easel.

"It's a bit empty" he mused, "Most of my finished works are at home. I've been having trouble painting here too because I'm used to that studio. This one doesn't have all my supplies and the lighting is different," he explained.

"This is the painting. It just feels a bit empty. Something is missing, but I can't figure out what," he gestured to the easel with a gorgeous painting on it. It depicted some noblewoman in a deep purple dress and a sparkling diamond necklace.

"It was commissioned by Madame Vanessa. She is very well known for her art collection. If she doesn't like the painting, it could reflect very poorly on my art," he ran his fingers through his hair. I hadn't noticed earlier, but he looked stressed. He had dark circles under his eyes and there was a thin look to his face. I hadn't realized this commission was troubling him so much.

I studied the painting. The details were perfect; it was so realistic it could have been a photograph. But he was right. There was something missing. She looked like a statue—a very real one—but a statue nonetheless. Her face was too expressionless.

"She should have more emotion. Make her smile," I suggested.

Papa stood next to me, studying the painting as well, tilting his head with a thoughtful expression.

"You're right," he agreed, "She looks so stiff. I'll fix that later. I had a new painting idea I wanted to work on."

"Can I help?" I asked.

"Of course, if you want to?" he said hurriedly, giving me that same confused-but-happy expression from earlier. "

I didn't know you liked helping me. You've always said that painting was dull," he explained.

"I changed my mind," I said, smiling. I was excited to help him paint. I loved watching art videos on Youtube and going to museums, but I had never tried making art myself before.

"Well, okay. I'm painting a landscape of the forest. I've sketched it onto the canvas already, and I made a miniature copy. Can you mix the paints with me?"

I sat down and started combining blues and whites, trying to mimic the color of the sky. Once I was satisfied with the color, I moved on to the brown of the tree trunks. The texture of the painting was thick, like oil. It was soothing work, stirring the paints and carefully adding drops of different colors in, looking back and forth between the miniature and the jar I was working with.

Papa was far faster than I was; he mixed the color of the snow, the green of the evergreen branches, and the gray of birch trees in half the time.

We talked about random things, and it felt so nice to just spend time with my dad. Once we finished mixing the paints, I wandered around, looking at the paintings. They were beautiful. Portraits of noble people, landscapes of all kinds of beautiful nature, sketches of ornate buildings. I wished I could draw like him.

In the corner, there were several canvases covered by cloth. Intrigued, I walked up to the canvas and pulled the cloth off the nearest one. I stepped back in shock. It was a portrait. A beautiful one. With a very familiar subject.

It was a painting of my mother.