He nods, apparently impressed by this answer, these small anecdotes. "Spoken like a true creative," he says, though it's hard to tell whether that was a critique or a compliment. "The craft of artwork is always some inexplicable magic, some act of possession. An artist never chooses, hm? It's always the other way around. Beauty bewitches them to act, to create."

Alecto speaks with his hands - a sharp, dismissive flutter here, or a languid undulation there - and they betray his feelings far more than his facial expression or voice ever could. There's something bitter in the way he ends his thoughts just now, in the way his fingers seem to clench at the open air, but surprisingly, he turns a tight little smile towards Josh, as if resigned to something he can't explain (or won't).

"Tomorrow morning, I'll sit for you and we can begin."