“You made my hair so pretty.” “I only painted what was there.” “And look at my eye. It’s so big.” “You’re mostly all eyes at the moment.” She gazed at her likeness. “I’m happy my hair isn’t orange.” My pulse stuttered, and my gaze flicked to Ophan Pippa, who was explaining composition to another one of her young pupils. Quietly, I said, “Orange hair is beautiful too. Every color hair is beautiful.” “But Apa has golden hair like me. And he’s the handsomest man in all the worlds.” I smiled. “And you’re the prettiest girl I know.” “No. You are.” My heartbeat slowed as I remembered a time when
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