And the longer Karina sat in the beam of her gaze, the more she sensed Louisa’s inwardness, the hermetic quality of her mind, the elusive way she glided through the world. Karina watched her—the shifting landscape of her face, the pinched skin between her eyebrows, her mouth tightened in concentration, the thin, strong shoulders, the quick hands. And Karina wanted Louisa to touch her the same way she was touching that painting, gentle one moment and rough the next, smearing the paint with her fingers, working herself into the canvas.
