she leaned against a marble column, watched the careful movements of her brother’s hands, thought back to years ago. A dimly lit art studio, she and her brother side by side. Their parents had signed them up for so many classes—art, music, more—in the endless quest to make them well-rounded individuals, to discover their passions. Irene had gotten bored of art class quickly—she had never liked anything she did not excel at—but Will had picked up a paintbrush and the hours had disappeared. For almost a year, she had kept going back with him, painted still life after still life of the same bowl
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