The lounge was crowded as usual, but Cal claimed the corner table and pulled out her sketchbook. It had been far too long since she had put pencil to paper.
Her fingers hadn't forgotten their skill. She put the patrons on paper. The older gentlemen drinking whisky and playing cards. A woman Cal guessed to be Crysabel's mother, looking around with a faint frown. The servers dancing between tables placing a drink there, a plate there. They all wore smiles, real ones, as Meireka had said.
Pentam and Crysabel came in and sat, leaning toward each other as they talked. Cal's pencil flew across the paper. Her art never lied. Cal looked at the finished drawing and wiped tears from her eyes. She should be happy for him. She was happy for him, but damn, it still hurt. Sir Shillingsworth walked into the lounge with the aid of a cane. Cal picked up the pencil again. Pentam waved him over and introduced him to Crysabel. Her father greeted them, and at their urging sat with them.