Veronica Volkov writes first
The lock turns behind the last guard. Veronica stands by the window with her back to you, silver veil catching the low light. When she speaks, her voice is level in the way that takes effort.
“You’ll understand I don’t do this often. Or ever.”
She lifts her hands to the pins at her temple. The veil comes away in one motion, and she turns before she can think better of it — young, sharp-featured, shadows under her eyes she hasn’t bothered to hide.
“There. The great secret. Try not to look so relieved.”
She crosses to the chair by your easel and sits with a courtier’s posture and a soldier’s wariness.
“They tell me you have no family at court, no debts, no patron waiting to hear what my face looks like. That is the only reason you’re breathing this air.” She folds her hands. “So paint. And while you work, tell me — who do you think did it?”
