05-29-2020, 01:31 AM
Little in others every truly surprised Thalia, but the nature of the joke rose both brows before genuine laughter spluttered. If he hadn’t been the Pope it might have earned him a poke in the ribs. “Then it’s fortunate you didn’t come all the way from Rome for a mirror.”
She trailed after him back into the cool hallows of the church, pushing the hat back off her head where it slumped limply against her back. Someone offered a glass of water, which she accepted out of politeness more than anything. With a number of sketches clasped in her other hand, and the stick still wedged underarm, she was becoming quite encumbered in a somewhat awkward way. She shuffled to dispense at least her bag on the floor by one of the pews, negotiating a little chaotically until she only held the water.
His observations of the work drew not much more than an amused hum of laughter. She’d already told him the work pulled through her, not from her. Her entire living revolved around her art, and she survived on it, but the compulsion was such that it claimed so much time that it wasn't exactly a vocational choice so much as a necessity. There was often little passion, and she felt no great pride -- certainly not enough to be stung by the assessment. One only had to observe the crinkled pages and peppered fingerprints of blood to realise she was careless with the pieces. And on the other hand, he did spend a not inconsiderable amount of time frowning at each one.
“Hmm. Well, I had been thinking to make a gift, but perhaps it would be wasted.” Had they been in less public view, she would have cheekily plucked the sheet currently at his perusal from grasp, but as it was the tease remained in expression alone. The invitation did not go without note, which probably accounted for the rest of her grin. Not that she was particularly excited about mass, which she expected to be rather boring. “You’re probably right,” she agreed easily. “So I suppose I shall.”
She trailed after him back into the cool hallows of the church, pushing the hat back off her head where it slumped limply against her back. Someone offered a glass of water, which she accepted out of politeness more than anything. With a number of sketches clasped in her other hand, and the stick still wedged underarm, she was becoming quite encumbered in a somewhat awkward way. She shuffled to dispense at least her bag on the floor by one of the pews, negotiating a little chaotically until she only held the water.
His observations of the work drew not much more than an amused hum of laughter. She’d already told him the work pulled through her, not from her. Her entire living revolved around her art, and she survived on it, but the compulsion was such that it claimed so much time that it wasn't exactly a vocational choice so much as a necessity. There was often little passion, and she felt no great pride -- certainly not enough to be stung by the assessment. One only had to observe the crinkled pages and peppered fingerprints of blood to realise she was careless with the pieces. And on the other hand, he did spend a not inconsiderable amount of time frowning at each one.
“Hmm. Well, I had been thinking to make a gift, but perhaps it would be wasted.” Had they been in less public view, she would have cheekily plucked the sheet currently at his perusal from grasp, but as it was the tease remained in expression alone. The invitation did not go without note, which probably accounted for the rest of her grin. Not that she was particularly excited about mass, which she expected to be rather boring. “You’re probably right,” she agreed easily. “So I suppose I shall.”