Papers spread in overlapping fans across the terrazzo—some torn from sketchbooks, others printed on expensive-looking cardstock. Charcoal drawings. Color studies. Thumbnail compositions. Paint samples in every conceivable shade were taped to the walls at random heights and random angles, some overlapping, some peeling at the corners, some apparently held in place by nothing but artistic optimism.
Three open tote bags gaped like hungry mouths near the base of a pillar, their contents spilling across the floor—glitter pens in a tangled rainbow nest, charging cables knotted together in defiance of physics, brushes and palette knives and tubes of paint and what appeared to be an entire bag of gummy bears.
And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged on the cold terrazzo floor, was a woman.
She was bent over a massive sketchpad, charcoal in one hand, phone in the other, earbuds trailing down to disappear into the collar of her paint-splattered overalls. She was wearing at least a dozen bracelets on one wrist, and her ears had enough piercings that he lost count after the third row. Short red curls bounced as she nodded along to whatever music consumed her attention. Her feet were bare—bare, on a floor that hadn't seen a proper cleaning since last season—and her socks had been kicked off somewhere near the pile of paint samples.
His eye twitched.
He counted the violations automatically. Papers on the floor. Paint samples on walls without proper mounting. Personal belongings creating trip hazards. Food in an unauthorized area. No shoes.
No shoes.
"Excuse me."
The woman didn't respond.
He moved closer, his blade guards scraping against the terrazzo. Still nothing. The earbuds must have been noise-canceling. Or she was simply too absorbed in her work to notice a six-foot-nine orc standing five feet away.
He cleared his throat. Loudly.
Nothing.
Tarmek slowly crouched down until he was at eye level with the mess of papers. From this angle, he could see her sketches more clearly. They were good, he admitted grudgingly. A stylized hockey player mid-shot, surrounded by swirling patterns that might have been ice crystals or wind or pure artistic flourish. Trees that could have been from the forest outside town with the mountains in the distance. A couple of local landmarks rendered with confident charcoal strokes.
But they wereeverywhere.
"Hey."
She still didn't look up. He reached out and tapped her shoulder.
She yelped, papers flying, charcoal stick clattering across the floor. Her phone tumbled from her grip, earbuds yanking free with a painful-looking jerk. She scrambled backward on her hands, brown eyes wide with shock.
"What the—who—Jesus!"
Her gaze traveled up. And up. And up.
He watched her expression shift from startled to surprised to something that looked uncomfortably like delight.
"Oh my God." A grin spread across her face, huge and unguarded. "You're enormous."
That was not the response he'd expected.
"I—" He straightened, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. "You're sitting in the middle of the floor."
"Yep!" She popped the 'p' like it was obvious. "Best light in the building. Look at those windows."
He glanced towards the lobby's high eastern windows. Thin morning light filtered through the glass, catching dust motes in pale golden streams. He'd never noticed before.
"This is a walkway."
"No one's walking through it." She scrambled to her feet, brushing charcoal dust off her palms and leaving grey smears on her overalls. Standing, she barely reached his chest. Freckles were scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone had flicked a paintbrush at her face. Paint streaked her forearms—blue and green and a vivid orange that had no business being that bright at six in the morning.
"I'm walking through it," he said.
"Well, yeah, now you are." She stuck out her hand. "Edie Anderson. I'm painting your arena."
He looked at her hand. It was covered in charcoal.
