Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Not that I would actually do it because a promise is a promise. Not to mention, I’ve already sunk money into advertising it as it is.
I plod into my office and pull up Friday’s emails. Everyone knows that anything hitting your inbox after three o’clock Friday is a Monday problem. I update the website, make a couple of calls, and send a polite reminder to the local newspaper about Friday’s big event. And I do all this while keeping an eye on my little charge.
She’s a dream, really. Though she does pull some funny faces while she’s concentrating, I think as I glance over at her. Daisy kneels on a cushion, drawing on paper we’d pilfered from the printer after she’d decided she needed a proper plan—and a practice run—before tackling the canvas and easel. She looks like Raif in a certain light, despite their coloring being night and day.
“You’ve been busy.” Primrose closes my office door behind her. She drops to her heels, picking up one of Daisy’s abandoned efforts. There are at least a dozen attempts at various castles and landscapes. “I like this one,” she says, examining a pink stoned castle.
“Don’t.” Daisy pulls the paper from Prim’s hand. “That one’s no good.” She sniffs, all sad eyes. “But I’m sorry for snatching.”
“No worries,” Prim answers, touching the little girl’s head. “I like it, anyway. Here’s your choccy milk.” With a theatrical whisper, she leans in and says, “Better drink before Lavender gets a whiff of it. I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but she’s been known to punch people for chocolate milk.”
This, at least, brings a smile to Daisy’s face.
“All right, Queen Grimhilde?” Prim says, pulling my coffee from the cardboard holder.
“Hardy-har,” I mutter as I take it from her outstretched hand. Only she would think calling me Snow White’s step monster’s name is funny. “Sugar?”
“Nope. I decided you’re sweet enough.” She rolls her eyes. “Zoe knows your order. You think she’d do you dirty?”
“Not Zoe,” I agree, bringing the fragrant cup to my lips. “But you might sabotage it.”
“Not by forgetting your sugar. Flicking boogers in it, maybe.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
We both fall quiet as we sip our coffees, watching the little girl stretched out on the floor.
“She’s a little intense, isn’t she?” Prim says in a whisper.
“I’m not sure intense is the word. It’s more like she’s… I dunno. Tightly wound?”
“Why do you think that is?”
“She’s had a rough start.” I’d already explained to Prim why she lives with Raif. “A parent dying kind of picks your world apart.” It certainly did mine.
“Yeah,” Prim agrees, peeling off the lid of her drink. She blows gently on it. I know she also lost her dad, but I’m pleased she doesn’t remember that time like I do. It’s little wonder Whit behaves like a mother hen, pecking at all of our heads. Lord only knows what would’ve happened without him because Polly’s world wasn’t picked apart. It imploded.
“I can’t do this!” Daisy throws down her pencil, curling herself into the smallest shape. Head pressed to her bony knees, she hugs her arms tight around them. “I can’t. Because I’m stupid. Stupid. Stupid!” She begins to bang her head on her knees, spurring Prim and me from our shock to motion.
“Don’t do that, lovely,” I say, rounding the desk. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not. I can’t do it because I’m so, so stupid!”
“You stop that,” Prim says softly. “No girl on earth is stupid. That’s for boys to worry about, not us.”
I slide my sister a look, and she shrugs, sort of like have you got anything better?
And the answer to that is no. No, I do not.
“You are absolutely not stupid. You’re the opposite because this one is lovely,” I say, picking up a random drawing. And it is. I don’t know much about kids or their artistic abilities. I also don’t really know much about art, which is weird for a person who owns an art gallery. But what I have is an eye—or so I’m told—an eye for the commercial. For the kind of art that sells. My issue is getting people through the door in the first place.
Anyway, this is a seven-year-old’s drawing, but I see the care in it. The beauty, too. I pick up another. “This one is good as well.”
“They’re all rubbish,” Daisy says on a whimper.
“Well, of course you think they are,” I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her tiny frame into my side. “Because you’re an artist. And artists are very, very hard on themselves. They want perfection. But you know what?”
She looks up at me with those big blue eyes and shakes her head.
“Perfection is overrated. Finished is much, much better.”
“But how can it be finished if it’s not done right?”
“That’s just the way it is. Perfection is pretty much unobtainable—you can’t make anything perfect, I mean. Because what is perfect?”