The atelier smells of oil and fumes, and specks of paint coat every wooden surface. Paintings of purple hued dragons and lush forests hang on the chipped walls, each baring their own price tag. All except the paintings under the white covers.

My hands move in delicate circles, occasionally looking over at the young woman across me as I trace her onto the canvas. Her eyes, heavy with makeup, convey a sense of longing, and she wears only a silk wrap adorned with pearls. Most often these commissions are sought by ladies in search of suitors. They place the paintings above the fireplace, hoping to catch the eye of an admirer drawn to their pretty eyes or charming legs.

Sometimes, when these women grow desperate enough, they offer to gift me a portrait of my own. "You're young enough," they say, as if they're debating whether a local artist would suffice. I never accept, though. Not when I can't seem to capture their likeness on a canvas correctly.

The roundness of the girl's face and the slightness of her brows don't transfer onto the canvas. Instead, my hands conjure a hollow face, a girl with blue-green eyes, a slightly smaller nose, and larger teeth. It's not her at all.

“May I see it?” The red headed girl asks, unmoving.

I'm at a loss for words, uncertain of what to tell her. In truth, I don't know what I expected. It’s not as though I’ve painted a face correctly in weeks.

“Lady Ophelia” I say, my words struggling to form. “My sincerest apologies. Perhaps we can finish our work another day?”

Ophelia's lips form a disappointed frown. "You've been saying that for weeks," she complains. "You haven't finished anything! Not anything at all!"

Internally, I sigh. "Yes," I concede, handing her the dress she arrived in. "If you could grant me just one more day to resolve these issues."

Ophelia sticks her nose up in the air, annoyance evident in her stare.

“It better be worth the wait” she sneers.

“Of course.”

I accompany her to the door and shut it tight, keeping out the falling snow.

I've grown accustomed to these fits of frustration, weeks when I can't seem to paint anyone but her. My studio is strewn with dozens of canvases of varying sizes, each one cut and painted over. I can't bear to see her face—her beautiful, haunting face.

I throw the paint brush to the side, letting my limbs go limp on the divan.

Then, there’s a knock.

“Ophelia, I promise I’ll finish it soon” I say, one long hand over my face and the other dismissing her with a wave.

“Pardon me” an unfamiliar voice says.

I swiftly get up, my gaze fixed on the door, and all color drains from my face.

There she stands. Her eyes like the ocean, stare terrifyingly familiar. I hate her, though I don’t know her. Hate her for appearing in my most frequent nightmares and fantasy’s. Hate her for the way my heart yearn to know her.

“Can I assist you?” I say, trying to keep my face indifferent.

Her brows rise inquisitively, unaware of whats on the canvas. “You can” she says matter of factly.

The girl takes out wrinkled paper, revealing a poorly done drawing of…me?

“Who in the heavens are you?” She demands to know. “And why can’t I get you out of my head?”