Fiona put brush to canvas. If anyone was watching, they’d probably think she was in a trance. It did feel like that to her some days. This wasn’t even her creation. This was Damien’s vision, but she could share it. She could reap the pleasure she derived from painting it. He wouldn’t. Which brought her a certain amount of satisfaction.
What he would reap would be the money he’d receive from selling it. None of which would be passed down to her. She’d heard that other artists gave the actual painter a commission.
Not Damien.
She’d love to go out on her own. What if she wasn’t good enough? What if she didn’t have her style and someone accused her of copying Damien’s style? He was a bright star in the Philadelphia art world. She’d be ruined before she started.
Stepping back, she admired what she’d done then looked over his notes again. “That should do it.”
She glanced at the gargoyle. “Well, Declan, what do you think?”