Eiluned had a suitcase, a sketchbook, and hole in her shoe when she arrived in London. Well, those and the conviction that she belonged in Bloomsbury. Proper artists would appreciate her work, the way that nobody in Shepton Mallet ever did.
A year later she had a tiny attic room, more sketchbooks, holes in both shoes, and the suspicion that her work might never be properly appreciated. But as she sat working at the Trimble’s one evening, a woman’s voice behind her said, “That’s rather good.”
Eiluned looked up, and the speaker smiled. “Hello. My name is Sylvia. What’s yours?”