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Chapter 1

The tap-tap-tap of heels on the studio's stone floor could distract a deaf man. Nolan Adaire wasn't deaf—just annoyed.

He leaned back, stretching muscles sore and stiff from so many hours in front of the canvas. Most days he worked at home where he had all the peace and quiet he needed. When the art studio in town advertised a six week class with Joseph Mayfair, he'd decided he could put up with other people for a bit. The opportunity to work with someone like Mayfair didn't come very often in a man's lifetime.

The problem? Mayfair had brought his daughter Kateri along.

Not that she did much, aside from sulk around the studio, hands in her pockets, glowering over shoulders and wrinkling her nose at canvases. The noise came from her boot heels as she stalked from one end of the room to the other, her body language screaming boredom and disdain. To think she used to be the most amazing young artist in the world, Nolan thought, smothering a snort. To think he used to admire her, used to be more than a little in love with her.

The tapping stopped behind him. He held his breath, trying not to squirm even though it felt like her gaze went right through him. Something tickled his neck as Kateri leaned over his shoulder to peer closely at his work.

The scent of peaches washed over him. He scooted sideways on his stool, away from her, from the long hair that brushed his cheek. It was dark brown, almost black, and it hung in wild waves all the way down her back, like she just didn't care how long it got or how it looked. She wore a slouchy gray hoodie, her hands shoved into the pockets like she couldn't bear the thought of touching him.

"Can I help you?" he asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

"No."

He clenched his teeth. She continued to study his work, her teeth scraping over her lower lip, her brows furrowed in thought. She shouldn't really be so pretty, he thought, studying her face. Her nose was longer than was usually considered suitable for classic beauty, her cheekbones strong and sharply defined, her eyes almond shaped but a bit too large. He liked looking at her to a degree that disturbed him.

She glanced at him once, her eyes gray-blue like a cloudy sky. Then she straightened and walked away.

Before Nolan could feel relief, Kateri's father appeared at his shoulder. Joseph Mayfair studied his work with an expression similar to his daughter's.

"Too rough around the edges," he remarked after a moment. "It's sloppy."

"It's bold," Kateri responded from where she stood, studying the art of the woman next to Nolan.

"Boldness isn't everything, sweetheart. Technique is important. It should look like it was painted with his hands, not his feet."

Ouch, Nolan thought. He studied his painting with a critical eye. Maybe Mayfair was right. The man knew his stuff, after all.

Kateri straightened abruptly, jerking upward like someone had pulled her puppet strings. She shot her father an indecipherable look before stalking away. Mayfair shrugged and patted Nolan on the shoulder, then headed in the opposite direction.

Nolan sat for a moment, confused. Then he shrugged and picked his paintbrush back up. Once upon a time he'd admired Kateri; her skill and passion was unrivaled in the art world for several years. The operative word being was. One day she stopped, just up and quit without a word of explanation. The rumor was that the pressure had become too much for her. He didn't care about the reason; he hated quitters.

And boy, had that feeling proven mutual.

He sighed and leaned forward, getting back to his work. The first day of class he'd made the mistake of asking her why she quit. Now he usually didn't bother talking to her. He wasn't fifteen anymore, wasn't the boy who'd fawned over her and her art like some teenage boys fawned over bikini models. Now he had his own career to focus on.

---

It's going to rain today, Kateri Mayfair thought, chafing her hands against the insides of her pockets. Again.

Lovely. She hated rain. When she was younger she'd go outside in the middle of thunderstorms and dance. Now she huddled indoors, her hands tucked beneath a heating pad that did only so much to keep out the ache.

She shifted her weight, sliding down off the stool she'd perched on for the last hour. Time to head home, before the rain came in. It wasn't like she could help very much with her father's classes. She didn't even know why he asked her to come along. Once she'd been his darling, the apple of his eye—cliché though the phrase might be. Hard to believe, considering their relationship for the last few years.

She paced slowly across the studio floor, glancing at canvases. Most of them painted like her father: classically beautiful in a way that would make Renaissance masters proud.

But Kateri's gaze was drawn, as usual, to Nolan's canvas. Everything he did, be it the ethereal delicacy of watercolors or the simple lines of charcoal, had a boldness to it. The colors were rich, the lines broad and sharp. Rough around the edges? Certainly. She still wished more of them worked like him. Most days it felt like staring at a cookie sheet full of gingerbread men: appealing, but in the end all the same.

As if he sensed her presence, Nolan turned to look at her. She froze. Kateri always wondered about him, about the bronze undertone to his skin and the dark red-brown hair that curled wildly in every direction; he looked like even his DNA wasn't sure where it came from. Especially since his eyes were a clear, deep pine green. He kept his unruly hair out of them with a ragged old bandana.

For a moment she stood there, thinking about what it would feel like to run her fingers along the hard line of his jaw, to feel the scrape of stubble against her skin. Then she realized he was staring at her quizzically and turned away, flushing.

She hurried out of the studio. Her driver Robert waited for in the parking lot, leaning against the large black car and eating a doughnut. He smiled when he saw her, the same 'I feel sorry for you' smile she got from everyone in the know. Which is like, a dozen people, give or take, she thought. Her parents, Robert, her physical therapist, her parents' maid and cook, the head of security at her apartment building, a few others.

Robert opened the back door for her and she slid inside. She sat, staring resolutely forward, as he helped her with her seatbelt. Technically she could do it herself, but threatening rain made it more difficult.

Kateri remained silent the whole way home. She only murmured a quiet thank you when Robert dropped her off outside her apartment building. Keeping her hands in her pockets, she nodded to the doorman, smiled stiffly and hurried past him. Though she knew he suspected something was wrong with her, he never offered her help, not after the first time. No one did. They left her to struggle with the elevator buttons and the keys to her apartment on her own, just as she wished.

Upstairs, in the safety of her apartment, she finally pulled her hands free of concealment. She leaned against the door and stared down at her fingers; they looked like an old woman's, knobby and crooked. They ache like an old woman's, too, she thought, pushing away from the door. She could still do most things—hold eating utensils, clean herself, brush her hair, anything mundane—but the delicacy needed for painting and drawing? That was gone.

"Wouldn't be so bad if they didn't hurt so much," she muttered. Then she sighed. "Yeah, like I believe that."

She left her keys on the kitchen counter. Kateri kicked off her sandals, letting her bare feet sink into the plush carpet. As she padded across the living room, something on the coffee table caught her eye.

It looked like a laptop, though the casing was a soft, almost bridal pink. She peered at it, noting the swirly silver writing on the top that proclaimed it a 'Virtual Canvas'; not a brand she'd ever heard of. God, not another one of these things, she thought, flopping down on the couch. The highest of high tech art computers already sat in her closet gathering dust. She suspected her mother sent them in some misguided attempt to encourage her.

"Geez, mom," she said, flipping up the top of the laptop. "Pink? Really? How is that going to change my mind?"

It looked like any normal laptop, not like those high tech things. Yet it startled her by turning on even though she hadn't pressed the power button.

While it booted up, she stared off into the distance, remembering. Being in the studio made more than her hands ache. She watched the other artists with longing and tried not to hate them because they could still paint. She tried not to knock heads with Nolan, even though he regarded her so disdainfully. Unlike the others, she remembered him. For a few brief seconds when she first saw him again, she thought maybe this class would be better because she knew someone. And then he'd asked about her work, about why she'd stopped, and the look in his eyes...

"Hello, Kateri."

She jumped. Her heart thudded loudly against her ribs as she looked around for the source of the voice. One hand reached for the coffee table, for a heavy pewter ashtray that she never actually used. How could someone get in her apartment? The security on this building was fantastic; she'd made sure of it before moving in.

"Ah, no. Over here, my dear. Look at the computer, Kateri."

Slowly she turned her head, still gripping the ashtray as tightly as her ruined fingers allowed. The computer screen was mostly blank except for the figure of a man. That is a man, isn't it? she thought, leaning closer. With his androgynous features and snowy white hair, it was a bit hard to tell.

"What?" Kateri said, staring.

"It's lovely you meet you," the man said with a smile. "Shall we get started?"

"Um. What?"

"Oh, yes, how silly of me! My name is Icelos. This," he spread his hands, "is Virtual Canvas. Are you ready to begin?

"Wow." She shook her head. "Mom's gone above and beyond the call of duty this time. It even knows my name. Now that's some crazy programming skills."

"I resent that," Icelos muttered. "Kateri dear, I'm here to help you. With this computer you can—"

"I don't care. I'm not interested in these things."

"But—"

"And I mean, geez. This one doesn't have a stylus or anything. What am I supposed to do, stare at it real hard?"

"Use your hands, of course," he said, frowning. "My, you are the difficult one, aren't you? Here, touch the screen."

Icelos stepped to one side. The screen next to him turned white. Touch screen, huh? Kateri thought. Damnit, why am I even talking to this thing like it's a real person?

Icelos smiled at her encouragingly until she rolled her eyes and reached for the screen. As soon as her fingertips touched it, black spots appeared like drops of ink. She jerked her hand back in surprise.

"Well, it's a start," Icelos said. "Now, as for color..."

While she stared in astonishment, Icelos clapped his hands briskly. Two faint clicks sounded; paper-thin panels ejected from either side of the keyboard. No way, Kateri thought, watching blotches of color appear on one of them. Just ... no way. Had screens that thin even been invented yet? She didn't think so.

"Touch it to make it scroll; that's how you access more colors. If you want to mix them, you need to do it on the palette panel on the other side. Go ahead, try for yourself."

There was simply no way that could work. But curiosity a hold of her now and she reached for the color panel, pressing her fingertips against a spot of pale rose pink. As soon as she touched the palette panel, that color appeared there too. Fingers shaking now, Kateri selected a bit of black and transferred that to the palette panel as well. With a bit of swirling she produced an oddly rosy shade of gray.

She stared again. Where did mom find this one? she wondered. Maybe dad ... But no. Her father hadn't made this sort of effort in years. Why would he start now?

"Very good," Icelos said, interrupting her thoughts. "Why don't you see what it can do? I can go off screen but still be here to answer any questions you might have."

"Do?"

"Yes. It's for art, Kateri. Obviously. I could explain everything, but it's better if—"

"I know what you meant. I just—I don't do this sort of thing anymore. I can't."

She held her hands up to display them before she remembered this was just a computer. With a sigh she let them fall back into her lap. Kateri knew she was lucky. With her parents' money and the best doctors available, her hands were in better shape than she had any right to expect. She just wished she could bring herself to believe that.

Icelos cleared his throat. She looked up at the computer screen. Small though he was, he seemed so real, right down to the impatient way he propped a hand on his hip and tapped his foot. The eeriness of it sent a shiver down her spine.

"My hands are no good for that sort of thing anymore."

Icelos canted his head. "Perhaps you're right. Or perhaps you aren't. You haven't actually tried using Virtual Canvas yet."

"It's not the same."

"Oh, pish tosh. Who cares about that? Give it a try. What have you got to lose, anyway?"

Kateri opened her mouth to protest—and promptly realized she didn't have a very good argument. Nothing better than "I don't want to" at least. That was the reason every time her mother tried to goad her into making another attempt. But I do want to, she thought, biting her lip to hold back tears. I want to so much. But it's not the same, it's never the same. The feeling was lost to her for good.

An image flashed in her mind: Nolan's canvas with its bold, intriguing strokes. They were so rough and her father criticized him for it often, but Kateri found Nolan's work beautiful in its own way. Nothing she'd ever done had possessed that sort of audacity; her paintings and drawings had all fallen under the category of classical and elegant.

Oh, what the hell. I really don't have anything to lose. She leaned forward and touched a color, a rich shade of purple. When she pressed her fingertips to the screen, the purple appeared there too in a heavy blot. Annoyed, she pulled back.

"What if I want to start over?"

"Just say so," Icelos said, "and I'll erase what you've done. Alternatively you can tell me to strike the last line or curve or whatever. Like this."

The purple spot disappeared. So did Icelos, leaving behind only blank white like the surface of a canvas.

"Um ... Ice?"

A sigh. "Please don't call me that."

"Sorry," Kateri muttered distractedly.

She was already examining the color panel for another selection. She pressed her fingertip down and slid it sideways—and indeed, the panel scrolled, revealing more selections. Kateri chose a dusty blue, wondering if she could get a similar effect like she'd gotten from the rosy pink. It ached her fingers a little, this kind of work, but before long she was too absorbed to notice the pain.

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