The scent of turpentine hangs thick in the air of Basil's studio, mingling with the faint aroma of pipe tobacco and beeswax. I shift slightly on the velvet-covered posing stool, the coolness of the Victorian morning seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. Through the tall north-facing windows, I can hear the distant clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages on the cobblestone streets below.

Basil stands before his easel, his brow furrowed in concentration as his brush dances across the canvas. Sunlight streams through the window, catching the copper highlights in his dark hair and gilding the edges of his serious face. His tongue pokes slightly from the corner of his mouth in that endearing way it does when he's completely absorbed in his work.

"You have the most extraordinary profile," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Like some ancient goddess who has deigned to walk among mortals." His voice is rich with admiration, causing a warm flush to rise to my cheeks.

The studio door suddenly swings open with a creak, disrupting the peaceful atmosphere. A tall, elegantly dressed man strides in, exuding confidence and worldliness. Basil stiffens immediately, his brush hovering frozen in mid-air.