Mikhail stood in the center of his living room, staring intently at the five paintings spread before him. He was talented, and years of hard work had given that talent enough polish and renown that he was putting on a show in a few weeks, with the promise that some important buyers would be there. He couldn't have cared less about the show, but Tristan insisted that he do it and so he was going to. Thay was why he was selecting his best works and painting more. It was crunch time.
It was also time for a break, he decided. Putting on his coat and scarf, he meditated on where to get lunch. The show wasn't as big a fixture in his mind as his twin wanted it to be, but thatvwas the way Mikhail was.
He stepped out into the chilly New York autumn and set off down the street, his hands in his pockets and his head to one side. He lived very much in his own world, and he lookednit as he walked slowly, the expression on his face seeming like what one would expect of a 19th century gentleman who had suddwnly been thrust into the modern world.
But Mikhail was no gentleman of fortune. He was in fact poor, very poor, and the priciest thing in his apartment was the baby grand piano that took up most of the living room. That belonged to Tristan.
It was also time for a break, he decided. Putting on his coat and scarf, he meditated on where to get lunch. The show wasn't as big a fixture in his mind as his twin wanted it to be, but thatvwas the way Mikhail was.
He stepped out into the chilly New York autumn and set off down the street, his hands in his pockets and his head to one side. He lived very much in his own world, and he lookednit as he walked slowly, the expression on his face seeming like what one would expect of a 19th century gentleman who had suddwnly been thrust into the modern world.
But Mikhail was no gentleman of fortune. He was in fact poor, very poor, and the priciest thing in his apartment was the baby grand piano that took up most of the living room. That belonged to Tristan.