I could tell from the work on Tiara's drawing board, that something had
happened. Like everything else in her studio, the drawing board was
disturbingly neat. It was made of a light wood. Highly polished. Placed
beside a window which overlooked a shared courtyard. The words and the
images in the unfinished work pinned centrally on the drawing board were
small and delicate as always. But the blood and flames she had been
painting with watercolors seemed as if they were trying to escape from
the miniature format, and a feeling of despair permeated the words she
had written.
Knowing Tiara, she will never tell me why.