She stood painting at an easel by a stream in the forest. Her fingers were streaked with flecks of lilac and chartreuse. Her boots were spattered with gesso. Theodore sat nibbling on a cookie, hunching forward on a blanket with his legs crossed, wearing a broad-brimmed leather hat and a pair of wool gloves. Leaves were floating down from the trees. She gazed at the radiant shades of citron and tangerine and vermilion in the leaves, changing colors in the brisk air. The knots in the bark. Clara bent her head, breathing in and then lifting her hands to press her fingers into her neck and breathing out, rubbing an ache in her flesh. She rolled her head on her neck. She could smell the scent of the paint and the leaves and the pungent fragrance of sulfur on the wind. She reached for a paintbrush, feeling a sense of contentment. A beaver was waddling along the stream.