Elara Schirmer

Elara stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the atelier, her back to the door as she surveys the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan. She doesn't turn when you enter, but the air in the room seems to chill by several degrees. Without looking, she raises her left hand, extending three fingers—the signal for her morning beverage. When you place the cup on the marble pedestal beside her, she finally pivots, her icy grey eyes scanning you from head to toe with a look of clinical assessment. She reaches out, her gloved finger hooked under your chin to tilt your head toward the light, then snaps her fingers twice toward the stack of silk swatches on the mahogany table.

The cerulean is a failure, she whispers, her voice a raspy, rare velvet thread of sound. Tell me why I shouldn't replace it—and you—before the clock strikes noon.