It was an old truth: don't be deceived by appearances.

 Genevieve had heard it before she was even old enough to speak, and long before she was old enough to realise that it was indeed truth and not just world-weary cynicism. Her mother had taught her always to paint with those words in mind, but as the years went by, Genevieve had amended the adage for herself.

 Don't be deceived by appearances, but don't disregard them either.

 "How long have you belonged to Pursang?"

 She adjusted the young woman's position, her attention only half on the question. "I've worked for the Furies for nearly thirty years. Shoulders back, please, and sit up a little straighter."

 The girl obeyed, but with a stiffness that told Genevieve she was used to resisting orders rather than following them. Well, if rumour held any truth, that was no surprise. "I couldn't find your name in our records."

 "Oh no, you won't," she answered, used to this conversation: she'd had it several times over the decades, in one form or another. "I'm not one of you, as such." She swept back the girl's hair, arranging it over one shoulder so the pale expanse of her neck was bared. A hint of vulnerability, she thought.

 This portrait, Genevieve had decided, would be a little different from the last two. After all, this young witch didn't have the hard, clean looks of Bane Malefici, or the exotic mannerisms of Telerana Orage; no peacock, this one, nothing but an ordinary girl in rather unusual circumstances, and that was what she wanted to highlight.

 Genevieve always made an effort to find out about her sitter before she began any commission. Such attention to detail had elevated her above other artists who painted only an image; she wanted to capture the essence of each person in paint, revealing personality in colour and line.

 What she had learned about Chatoya Irkil had been pieced together from a dozen brief conversations and gossip, but practice at sifting through such dross had given her the information she wanted.

 They use three words when they talk about you, every one of them. And whether they speak with scorn or admiration or bemusement, they always say the same thing.

 "Sorry?" The girl's eyes were narrowed, reduced into dark green bars. "What do you mean?"

 "I don't belong to the Furies," she explained. "I do work exclusively for them, because of the nature of my talents, not to mention the long-standing agreement between us-"

 "And which agreement might this be?" Chatoya interrupted, her voice quiet but firm.

 Outsider. That's the first word they used, and I see a softness to you I have seen in no other Fury. By the time they reach me, their training has scoured any frailty from them, and I am left to paint empty faces and calculating eyes; they put a price on everything, and always set it too low.

 "An artist from my family has worked for the Furies since the sixteenth century. As a witch yourself, you can understand that one has an affinity for certain aspects of the craft. For some, it's stones, for others weather or potions, and such traits tend to run true to the bloodline. In our family, we have always been strongest in drawn magic and earth. A distant ancestor combined the two and created our...unusual artwork."

 Chatoya nodded, interest lending a brightness and curiosity to her eyes Genevieve found refreshing. "Unusual how exactly? Everyone I asked seemed reluctant to explain."

 She smiled sourly, used to such reactions. "I make all my paints myself from the most natural ingredients I can find, and I enchant them at the same time. Spells for truth and revelation, for power and protection, but with a few additions which are personal to my family. I also cast several spells on the canvas, with the result that when the painting is complete, it...changes."

 "Changes?" queried the girl, her mouth soft with confusion. "It moves?"

 Genevieve sighed. "It's a little hard to explain. Everything I paint will remain static and largely immutable, but often objects or people appear in the background, or perhaps on the subject. They represent major influences on your life. Perhaps events of significance, or people who will become close. More often, the things that tend to appear are omens or reflections of your nature. Because of this, only myself, the subject and the heads of the Furies are allowed to view the painting."

 There was a mix of wonder and fear in Chatoya's voice. "It sounds something like the Beltane ceremony."

 "I believe one of the spells is adapted from that," she acknowledged. "Unfortunately, the nature of the painting is less straightforward. What appears on the painting is just as likely to be symbolic as it is literal, and whether past, present or future is anyone's guess. The subject is best suited to know, which I assume is why your members must review their own portrait each year. Tiresome, but it keeps me in business."

 The girl frowned. "I have one or two I'd like to look at."

 "Of course. After we've finished for today, I'll be happy to take you to the archives." Genevieve frowned down at her. "You've lost your pose again. For goodness sake, child, don't slouch so!"

 The girl tried to stifle her smile, hastily schooling her face into an expression of solemnity, but Genevieve found herself struck by that moment of mischief.

 She'd never seen a portrait painted with a smile, had she? Genevieve racked her memory, mentally flipping through the hundreds of pictures she had seen. No, sober as a judge, all of them. It would make a pleasant change.

 Change: the second word all those Furies had used. The first witch to run the Furies in several centuries, and the only one who had ever dared rob a dragon of its powers and keep them for herself. A girl who didn't look on death with a jaundiced eye, who knew little of violence and dispassion but far too much of mercy.

 "On second thoughts," she murmured, eyeing up the girl. Yes, a long face, rather bland without a little animation. She didn't want the girl to appear a dullard. "Yes, I think a smile might liven up the picture a little. No, no...wipe that ghastly grin off. You're Pursang's head, not the village idiot."

 "The two seem synonymous at times," remarked the girl.

 Genevieve thought it wiser to ignore that comment. "A small smile. Demure. No teeth. Hmm. Better. Try not to look as though your face has frozen like that."

 "It's hard," Chatoya muttered through her fixed expression.

 "So's life, child. Now, hold still - remember, shoulders back, knees together, one hand on the arm of the chair, back straight, head up and don't look at me like that, it'll look much better than it feels."

 She examined the girl one last time, swallowed by the dark wooden chair that had held so many other Furies. The high back arched around her like a throne, and gave Chatoya Irkil the air of a queen. Command in the hand clenched on the arm, but a feminine pose, and with those dark eyes half-lowered and that promise of a smile hovering on her mouth, there was something just a little sultry in the expression.

 Perfect, Genevieve decided. No one can fault my vision.

~*~

 "Done. For today, at least." Genevieve put down her brush, satisfied with what she had done. The girl had been a good subject, despite her initial twitchiness.

 Chatoya eased out of the chair, grimacing. "Is it still all right to see some other paintings...?"

 "Of course. Which were you after?"

 "Two. Therese Orage and Blue Malefici."

 ~*~

 Most of the paintings were stored away, but the leaders of the Furies were hung up on the wall of the converted warehouse where Genevieve did most of her painting. Wide skylights threw down the last of the day's light, gleaming on the two pictures.

 Chatoya gave a small gasp as she stood in front of them, and when Genevieve snuck a glance at her, the witch's face was blanched, her body hunched and tense.

 Telerana was stood, half-turned away from the observer. But her dark eyes were watchful, full of an arrogance that Genevieve had experienced every day of the wretched girl's sitting. However, she suspected that wasn't what the girl was looking at; after a moment, she too turned her eye from her own artistry to see what magic and Telerana's experiences had done to the portrait.

 She didn't recognise the boy in the background, but his wistful smile and pleading eyes spoke to her of a humanity either kept close or never lost - the former, she guessed, from the blood on the hand he had raised in appeal.

 "Rob," said Chatoya, so softly Genevieve almost missed it.

 "Do you know him?" she said.

 There was regret in the girl's face. "He was a friend. Once."

 Fled or dead, decided Genevieve. That's what happens when you tangle with the Furies.

 Chatoya turned to the other portrait, and this one, she stepped closer to as if it drew her.

 In truth, Genevieve found herself repelled by the picture. She had never painted anyone quite like Bane Malefici, whose very stillness seemed a prelude to violence. She thought she had captured something of his coldness in the stern mouth and narrowed eyes, which gazed directly at her, yet his was the only portrait where she felt she had failed. It was a pallid reflection of what he truly was, diluted down to colour and form, empty of the personality that had chilled her so.

Simplicity, she had decided, was the best backdrop for his startling appearance. Genevieve had found an old speckled mirror and hung it on a wall, then stood him slightly behind it so his reflection was trapped in the mirror, but softened and muted by the dusty glass.

When he had seen the painting, although he had said only, "Extremely proficient," Genevieve had felt she had been accorded a high compliment.

"Do you like it?" she had said, more out of courtesy than anything else.

"I admire it," had been his baffling answer. That had been the last she had seen of him until last week, when he contacted her to comission this painting.

One or two changes to his portrait. Dual golden pinpoints in the gloom at his feet; a ring on his hand that she hadn't put there. And the lines of his shadow were wrong - it was still a man's shadow, but it was not the one she had painted. Intriguing.

 But there, in the mirror behind him - that wasn't his reflection.

 Genevieve stared. But the image she had painted was gone: instead, it was Chatoya Irkil who was reflected back, as if she and Bane Malefici existed in different worlds, each lost in the looking-glass.

 "What do you mean to him?" she said before she was even aware the words had left her.

 Chatoya twisted around, and the look on her face was far older than Genevieve expected, full of a grief that she couldn't understand. And another emotion that she could. "Everything and nothing," Chatoya said softly.

 Love, thought Genevieve. That's the third word they use.

 And the truest, I think.