The Printmaker's Daughter [antikvár]

Jntoöcátctióh, tő the tfhôtf TTeyt.you! You with the big chin! Oei!" JL JL He's calling me. I dont answer him. Nötyet. I dip the tip of the brush in the irik bowl. I let it sink. I lift it, turn it, and press it down into the ink again. Then I lift and tap. I press it against the edge of the bowl, twisting so ink beads at the tip of the bristles and then drops back into the small, stili, dark pool. Again I press the hairs of the brush into the ink, flattening the bulb against the bottom of the bowl, rolling it. "Dont press so hard!" the Old Man barks. I bare my teeth. "Shut up, Old Man." He laughs. Thinks he's distracted me. But my hand is zealous. To spite him I press for one full minute. I lift the brush from the bowl. It is not dripping, not full, but fully moist. I hold it over the paper, balanced in my fingers. I raise and lower it, ever so slightly, giving it breath, and then touch the point to paper. I begin the fine, fine lines of the courtesan's nape hair. That which he has no patience to do, and no steady hand.