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which smelt of linseed oil, as her deep velvet brown eyes assessed her work-in-progress. She looked taller than her five feet eight, possibly because she had that particular kind of slender build that made her seem willowy. At only twenty, she carried herself with the confidence of a much older woman, but a smattering of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose like impudent childish memories. Men found the combination irresistible. Not that she ever noticed male appreciation.
    From the age of five, her ambition had been to break through the male-dominated world of painting to become a respected, noted artist. She, therefore, had little time or inclination to pursue such feminine things as trendy hairstyles, fashionable clothes, make-up or men. It would have annoyed many women to see how she wore the old canvas smock as if it were a designer original. Her skin, the fair, creamy pale colour of camellias, didn’t need cosmetics. Her hair, a Titian cascade of rich auburn which had never felt a hairdresser’s scissors, would have made an advertising mogul drool.
    But Frederica had eyes only for her latest canvas.
    It was a depiction of a semi-detached house on a council estate, poverty-stricken and lived-in. The bumper of an old car was in the foreground. A satellite dish was on the wall of the next door house. A cat slept on the roof of the porch. Nearing completion, even a novice could tell that it was extremely well-painted. The cat was black-and-white, and Frederica was just in the process of giving it whiskers. It was so real that anyone looking at the painting could almost hear it purr out loud. The liquidity of the bones, the upturned chin, were so . . . feline. It was an hour before Frederica finally stepped back, looking at her work, wondering if it really was good, or if she was only fooling herself. She removed the smock, glancing at her watch as she did so.
    It was Friday, and she had no tutorials until the following Monday, so she left, trotting lightly back down the stairs. In the Hall, a first-year student stopped, his eyes lighting up. Tim Gregson was good-looking—and he knew it. All dark hair, grey eyes and flashing grin. ‘Hello there, gorgeous.’
    Frederica gave him a good-humoured, if slightly jaded, smile.
    â€˜Fancy coming with me to check out that new Jazz club?’ he asked, leaning as close to her as he could get without being obvious about it.
    Frederica took a hasty step back. ‘No thanks. Busy.’ She quickly cast about for something to take his mind off his libido. ‘How are Prelims going?’ she asked softly, and watched his face tighten in apprehension.
    The three-year Bachelor of Fine Arts course at the Ruskin was divided into distinct stages—the first year being the hardest, for it was then that every student had to pass exams in no fewer than six disciplines—Painting, Drawing, Print-making, Sculpture, Human Anatomy and Art History. In the second year, students chose one or two areas to concentrate on. The third year was then taken up with building a body of work for the Final Degree Show.
    Tim Gregson gulped nosily as he contemplated exams. ‘Oh, all right I think. It’s the Drawing I’m worried about. Sculpture is more my line.’
    Frederica nodded, not without sympathy, and managed to slip away. If she’d been paying more attention to the notice board she would have noted the imminent arrival of a Visiting Fellow—the eminent art expert and gallery owner, Lorcan Greene. But she didn’t see it, however, and instead strolled back to St Bede’s.
    Situated just off St Giles, St Bede’s was a large college, with three big student residences. As she made her way to her pleasant room in Walton, overlooking the Fellows’ Garden with its impressive silver birches, she began to smile. Life was looking good. She was on her way. She had all but waltzed through her Prelims, and had no doubt about her choice of future