Isabelle had an art book open in her lap. A steaming mug of coffee sat on the small table next to the cushioned chair she was sitting in. Her hair was worn loose today, a mass of wild dark waves parted down the center and framing her bent head. She licked her finger, turned the page and refocused.
She'd been around long enough that she'd had plenty of time to study the various forms of art in the world. She had traveled enough to witness many of the more famous works all over the world. Yet she still tried to better her knowledge base by reading different books on art. She also practiced her own art on a daily basis. What use was an art teacher who wasn't an artist?
Her legs were crossed beneath the long linen skirt, and her feet were bare, her ballet flats nearby, tucked against the chair she sat in. All in all, she looked rather comfortable in her seat near the window. There had been no one in the lounge when she was looking for a quiet place to read, but she'd read quite a bit now and was starting to get a restless feeling. She dog-eared the page she was on and closed the book in time for the door to open.