This wasn’t Renoir, but who owned a Renoir these days? The artists worth their salt were shut up in museums or rotting in the basement of some nameless person’s home. Dom was warming a glass of brandy in the palm of his ringed hand as he studied the copy before him. He hated brandy, but wasn’t going to refuse something this expensive, especially when offered by the lady of the house.
He tapped his rings against the glass, a subtle noise to interrupt the quiet of the room. He couldn’t stay long, he had places to be, people to raise. Practice made perfect after all. The moment Sera walked into the room, he turned to look at the young lady, regarding her much like Caius would. He wasn’t dense, he knew exactly why she’d walked into the dining room with as little as she could get away with. He allowed himself a wry smile as she approached, holding the glass out to her.
It would change to something more appropriate to her age if she took him up on his offer. One of the perks of being a witch. The last thing he wanted was Anthony after him for giving his daughter alcohol.
“Think your dad knows that the Renoir is a reproduction?” He inquired, his attention shifting back to the painting. “He’s a smart man, of course he knows. I’ll have to bring something new over. Magda hates everything I paint. If it isn’t a family portrait, it isn’t up on the walls.”