Her body was sore and her face stiff and aching from hours of sitting motionless opposite this cock-sure dandy; she wanted greatly to move and dance round like a child. The wine glass in her hand would provide little relief for it contained only water.

She watched the artist who stopped occasionally to tweak some of this equipment cluttering the room. The other gentlemen huddled in a group behind the artist, occasionally muttering to themselves. These were strange ones indeed; grey hooded robes covered them from head to toe, no god-given features showing. Never speaking out loud, never directly addressing anyone but the artist. She felt like furniture.

Her eyes flicked to snatch respite from the open window. The cinnamon sweet calling card of spice merchants on the street below wafted under her nose and the honking of geese on the distant lake took her and she momentarily forgot her discomfort and she shifted her bottom involuntarily.

She was dragged back to the now by a howl from the artist, who slammed down his palette and stalked over. The other gentlemen followed. He got to her, roughly grabbed her shoulders and pulled and pushed her back into her painful prison pose.

He stopped and looked at the others. Their faces, hidden by cowls, whispered back at him. Their voices the susurration of wind through mountain passes. The artist nodded and walked back to the easel.

After an interminable age the sitting ended and she was able to move, she did so, slowly. The dandy rose and held out a hand which she gladly accepted. The artist, looking gaunt and tired, came over and paid them. She felt drained.

The gentlemen crowded round a glass fronted box to the far end of the room. They turned and saw her watching. As one they raised grey slender hands and pushed back their cowls, their black oval eyes shone with the reflection of the afternoon light.

She screamed and fled the room.

The female figure in the glass box, hands pressed against the glass silently screamed and began to beat the screen in terror.