Carrying them over to the desk, I nudge my sketchbook aside so I can pile the books next to it, looking over the titles. I'm not sure if they'll be useful or not. There's one for figure drawing, and I kind of feel like it wouldn't matter to the Impressionists because it's not so much about getting everything right as getting the right feeling. I like that about them a lot. It would probably be a lot easier to evoke the intended emotions if the people in the pictures didn't just look like disproportionate blobs drawn by a kid, though.

"Thanks," I says, a little grudging as I turn to look at her. "That shelf will do anything not to help you out, huh?" Including help me instead.