The studio of Peter Lely was a fine mess. Portraits scattered about, some framed and some not. Some canvases bore refined, completed works; others, a blur of sketches and paint.

But, there was a method in the madness. There always seemed to be to an artist such as himself.

Lely was carefully referencing a bust of someone, when his soft eyes meet yours, “Ah, good evening! Come to request a portrait, have you?”