It begins, as so many things do, with a single thought, a feeling, a wish. A vague memory becomes an image implanted in her mind, indelible, unwilling to be forgotten, screaming to be put to canvas, to be brought to life. Materials are found, gathered together, time is set aside, and the work begins.

At first, the pencil strokes across the canvas, the lines left behind barely visible, infinitely unrecognisable except to the one that put them there. Shapes appear beneath that pencil, a guide for the faces, the bodies yet to take shape, the scene captured in thought yet to be captured in life. Had she taken to photography, it would already be done, captured, needing only to be finished and framed, but she does not care for that instant art. No, this piece is to be a labour of love, an offering to one whose presence is becoming as important in her life as family.

A second pencil, softer, darker than the first, replaces that which made those faint, incoherent guide lines, and beneath its tip, a picture begins to form. Eyes, laughing and loving, lips curved in smiles, bodies holding close to one another; all take shape beneath the scratch of that second pencil. The memory is coming to life beneath the hands of the artist.

A few changes, and the beginning is done, the canvas ready to be touched with the inks set aside for that purpose. But she does not raise those inks to the picture just yet. No, she steps back, steps away, seeks other activities, leaving the work to continue another day.

Another day comes, and with it new revelations. Again, materials are set aside, this time with a throbbing heart that will not speak of what it has learned. She cannot share or pursue what little she knows; only make this offering, and hope it will strengthen a bond she has done little to forge as of yet.

A long moment to inspect the pencil lines, and she begins once more. The pen takes on ink, and the work continues, the scene before her gaining colour and life under her critical eyes. Hours are given over to the patient construction of the memory she now treasures, that first insight into something much greater than she could have guessed at. The hands give her a moment's wild panic, when she thinks she may have to start over, but a quiet suggestion from the master under whom she studies rescues what could have been a disaster. Yes, she still has much to learn about the use of shadow and light in her work.

And again, she steps back, steps away, seeks other pasttimes, leaving the ink to dry. Her master says it is complete, that she should not tweak or adjust any further. He says she has accomplished what she set out to do.

The third day comes, and all that remains is for the portrait to be finished, glazed and set aside to be given to the one it was intended for. The glazing brush sweeps over a dirty blond head with cheeky chestnut eyes fixed on a pale face dominated by a sapphire gaze, topped with a tumbling mane of citrine locks; arms wrapped around each other in silent possession of what is theirs; gazes locked in mutual affection. This is the memory she sought so hard to remember, to preserve - the first time she saw her brother in the arms of his sweetie here on RhyDin.

But the gift is not for Devon, not at all. After all, she only needs to look at him to know that he needs no reassurance of affection or ability in his life; he is as he is, confident and not easily swayed from a course once he is set on it. But the sweetie ....she worries for the girl, for the fragility she has seen, the troubles hidden behind the deep blue eyes. She has not seen her with anyone other than her brother, and thinks, perhaps, the little ingenue might welcome an offering of friendship.

The little canvas, one foot squared, the glaze dried and shining, sealing in forever that precious memory, is lovingly packed in soft paper, tied with string, and set aside to be collected at the end of the day.

And soon, perhaps, she will give it to the one it was made for, in the hopes of building a friendship that will last through all trials and troubles.

This labour is not one entrusted to her by her master, or commisioned by some art lover who wishes to see the talent of an emerging artist. No, this is her own choice, her own work, her offering of peace to parents who made mistakes and now wish to see them rectified.

The picture is set up beside her work place, still admired by those she works with, by journeymen, masters and apprentices alike. They are still reeling from the surprise of finding their cheerful, bubbling AJ married and pregnant, and this photograph of that significant day when Drake became Ryan brings them to stand around her as she works.

She has a mistrust of this instant art, understanding its convenience, but inwardly bemoaning the lack of time and love that go into its creation. Which is why her pencil is moving across a virgin pale sheet, recreating the pose, the movement, the joy of the photograph with infinite care.

She does not know when she will have a chance to give the piece to the ones it is intended for, nor the accompanying piece she intends to create for the parents of her husband. But it has to be done. They offered her peace and she accepted; now she must return that offering.

Her back aches from the position in which she sits, and when she stretches, her burgeoning pregnancy presses against the edge of the table. The master catches her weary sigh and comes to her side, sending her home for the day, not wishing to see her tire herself overmuch in her 'delicate' condition.

The next day, and she returns to the piece, examining it intently, wondering if she should add colour or simply leave it as this simple black and white piece. The question is put to her master, and he offers a suggestion that perhaps not true colour, but the watery fillings of sepia-coloured paints would be best applied here.

She is wary; it is not a medium she has attempted before with any degree of success. But he stays with her, offering suggestions and advice, not performing the work himself, but teaching her how to apply her vision as she works. And he is right; that gentle caress of yellowed paint seems to bring out the bittersweet joy of the piece.

It is set aside, to be glazed and framed when it is dry, and she turns to continue her work on other projects. But her gaze wanders back to the photograph, and the portrait she has created from it, often bringing a smile to her lips. Perhaps now this would all become easier, with peace offered on both sides.