For three years, the paintings had been stacking up against the walls of Rhys’s studio. Mostly landscapes: the Preseli Hills under lowering skies, the Teifi estuary at low tide, the Pembrokeshire cliffs captured in thick, honest brushstrokes. Everyone agreed they were beautiful. The bank statements confirmed they were unsellable.

The Bwthn Colony had eight members left. There had been twenty, once.

She walked in on a Tuesday in March, her bright American accent cutting through the warm, sharp smell of linseed oil.