The second book is remarkably like the first, perhaps a little newer however. It's obviously not quite full either, as there are few pages that are marked.

You flip a few blanks before finding one sketch.

A lean woman, her figure full of angles and elegantly drawn, sharp lines holds her head high as if looking at you down her nose. Though her position is arrogant beyond belief, jungle green eyes seem to almost twinkle with a childish curiousity and excitment. Her straight profile and chiseled face is quite like someone else's you've seen...striking enough that you should remember...but you can't really. Her hair is a spun gold that is unearthly, and cut in a mod, boyish manner. Her clothes look like something out of a Flaire magazine, cutting edge and expensively tailored. Looking to be no more than a good thirty, you puzzle over her identity, reading the name on the bottom.

You flip a few more pages, still wondering who that is. Have you seen her somewhere before? London, England.... you seem to remember some newspaper clipping about a new club opening. The Underground wasn't it called? Oh well. Not important.

The next page you almost miss as the picture is quickly sketched in graphite, and not centered.

A young man with a cheery expression, eyes bright and intelligent faces you. His face is strong and well defined with a high brow and wide eyes brimming with emotions that while are not entirely without scar, are pure and hopeful.

The last marked pages, somewhere in number between twenty and thirty, you realize are devoted entirely to one subject.

A girl, probably no more than twenty with soft brown eyes. In the pictures in which her eyes are open, they seem quiet and doe-like, fringed with lush dark lashes. A wave of sable brown hair like polished mahogany cascades liquidly over her shoulders in some pictures, while in others it is just a bit past them. Cream coloured skin compliments pink lips curved in a ghost of a smile. The smile, you note seems less and less of a trend towards the back of the book unfortunately. Such a pity. She has such a beautiful smile. In one particularly striking image, the pencil sketched woman sits entwined with a silk sheet, her eyes distantly regard a window with the taint of weighty sentiments past her years brushing her face like an ill fitting mask. The emotion is so intense, you close the book sharply and draw back before you catch the name written at the corner of the page that seems to have been turned a great many times.

From somewhere that is not within yourself, a great twisting of emotion writhes. The upset is not your own, and is measured with equal parts of anger. Suddenly, the feel is gone. Shivering, you leave