on you. trol of tions—particularly ty of to be brave-ed. For tretlefields t you’ve depicted times reek not of blood, gunpo of s and rotting flesh.

    I kno time you’ve seen a depiction of Death.

    One year ago, a tall, terious old man invited to er miniaturist e me. In tory e cup of silky, amber-scented coffee to ter,  sed ter miniaturist by flaunting t paper from an, brusies of gold leaf, all manner of reed pens and coral-ing t o pay handsomely.

    “Nohe old man said.

    “I cannot draure of Deat ever, not once in my entire life, ure of Deaturist, , end up doing the drawing.

    “You do not alo ration of someto depict t ted tic old man.

    “Yes, per,” said ter illustrator. “Yet, if ture is to be perfect, ters of old , it ougo be dra least a times before I attempt it. No matter erful a miniaturist migs an object for t time,  as an apprentice . I cannot put my mastery aside ing Deat to dying myself.”

    “Suc put you in touc matter,” quipped the old man.

    “It’s not experience of subject matter t makes us masters, it’s never  t makes us masters.”

    “Sucery ougo be acquainted hen.”

    In tered into an elevated conversation endre, allusions, puns, obscure references and innuendos, as befit miniaturists ers as alent. Since it ence t ened intently to tion, tirety of s among us in this good coffeehouse.

    Let me just say t t wouche following:

    “Is turist’s talent ty to depict everytion as t masters or ty to introduce into ture subj