Verity sighed as a loud growl was heard from the next room, along with the inevitable sound of ripping paper.

"Fuck this," mouthed Verity absently, mimicking the tantrum brewing next door.

She raised her eyebrows and got up, padding across the floor in her comfy socks to stand in the doorway, viewing her cousin with amusement. The room was untidy before, but now it was littered with paper. Ross sat on the couch, his hair askew, his grey jumper full of chalk marks, his jaw tight.

"What was that? Your fourth try?"

"Tenth," he corrected moodily, crossing his arms like a toddler.

"Awww, poor Rossy Wossy," she cooed, laughing as she walked over to the kitchenette, putting the kettle on and taking out two large mugs, "maybe you should have a word with your tutor and get him to extend your deadline."

"I already did that last week, he gave me till the end of this week and I'm still fucked."

"I wish I could help you, but I'm elbow deep in my own paper."

"Oh, yeah! What is it….something about….liminal spaces? I heard you use that word."

He leapt into action and rummaged in the fridge for a small bottle of milk. He made a face and opened it, sniffing it cautiously before handing it over. Verity yawned and took it from him, trusting his judgement since it was too late at night to be worrying about milk. With any luck, it'd give her food poisoning and she wouldn't have to hand her paper in.

"No, it's about artifice and reality," she pointed, cocking her fingers around the words sarcastically, "It's a posh way of saying things aren't quite what they seem."

"Novels?" he asked inquisitively, ripping open a pack of custard creams and leaning over the island as she stirred sugar in their mugs.

"Lolita and Venus in Furs," she handed him a mug in the vague shape of a Roman Coliseum.

"That book by Sacher-Masoch? I loved it, that was one of the best novels I've ever read. I swear, if I wasn't doing art, I'd be in the English Department," mused Ross as Verity placed herself down next to him after pushing some scrunched up paper balls onto the floor.

"You'd better clean all of this up yourself. What's wrong, what's the problem?"

"The problem is me, Verity. Why can't I draw? I've found models and I've done research just like I did for all my other assignments, I don't know what's gone wrong this time."

He seemed genuinely worried, leaning forward to grasp the mug with both hands, his curly hair falling down to shield his face from her concerned gaze.

"Maybe you're stressed. Take a day out, get some fresh air, maybe things will be better when you come back. Maybe you'll have some inspiration."

"Inspiration is what eludes me," he said quietly, scrunching his eyes shut, "This is the final exam, I can't just sit here and draw whatever's in front of me. It has to be spectacular. It has to be stunning, breathtaking. Something that stays with you for days, weeks after seeing it."

He flopped backwards, lifting his socked feet onto the footrest in front of him. His sketchpad lay carelessly on the floor and he stared straight ahead at the wall in front of him, nursing his mug on his lap.

"And what about everyone else? What are they doing?"

"I dunno. Mark's too busy with his new girlfriend to bother. He says he'll just throw some different colours at a canvas and call it a Jackson Pollock. George's obviously found something great but of course, he won't tell anyone," muttered Ross, sipping his tea noisily.

"What has he found, do you think?"

"I don't know. Francis knows, but he won't tell me. The assignment that gets the highest marks doesn't just get a first class honours, it also gets displayed at the gallery with a big cocktail reception and stuff. I can't stand the thought of seeing George swanning around with a champagne flute in one hand and that stupid duck's arse hair."

"And Elizabeth?"

Ross stopped sipping at once and set his mug back on his lap, looking around the room nonchalantly. Verity fought the urge to laugh.

"She hasn't told me, she said she was looking for something interesting," said Ross airily, pretending to be interested in his tea again.

"Well, I think you should take my advice and spend a day out. Try to stay away from campus, I don't want you getting in another spat with George."

"If it's not George, then it's your dick of a brother," said Ross, hoisting himself off the couch to tip the rest of the tea down the sink, yawning and stretching as he sauntered back towards the couch. Verity raised her eyebrows.

"If I'm your cousin, he's your cousin too. He means well, Ross, you know that."

"Yeah, I know he does," Ross muttered darkly, bending down to start the cleaning process, "he also meant well when he stole my girlfriend."

"She was not your girlfriend and she's not a commodity that can be stolen and kept," Verity sighed, getting up, "you and Elizabeth were never together. Get over it. Move on."

Her frustrated arm movements annoyed Ross even further as he grabbed a black bin liner and started shoving his unsuccessful attempts inside.

"You can talk. You and Andy are fine, it's not as if you'd know what it's like."

"Excuse me, I get my fair share of shit from Francis about Andrew. And from you too, when you're in the mood."
She finished her tea and washed the mug, setting it out to dry and pulling her phone from her pocket as the alert tone rang through the room.

"Probably your lover now," teased Ross, tossing a ball of paper across the island at her.

She laughed and caught it, throwing it back at him.

"Not even close," she responded, typing back a reply, "I'm gonna get some sleep, I have a long day tomorrow. I have a lecture and a seminar straight after, then there's a bake sale for the charity I work with."

"Oh, the big one? I've been seeing posters for it all around campus," he said, tying up the bag and setting it by the island to deposit in the large trash bin outside in the morning.

"Yep. I'll try not to make too much noise when I bake in the morning, I know you'll be asleep. Art students, God, I never see you come out of you room before midday."

"That's because I work all night," Ross grinned back, picking up his sketch book again, "Goodnight."

Verity waved and opened her mouth to say goodnight, but that quickly transformed into a yawn. Ross raised his eyebrows and ushered her off as he picked up his pencil, lying down on the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

"Verityyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!" she cried, opening the oven quickly as the timer rang loudly through the apartment. She took the tray out and set the cake on the worktop, fanning it with the oven gloves in a hopeless attempt to get it to cool. She picked up a bowl of cream and dumped it all on the first cake, spreading it and layering jam on top.

Ross groaned as he sat up, rubbing his eyes and pushing his hair out of his face. Papers scrunched all around him and he brushed them off as he stood up, dusting himself down. The morning light pierced his eyes harshly and he made another sad sound.

"Now I need the wire ra—Ross! Hands off!"

He frowned as he dropped a piece of cake, leaning over the island to inspect his cousin's work with interest.

"That looks delicious."

"Home made raspberry jam. It'll be the most elegant Victoria sponge the University of Exeter Cornwall Campus has ever seen!" she exclaimed with delight, opening up the cake tin to let the top layer cool as she began mixing icing in a small bowl.

Ross picked up the jam pot and dipped a finger inside, licking noisily.

"And will there be any for me?"

"I've made Nutella cupcakes too, they're already in a container, you can have some of those if there are any left. This, however, is my pride and joy and I'll be selling this whole."

She set the top half to cool in the fridge and took out a myriad of icing colours, wiping her hands on a nearby kitchen towel.

"And you? Did you get any work done while I was asleep?"

"Fuck all," muttered Ross, sighing and placing his hands on his hips as he walked around the room, "I tried but—"

"You need time away, I keep saying it," muttered Verity, skipping about the kitchen in her plimsolls. She took the cake out of the fridge and iced it quickly, creating a beautiful pattern Ross could only marvel at. She placed it on top of the cream layer and showed him.

"Ta-da! One Victoria Sponge ready to go!" she beamed, placing it in a transparent plastic cake container. Ross smiled.

"Oh, Ross, why don't you go out with Dwight or something?"

She set the container down and grabbed a comb, standing in front of the mirror to brush her hair out and pack her handbag as quickly as she could.

"Oh, he's a med student, they hardly have time to breathe, let alone wander around like an idiot."

"Well, the good news is that I might have found someone you could draw. She's one of my friends, she texted me last night and that's where I got the idea. You'll like her, I met her at a book shop just outside Truro once. I think her Dad owns it or something. Anyway, she'll be perfect for you to draw. You always feel inspired when you look at Rossetti and Millais and Burne-Jones, and she's exactly perfect for that kind of drawing. Her hair's so pretty, I think she'd—"

"Verity, I'm glad you want to help, but the aim is to produce something original, not a copy of someone else's art, especially not anyone as prestigious as Gabriel himself," he pointed, staring at her with incredulity, as if it were obvious.

She turned and stared at him.

"I always think it's weird how you call him by his first name. You do realise he's dead and that you don't actually personally know him, right?"

"We've had this conversation before, Verity, he's—"

"Look, do whatever you want, I'm late for my lecture and it'll take me and Andrew forever to carry all of this to the campus. I'll send her over soon."

"I won't be at home!" he called after her as she pulled her coat on and carried the cake out of the door, "I'll be in the field! Alone!"

"Then I'll send her there!" called Verity.

Ross glared after her as she made her way downstairs. He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on roughly, picking up his sketchpad. He shoved his phone into his pocket and walked out, locking the door behind him and following his cousin down the stairs. He didn't need anyone's help.

By the time he'd made his way out of the apartment block, Verity had already gone. He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets, fixing his bag over his shoulder as he walked down the street. His plan was to make his way to the village just beyond the few streets where they lived, and to go down as far as he could. He needed some peace and quiet. Besides, he had less chance of bumping into Francis or anyone else he'd rather not meet.

"Need a lift, Poldark?"

Ross stopped stock still on the pavement, his eyes narrowing and his jaw tightening as he gritted his teeth. He couldn't see the smirk, but he could hear it.

"George," he exclaimed, turning to face him and forcing a smile, "what a pleasant surprise."

George smiled amiably, parking his silver top down close to Ross. His obnoxious white cricket sweater hurt Ross' eyes.

"Where are you off to? Campus? I could drop you there if you like, I'm heading that way myself to hand in my assignment."

"You're already done?" asked Ross, trying to hide his surprise.

"Yeah, I finished last night. It was pretty relaxing, I enjoyed the whole experience. I feel like I really grew as a man, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry, you go ahead. I'm going somewhere different."

"Sure. Elizabeth let me know she and Francis were there. I'm sure they'd love some company, we might go out for a bite to eat later at the Thai place down the road. Join us, if you want. You can repay my tenner in the form of a main course."

"I'll let you know," smiled Ross, his cheeks aching from keeping up the pretense.

George smiled back, making a quick U-turn and disappearing down the road with an unnecessarily loud engine.

"Little fucker," muttered Ross, turning around and looking down as he made his way down the street, stamping fiercely at the pavement, "Who the fuck drives a convertible with the top down in winter? In Cornwall?!"

This was more like it. There was nothing here but the grass, the sky and the weak winter sun. He was so glad he'd stayed in Cornwall. He'd applied to London, but rejected the offer at the last minute. You couldn't find this in London. A lot of people hated this time of year, but it was Ross' favourite. He loved how chilly it got in the countryside during winter, how everything frosted over and the windows became misty with the cold. It was good for him, Verity had said, because Ross always wore the same three colours in different combinations: black, white and grey, and they suited much more at this time of year. "For an art student, you're awfully monochrome," she remarked once. His art was never very colourful either, he mused, opening up his sketchbook to view his previous pieces. Mostly pencil or chalk, bare outlines of old buildings or dramatic renderings of human figures. He drew inspiration mainly from Greek myth and he'd brought a copy of the Metamorphoses with him today, hoping the air would clear his mind and Ovid would fill it with ideas. He knew Verity didn't mind him borrowing her book.

He shifted his back as he sat against the tree, looking out across the field at the old farm house opposite. Although the field was open to the public, the man he liked to call Farmer Jud and his wife, Prudie, never approved of the long stretches of time he seemed to spend here. If worst came to worst, they chased him off their land with a shovel in their hands, ranting about how he wasn't 'fit' or 'proper.' He was sure the further he stayed from their line of sight, the easier life would be. He set his sketchbook on his lap and scuffed the soil with the soles of his boots, frowning as he looked up to a rustle of a plastic shopping bag. Jud stared down at him.

"You again? You can get out an' all. Go on, off with you, I ain't got all day. I be missing my Antiques Roadshow!"

Ross sighed and got up.

"You do know this is a public place, right? Anyone can come and sit here, it's not your land any more than it's mine."

"If it's in my line of sight, it's my land. Now away with you," Jud flapped his hands as if he was warding away a cloud of midges.

Ross sighed and shook his head, his eyes wide in disbelief. He scoffed and picked up his sketchbook and bag, tossing it over his shoulder.

"Fine, then. I'm done here anyway."

His tantrum made no difference to Jud, who nodded approvingly and made his way back inside. Ross pricked up the collars of his leather jacket against the wind and stomped out of the field, half to warm his feet and half to show his anger. The only place left was the clifftop. At least there he wouldn't be victim to whoever Verity would force him to be nice to. It wasn't that he was averse to meeting people. He could be quite social when he wanted to, but not when he was frustrated. Even Verity knew he wasn't the best of company then and being temperamental was a family trait.

The cold air hit his face almost at once, stripping his hair back as he strode across the cliff towards the very edge. Now this was the stuff of inspiration. He'd never get tired of the sunset and sunrise from these cliffs, it was like standing on the edge of heaven. It was the only thing that had once persuaded him to paint in colour, with dewy pinks and peachy reds dripping from his page, followed by the clear blue water and brilliant white cliffs underneath, cradling the sun like a baby in a manger. He perched himself at the very edge of the cliff, his hair lashing against his face in the wind. He took his sketchbook out, placing his set of pencils next to his copy of Ovid and grabbing a rock to set on his rapidly fluttering paper. The sunset may be an obvious thing to sketch, but he had to start somewhere and this was better than nothing. He picked out a pencil with the thinnest nib and got to work, scratching carefully on the thick canvas paper.

"Mr Poldark? Excuse me, are you Ross Poldark?"

Ross furrowed his brow and turned around where he sat, staring at the slim girl who'd battled the elements to come to him. She carried an armful of books on one side and secured a shawl around her upper body with her free hand. Her eyes were slitted against the sharp wind, her flaming orange hair tied up wisely. She was a slight girl, dressed comfortably in a pair of jeans and an oversize red jumper that swamped her tiny frame, covering her hands. A pair of black riding boots finished off the sight in front of him, but it was her face that made him look twice. High, angular cheekbones, small eyes and thin lips, framed by a halo of fiery hair. She wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense, like Elizabeth, but there was something of another world about her. Something ethereal and rustic, like she was a relic of another age. He got up and made his way over.

"Yes? Did Verity send you? I'm glad you could make it."

"No problem at all! I thought I'd drop these off with you. Verity said you needed some help with an art project, she said you were an art student at the university and explained what you were doing, so I picked out a few books that I thought would help."

She took the first one and opened it, showing him various pages of Tennyson's works illustrated in their full glory.

"She said you wanted something dramatic, so I thought perhaps something like this, Holman Hunt's Lady of Shalott. The chiaroscuro here is fantastic, I thought you could use that? Or this," she said quickly, closing the first book and opening another, "Gentileschi's Judith Beheading Holofernes, this is a great one for realism, if that's your kind of thing."

"I've always loved that painting, it's one of the best versions of the story of Judith and Holofernes, I love how she's just going for it, Gentileschi was never one to shy away from the real violence of an act. Like Caravaggio's Judith looks disgusted by what she's doing but—"

"Gentileschi's Judith doesn't seem to care," she finished, almost laughing.

"Exactly!" he laughed back, "Look at the expression on her face, she's just a hundred percent done with the entire situation!"

They both laughed and Ross stuck a hand out.

"Sorry. Ross Poldark, it's nice to meet you. Oh, let me get those."

He lifted the collection of books out of her arms and set them down on the grass.

"Demelza Carne," she smiled warmly and shook his hand.

"Sorry about the marks on my hands, I was drawing," he explained unnecessarily, "if you love art so much, you should come over to the university."

"I applied, but we don't really have enough money to pay off the loan at the moment. If I were to study, I'd love to do art or art history. I'm not much of a reader or writer."

"Me either, that's more Verity's thing. So if we make our way somewhere a bit more comfortable, I can get started on my sketches."

"Oh, of course, there's some space in the back of the shop if you want to come in. It's like a little reading room."

"That sounds perfect."

He packed his things back up and within a few moments of comfortable silence, they were inside a small, antiquated bookshop made entirely out of wood.

"Pretty but flammable," said a concerned Ross as Demelza lead him into the back room.

"We don't have much cause for a fire around here," she laughed, showing him a desk, "Tea? Coffee?"

"Something stronger, if you have it, that'd be great."

He set out his pencils and chalks and colours down on the table, pulling out his sketchbook and opening a fresh page as Demelza brought out a small glass of brandy.

"That's all we have, I'm afraid. My father's a vicar at the local church, he doesn't drink too much. He's out right now, but please let me know if you want anything else. We've got some biscuits and stuff, so just help yourself. I'll be out front," she said, flashing a small smile as she folded up her thick shawl.

Ross stared, blinking a few times.

"And when will you be back? It's just that I haven't got long, I have to help my cousin out at the university."

"You get started straight away, if you have everything."

She looked cluelessly at him, cocking her head curiously.

"Verity….did explain that you were to be my model, right?"

He resisted a grin as Demelza looked at him with a mixture of shock and horror.

"No! She just said you needed some help so I picked out some books for inspiration! She didn't say anything about being a model!" she exclaimed, "No, no, you look at some of the pictures in the books, I'm definitely not model material. Besides, who'll see the shop?"

Ross grinned, his eyes bright as he strode over and grabbed her hands.

"Somehow, I think we'll manage."

He dragged her over to stand at some distance from the table on which he'd set his supplies, and then stood back, observing her. She planted her feet awkwardly on the ground, looking at him gawkily, fisting the cuffs of her large red jumper in her hands. It was so big that it was falling off her left shoulder, her boots covered in mud from the walk.

"D'you want me to…pose or something?"

She threw her arms around awkwardly like she was performing an interpretative dance, her limp jumper sleeves flying around her. Ross grinned at her goofiness and noted the way she stood, with her feet pointed inwards. She grimaced. Was he laughing at her? She knew she looked like Kate Bush performing Wuthering Heights, but he was the one who'd asked for her to model. She gritted her teeth in annoyance. She didn't take well to being laughed at, especially by one who thought he was so much better than her.

"No, don't worry, we'll figure something out."

He grinned again and hoisted himself up onto the table, swinging his legs absently as he viewed her with interest. A loud bell rang through the room again and he raised his eyebrows. She wasn't baking cakes for the bake sale too, was she?

"Oh, Judas! My pie!" she whispered dramatically, her eyes widening.

And like a shot, she was off, running away into the kitchen to open the oven. She appeared a few moments later with a large shortcrust pie on a wooden slab.

"Sorry, I was making dinner, so….," she waved at the pie and laughed awkwardly, setting it down on the table next to him, "help yourself," she finished brightly.

She bit her lip. Had she just asked him to help himself to a large pie which she'd said was dinner? Why did she sound like she'd inhaled helium? She laughed again and then stopped herself. This was bad. He, by contrast, was grinning stupidly, still swinging his legs off the table.

"I'll wait for it to cool down first. Shall we get started?"

She nodded and stood back in place again, her hands limp by her sides. He stood up too, grabbing his sketchbook, jacket and the bottle of brandy that sat on the sideboard.

"Outside," he said to her brusquely, marching out of the shop the way he had come, "and bring your shawl!" he called. She stared and picked up the folded fabric square, running after him.

"It's too windy out here!" she called, following him back to the clifftop where she'd first seen him.

"Not for me!" he called back, setting up his collapsible easel in the grass, taking a swig from the brandy as he set it down by the side.

He took a large A0 sketchbook out and set it up on the canvas. Now Demelza could only see his legs and she frowned, jumping up and down to warm herself, wrapping her shawl tight around her. Why had she agreed to do this for Verity? For all she knew, Ross Poldark could be an axe murderer. Perhaps he was preparing the axe behind the canvas. She peeked around the side cautiously. He peeked back with raised eyebrows.

"Yes?"

"Let's get on with it, I haven't got all day. Dad'll be back from the church soon."

Ross didn't acknowledge her words as he picked up his chalk in one hand and a pencil in the other.

"Take your hair out. I mean, loose, untie it."

He furrowed his brows as he steadied the paper with a rock, his own hair lashing his face again like a thousand whips.

"Is that…okay?"

He looked up and couldn't stop looking. She narrowed her eyes against the wind as a thick mass of red, wavy hair lashed her face in a similar way. It flew this way and that, highlighting her pale face, clashing comfortably with her red jumper and white shawl. She looked mismatched but perfect. The wind died down for a second, just lifting the ends of her hair every now and then as it settled down around her face. It wasn't too long, just long enough to make an impression. The waves were like lava tumbling delicately down a volcano, whipping up into a tornado-like frenzy as soon as the wind started up. It had none of the delicacy of Rossetti's Aurelia, delicately fixing her hair, or the tragedy of Millais' Ophelia, floating aimlessly in a river. This was something else altogether, like an untapped force of nature.

"Are you going to start or shall I go inside and eat my pie?"

Ross' dumbfounded face broke out into a grin as he saw Demelza raise an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. She was cute when she was annoyed.

"Just stay there," he said, picking up his pencil, "you just stay right there."

"In short, I find it an impressive subversion of the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic. Gone are the plump lips and dreamy expressions, the sensuality; the model instead gazes at you from the canvas with an almost unsettling stare, such emotive eyes, thin lips, pale skin this time covered, not exposed, and the hair, it takes up the whole canvas. The hair is the real star of the portrait here, taking on a life of its own, bigger than the model herself, whipped up into a veritable riot of colour and shape, a creative explosion, if you will!"

The examiner's voice rose into a frenzy as he gesticulated wildly at the portrait hanging on the wall. Ross shoved his hands in his pockets, grinning as he looked up at the canvas. It was bigger that he remembered it and it'd been a long wait to finally get his grades back. He'd finally finished the degree on a high, something he'd never expected.

"I was right after all, then," whispered Verity, clinking her champagne flute with his.

"You're always right!" he whispered back as if he said it all the time.

"Ross Poldark? Would you like to say a few words about your portrait?"

Ross stepped forwards, handing his glass to Verity, turning to face the crowd next to the canvas. He looked up at it once, and then back at the crowd.

"I spent a long time trying to find inspiration. It's amazing what frustration can to do a man, to be honest. And this?" he gestured up at the canvas, "This is art. Perhaps the only true piece of art I've ever created. No, it's not the conventional aesthetic, there's no slipping silks and flowers, but I kindly disagree with our esteemed professor. There is a sensuality here. Not an open, inviting one, but a dark, earthy one. She's…real. She's not an image or a vision. And I'd like to thank her for this," he finished, picking himself up from a lost place.

He turned back to the crowd as they applauded, Verity grinning and clapping loudly. He scanned the crowd and saw a small figure clad in a red, flecked dress, standing at the periphery, not clapping but looking up at the portrait.

"And here she is! Please, put your hands together for my muse, Demelza Carne!"

He gestured to the back of the crowd and it parted like the Red Sea, still clapping. Demelza stared at him, shaking her head and making a neck slicing motion. He grinned and strode over, taking her hand and pulling her forward until she stood in front of the portrait. The crowd applauded and she smiled awkwardly, raising a hand in acknowledgement. They were all clapping for her, she thought in surprise. She smiled hesitantly at Ross, who nodded and moved his head towards the crowd. She smiled even wider at them, straightening her back. As the professor addressed the crowd and announced the start of the reception, Ross took a glass from a nearby waiter and handed it to her.

"What do you think?" he asked in anticipation, turning around to view the painting, "do you like it?"

She smiled so wide her cheeks ached, suppressing a laugh as she saw herself rendered so dramatically on a canvas. It was the first time anyone had painted her and standing for hours in that cold, blustery field while the sun went down hadn't really been her idea of a fun evening, but if this was what had come out of it, it was all worth it.

"It's….fascinating," she finished quietly, staring at it in joy.

Ross looked at her. Any other model would have said it was beautiful, but not Demelza.

"Then I'm glad. Art's not meant to be pretty, it's meant to make you think. You make me think."

"Of what?"

She turned to him with a playful smile.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," suggested Ross, raising his glass across the room to George who stood in the corner with Francis. George forced a smile and inclined his head towards Ross, raising his glass too. Francis didn't acknowledge Ross at all, but Elizabeth straightened her cocktail dress and looked past Francis to Demelza, then up at the portrait. Ross barely noticed and was too busy watching Demelza carefully run her fingers over the now hard, dry paint.

"I forgot to return your books," he said, taking a bunch out of his bag.

"Keep them," she offered, tracing the lines of paint with her hand.

"Why would I? I already have all the inspiration I need."