I think that's a good Idea.

I like that so far. Also, I think  that the second sentence would look better as "Except for the fact that it looked inhabited."    

Draft 1, (continued):

The door was open, as if waiting for them.  Sylvie bent to enter the low doorway and straitened on entering, head brushing against the cobwebs that hung from the rafters.

She blinked, her pupils growing as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

With a soft squawk Gloria flew from Sylvie's shoulder, wingtips brushing the many boxes and cabinets, sending showers off dust down to the floor.  An unexpected shaft of sunlight shone through a window, illuminating the many motes of dust that drifted dreamily through the air.  The room glowed golden, slowly dimming to dusty brow as the shaft faded away, leaving the room dim once more.

In the corner of the room a spindle legged spider lowered itself, revolving slowly, on a silver thread.

"Lao?", Sylvie's voice was hesitant.  She stepped over a low stack of books and peered through the room.  She went farther into the room, righting teetering stacks of boxes and books, closing doors of cabinets filled with rocks and ancient figurines, pushing things from the edges of tables.

Gloria, is he back there?  She asked as she emerged from between two towering shelves of ancient books.

No, not now.  But he will be soon.  He left the fire going.  She fluffed her feathers and shook them down, contented.

The corner in the back was clearly inhabited.  It was the only place where dust was not.  Blankets were spread out beside a small wood stove in which a fire crackled, radiating heat.  A small teapot, steam rising from beneath it's lid, and a handleless cup were set on a low table.  

Gloria sat on a perch next to the stove.  He kept my perch, she said happily.

Sylvia made a nondescript noise in answer and turned away, moving towards the opposite corner, where a delicate shelf was wedged.  She stood in front of it, staring at the racks of paintbrushes, bars of ink, and shallow stone bowls that brought back so many memories.

"This is how you hold it", he said, smiling as he wrapped her small fingers around the paintbrush.  His eyes crinkling at the corners.

Almost without thinking she reached our and lifted a paintbrush from it's hook.  Her fingers automatically positioning themselves around the smooth handle.

"Lightly, lightly.  The paintbrush must not be choked.  Good.  Now, do not press it on the paper and never let it stop moving.  Smoothly.  Always moving.  Always moving." He guided her hand across the page in intricate patterns.  She watched, delighted, as pictures formed beneath their hands.

Sylvie closed her eyes, lost in memories, the paintbrush she held dancing in the air.  Twirling, flicking, swaying.  Making pictures that left no trace, pictures only she saw.

Sylvie.  Gloria's tone was that of someone who had noticed something.  There is something under the shelf.

Startled from her reverie, Sylvie opened her eyes.  She looked at Gloria, then shook the last of her memories away.  Bending down she slid her hand under the ornate bottom of the shelf, her fingers scrabbling as she felt for something other than dusty floor boards.

Gloria, there isn't anything --, she broke off and pulled her hand out, bringing with it a paintbrush.  Ghostly grey in thick layers of dust.  Gently she rubbed the aged bamboo handle with the edge of her tunic, blowing the dust off the hair with soft puffs of breath.

Strange, Gloria remarked, flying from her perch to Sylvie's shoulder.  But she was interrupted before she could finish.

"Ah.  You have good taste, Sylvie.  Gloria."  Sylvie spun around and Gloria flung out her wings to keep her balance.

Behind them was a small old man.  He was hunched over and leaned on a stick, which was polished from years of use, craning his head up at them.  Smiling so widely his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of folded skin.

"Lao!", Sylvie exclaimed, smiling in return.

~ ~ ~

Do you think the pacing is too fast?

For drawing reference, Lao is Asian.  The paintbrushes I am talking about are Chinese calligraphy brushes, or maobi.  I'll insert a picture of one, later in the story I will include more details about what the appearance of the paintbrush Sylvie found.  When the paintbrush is wet the hair tapers into a point, mine is dry so it's rather bushy.

Draft 1:

The shop would have been unremarkable on the outside.  Except for the fact that it looked inhabited.

A thin column of blue smoke trickled from the chimney stuck haphazardly in the roof.  The blue flowered curtains, neatly tied back, were the only things of color in the dull landscape.  Nothing broke the desolate silence that hung heavy, shroud like, over the abandoned village.

Sylvie swung her blonde ponytail over one shoulder and wrinkled her nose against the sharp smell of smoke.  "It's the same", there was a sense of relief in her voice, her breath puffed out in white clouds before her.   The words fell from her lips like stones, the permeating silence swallowing them whole. It was the first she had spoken aloud in days.

The sky was an unbroken expanse of steel grey.  The weak sunlight that did seep through the clouds provided little light, only making it uncomfortable to look up for long.

Sylvie squinted her ice blue eyes and stared upwards, searching until she spotted a white speck; moving fast across the sky.  Growing nearer it became the silhouette of a silver gyrfalcon.

Gloria swooped down from her aerial survey, landing lightly on the wooden structure that arched over the gate Sylvie leaned against.  Nothing unusual.

Sylvie jerked her pointed chin at the shop before them.  Lao is still here.  She spoke in the same manner as Gloria this time, using their telepathic bond.

Yes.  Gloria stretched her wings and refolded them tightly against her sleek body.

They both gazed at the lone sign of life for a moment, then Sylvie pushed herself abruptly off the iron gate.

"Well --".  She lifted the latch, glanced briefly upwards to the sign that read in spidery letters "antique shop", then pushed open the gate.  It opened with a small creak.

The frosty ground crunched beneath her feet as she crossed the short length between the gate and the door of the shop.  Gloria pushed herself off the archway and glided, landing upon the leather patch on Sylvie's cloaked shoulder.

The door was open, as if waiting for them.  Sylvie bent to enter the low doorway and straitened on entering, head brushing against the cobwebs that hung from the rafters.

She blinked, her pupils growing as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

With a soft squawk Gloria flew from Sylvie's shoulder, wingtips brushing the many boxes and cabinets, sending showers off dust down to the floor.  An unexpected shaft of sunlight shone through a window, illuminating the many motes of dust that drifted dreamily through the air.  The room glowed golden, slowly dimming to dusty brow as the shaft faded away, leaving the room dim once more.

In the corner of the room a spindle legged spider lowered itself, revolving slowly, on a silver thread.

"Lao?", Sylvie's voice was hesitant.  She stepped over a low stack of books and peered through the room.  She went farther into the room, righting teetering stacks of boxes and books, closing doors of cabinets filled with rocks and ancient figurines, pushing things from the edges of tables.

Gloria, is he back there?  She asked as she emerged from between two towering shelves of ancient books.

No, not now.  But he will be soon.  He left the fire going.  She fluffed her feathers and shook them down, contented.

The corner in the back was clearly inhabited.  It was the only place where dust was not.  Blankets were spread out beside a small wood stove in which a fire crackled, radiating heat.  A small teapot, steam rising from beneath it's lid, and a handleless cup were set on a low table.  

Gloria sat on a perch next to the stove.  He kept my perch, she said happily.

Sylvia made a nondescript noise in answer and turned away, moving towards the opposite corner, where a delicate shelf was wedged.  She stood in front of it, staring at the racks of paintbrushes, bars of ink, and shallow stone bowls that brought back so many memories.

"This is how you hold it", he said, smiling as he wrapped her small fingers around the paintbrush.  His eyes crinkling at the corners.

Almost without thinking she reached our and lifted a paintbrush from it's hook.  Her fingers automatically positioning themselves around the smooth handle.

"Lightly, lightly.  The paintbrush must not be choked.  Good.  Now, do not press it on the paper and never let it stop moving.  Smoothly.  Always moving.  Always moving." He guided her hand across the page in intricate patterns.  She watched, delighted, as pictures formed beneath their hands.

Sylvie closed her eyes, lost in memories, the paintbrush she held dancing in the air.  Twirling, flicking, swaying.  Making pictures that left no trace, pictures only she saw.

Sylvie.  Gloria's tone was that of someone who had noticed something.  There is something under the shelf.

Startled from her reverie, Sylvie opened her eyes.  She looked at Gloria, then shook the last of her memories away.  Bending down she slid her hand under the ornate bottom of the shelf, her fingers scrabbling as she felt for something other than dusty floor boards.

Gloria, there isn't anything --, she broke off and pulled her hand out, bringing with it a paintbrush.  Ghostly grey in thick layers of dust.  Gently she rubbed the aged bamboo handle with the edge of her tunic, blowing the dust off the hair with soft puffs of breath.

Strange, Gloria remarked, flying from her perch to Sylvie's shoulder.  But she was interrupted before she could finish.

"Ah.  You have good taste, Sylvie.  Gloria."  Sylvie spun around and Gloria flung out her wings to keep her balance.

Behind them was a small old man.  He was hunched over and leaned on a stick, which was polished from years of use, craning his head up at them.  Smiling so widely his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of folded skin.

"Lao!", Sylvie exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile, slightly stiff from lack of use, but genuine all the same.

"It is good to see you back from your journeys", he said and shuffled to the small table by the stove.  "Come join have tea with me.  There should be another cup in the box below the table."

Silently, though glowing with the joy of seeing an old friend, Sylvie found the second cup and set it next to the first.  Kneeling with he hands spread on her knees as Lao poured tea.

"Tell me about your journeys", he said setting down the teapot.

But first you must tell us about this paintbrush.  Sylvie repeated Gloria's words aloud to Lao.

There was a long silence as Lao lifted his cup and sipped his tea, thinking.

"Gloria said it was strange", Sylvie said.

"She is not wrong.  What exactly do you think was strange, Gloria?", Lao looked at her with his clear black eyes.

It glows with it's own light.

Sylvie picked up the brush, which she had set in the middle of the table, and held it in her shadow.  Indeed, the brush glowed with a pale yellow light.  Faint enough to go unnoticed if it was not examined closely.

"Gloria says it glows."

Lao nodded, as if this was what he was expecting.  "Sylvie, please go get the brush painting supplies."

Sylvie transferred Gloria from her shoulder to the perch, then went to the shelf she had stood before previously.

When she returned Lao had cleared the tea things off the table.  He nodded his thanks to Sylvie and took the supplies she gave him.  Setting them out and mixing the ink.

"You paint", he handed her the brush.  "Start with something small, a flower perhaps."

Sylvie dipped the paintbrush tip in the ink, wiping the excess off on the stone bowl's edge.  Slightly unsure of herself -- she had not painted for a long while -- she set the paintbrush to the paper and began moving the brush.  Slowly at first, then more surely.  The paintbrush seemed to come alive in her hands.

Finished she leaned back and set the brush down.  It had felt good to paint again.  She looked up at Lao, expecting him to explain why the brush was unusual.  He was looking at her flower.

She glanced down, wondering if something was wrong with it, and narrowly missed tipping the table over.  

The flower was alive.  It grew from the paper, petals gently waving.  Pink with a yellow middle, even though she had only used black ink.

Unbelievingly she touched a petal with her finger, almost expecting it to crumble.  But it stayed whole, alive.

"It-it's alive", she stuttered.  Gloria had perched on the edge of the table to see it closer.

Lao inclined his head.  "Yes.  And no."  He took the ink bowl and tipped it over the flower before Sylvie could say anything.  "If it gets wet in any way", he gestured to the large smudge on the now damp and crumpled paper.  "That happens."

It is not truly alive.

"It is not", he confirmed after Sylvie had relayed Gloria's words to him.

"Where did you find this?", Sylvie asked.

"My master, the man whom I apprenticed to, gave it to me before he died.  I do not know how he came by it.  He gave it to me and told me to hide it, to never tell anyone.  Never show anyone.  I attempted to destroy it, thinking  But magic things are impossible to destroy I learned, and so I hid it."

"Why did he say to never tell anyone?"  Sylvie was staring at Lao.

"There was a rich magistrate, a greedy one, who thought he could become even richer with this brush.  However he refused understand that the things painted by this brush would amount to no more than crumpled stained paper if it ever became wet.  When he finally understood he blamed the artist and persecuted him."

How did he escape?

"I know", Sylvie answered.  Lao look at Sylvie, surprised.  "I've heard it before, I just never thought it could be true", she explained.  "The artist and his apprentice painted a lake landscape and leaped into the painting.  Rowing across the lake in a boat they had painted.  The magistrate's soldiers couldn't follow."

Then how did you meet your master?  Sylvie repeated Gloria's question aloud.

"The magistrate threw the painting into a lake, thinking they would die along with the painting.  But they were not painted and survived, though the painting did not.  They swam to shore and ran, arriving at this village.  When it was not abandoned.  When I was a child."  Lao fell silent, his eyes had a look of someone far away.

Sylvie said nothing.  She knew why this village was abandoned.  Sickness had wiped out most, and those left fled.  Lao had stayed though, to care for her.  Orphaned before she was old enough to remember her parents.

Lao shook himself.  "Come, we will not dwell on sad thoughts today.  You have come home and that is a thing to be celebrated.  Tomorrow we will find a place to hide it.  I am glad you are home."

Sylvie smiled and stroked Gloria with her hand, she was home.

~ ~ ~

I would love any feedback!  Be really picky please.

This is about 1,900 words so I think I will do some cutting.  Nothing big though.  And I will probably polish some parts too.  But the story shouldn't change.  I'm looking forward to seeing your artwork! 

Thank you so much for reading this, Admin. 

I like that!

I like how it is discriptive. There aren't really any spelling mistakes, so I can't be picky about that. There are not any grammar mistakes or anything else, so I think it is great!

Draft 3

The shop would have been unremarkable on the outside.  Except for the fact that it looked inhabited.

A thin column of smoke trickled from the chimney stuck haphazardly in the roof, matching the color of the unending expanse of grey clouded sky.  The blue flowered curtains, neatly tied back, were the only things of color in the dull landscape.  Nothing broke the desolate silence that hung heavy, shroud like, over the abandoned village.

Sylvie swung her blonde ponytail over one shoulder and wrinkled her nose against the sharp smell of smoke.  Leaning against the rusted gate, watching the inhabited shop with her ice blue eyes.

"It's the same", there was a sense of relief in her voice, her breath puffed out in white clouds before her.   The words fell from her lips like stones, the permeating silence swallowing them whole.

Glad?  Gloria asked, as she stretched her silver wings and refolded them tightly against her sleek body; her question was more of a statement.

Yes.  Sylvie answered, using their telepathic bond.

Shall we go? 

In answer, Sylvie lifted the latch and pushed open the gate, which gave a small creak.

The frosty ground crunched beneath her feet as she crossed the short length between the gate and the door of the shop.  Gloria pushed herself off the archway that arched above the gate and glided, landing upon the leather patch on Sylvie's cloaked shoulder.

The door was open, as if waiting for them.  Sylvie bent to enter the low doorway and straitened on entering, head brushing against the cobwebs that hung from the rafters.

She blinked, her pupils growing as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

With a soft squawk Gloria flew from Sylvie's shoulder, wingtips brushing the many boxes and cabinets, sending showers off dust down to the floor.  An unexpected shaft of sunlight shone through a window, illuminating the many motes of dust that drifted dreamily through the air.  The room glowed golden, slowly dimming to dusty brown as the shaft faded away, leaving the room dim once more.

In the corner of the room a spindle legged spider lowered itself, revolving slowly, on a silver thread.

"Lao?", Sylvie's voice was hesitant.  She stepped over a low stack of books and peered through the room.  She went farther into the room, righting teetering stacks of boxes and books, closing doors of cabinets filled with rocks and ancient figurines, pushing things from the edges of tables.

Gloria, is he back there?  She asked as she emerged from between two towering shelves of ancient books.

No, not now.  But he will be soon.  He left the fire going.  She fluffed her feathers and shook them down, contented.

The corner in the back was clearly inhabited.  It was the only place where dust was not.  Blankets were spread out beside a small wood stove in which a fire crackled, radiating heat.  A small teapot, steam rising from beneath it's lid, and a handleless cup were set on a low table.  

Gloria sat on a perch next to the stove.  He kept my perch, she said happily.

Sylvie turned away, moving towards the opposite corner, where a delicate shelf was wedged.  She stood in front of it, staring at the racks of paintbrushes, bars of ink, and shallow stone bowls that brought back so many memories.

"This is how you hold it", he said, smiling as he wrapped her small fingers around the paintbrush.  His eyes crinkling at the corners.

Almost without thinking she reached our and lifted a paintbrush from it's hook.  Her fingers automatically positioning themselves around the smooth handle.

"Lightly, lightly.  The paintbrush must not be choked.  Good.  Now, do not press it on the paper and never let it stop moving.  Smoothly.  Always moving.  Always moving." He guided her hand across the page in intricate patterns.  She watched, delighted, as pictures formed beneath their hands.

Sylvie closed her eyes, lost in memories, the paintbrush she held dancing in the air.  Twirling, flicking, swaying.  Making pictures that left no trace, pictures only she saw.

There is something under the shelf.  Gloria remarked, she had been watching Sylvie closely and her eyes had caught something.

Startled from her reverie, Sylvie opened her eyes.  She looked at Gloria, then shook the last of her memories away.  Bending down she slid her hand under the ornate bottom of the shelf, her fingers scrabbling as she felt for something other than dusty floor boards.

Gloria, there isn't anything --, she broke off and pulled her hand out, bringing with it a paintbrush.  Ghostly grey in thick layers of dust.  Gently she rubbed the aged bamboo handle with the edge of her tunic, blowing the dust off the hair with soft puffs of breath.

Strange, Gloria remarked, flying from her perch to Sylvie's shoulder.  But she was interrupted before she could finish.

"Ah.  Sylvie.  Gloria."  Sylvie spun around and Gloria flung out her wings to keep her balance.

Behind them was a small old man.  He was hunched over and leaned on a stick, which was polished from years of use, craning his head up at them.  Smiling so widely his eyes disappeared in wrinkles of folded skin.

"Lao!", Sylvie exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile, slightly stiff from lack of use, but genuine all the same.

"It is good to see you back from your journeys", he said and shuffled to the small table by the stove.  "Come join have tea with me.  There should be another cup in the box below the table."

Silently, though glowing with the joy of seeing an old friend, Sylvie found the second cup and set it next to the first.  Kneeling with he hands spread on her knees as Lao poured tea.

"Tell me about your journeys", he said setting down the teapot.

But first you must tell us about this paintbrush.  Sylvie repeated Gloria's words aloud to Lao.

There was a long silence as Lao lifted his cup and sipped his tea, thinking.

"Gloria said it was strange", Sylvie said.

"She is not wrong.  What exactly do you think was strange, Gloria?", Lao looked at her with his clear black eyes.

It glows with it's own light.

Sylvie picked up the brush, which she had set in the middle of the table, and held it in her shadow.  Indeed, the brush glowed with a pale yellow light.  Faint enough to go unnoticed if it was not examined closely.

"Gloria says it glows."

Lao nodded, as if this was what he was expecting.  "Sylvie, please get the brush painting supplies."

Sylvie transferred Gloria from her shoulder to the perch, then went to the shelf she had stood before previously.

When she returned Lao had cleared the tea things off the table.  He nodded his thanks to Sylvie and took the supplies she gave him.  Setting them out and mixing the ink.

"You paint", he handed her the brush.  "Start with something small, a flower perhaps."

Sylvie dipped the paintbrush tip in the ink, wiping the excess off on the stone bowl's edge.  Slightly unsure of herself -- she had not painted for a long while -- she set the paintbrush to the paper and began moving the brush.  Slowly at first, then more surely.  The paintbrush seemed to come alive in her hands.

Finished she leaned back and set the brush down.  It had felt good to paint again.  She looked up at Lao, expecting him to explain why the brush was unusual.  He was looking at her flower.

She glanced down, wondering if something was wrong with it, and narrowly missed tipping the table over.  

The flower was alive.  It grew from the paper, petals gently waving.  Pink with a yellow middle, even though she had only used black ink.

Unbelievingly she touched a petal with her finger, almost expecting it to crumble.  But it stayed whole, alive.

"It-it's alive", she stuttered.  Gloria had perched on the edge of the table to see it closer.

Lao inclined his head.  "Yes.  And no."  He took the ink bowl and tipped it over the flower before Sylvie could say anything.  "If it gets wet in any way", he gestured to the large smudge on the now damp and crumpled paper.  "That happens."

It is not truly alive.

"It is not", he confirmed after Sylvie had relayed Gloria's words to him.

"Where did you find this?", Sylvie asked.

"My master, the man whom I apprenticed to, gave it to me before he died.  I do not know how he came by it.  He gave it to me and told me to hide it, to never tell anyone.  Never show anyone.  I attempted to destroy it, thinking  But magic things are impossible to destroy I learned, and so I hid it."

"Why did he say to never tell anyone?"  Sylvie was staring at Lao.

"There was a rich magistrate, a greedy one, who thought he could become even richer with this brush.  However he refused understand that the things painted by this brush would amount to no more than crumpled stained paper if it ever became wet.  When he finally understood he blamed the artist and persecuted him."

How did he escape?

"I know", Sylvie answered. "The artist and his apprentice painted a lake landscape and leaped into the painting.  Rowing across the lake in a boat they had painted.  The magistrate's soldiers couldn't follow."

Lao look at Sylvie, surprised.  "I've heard it before, I just never thought it could be true", she explained.

Then how did you meet your master?  Sylvie repeated Gloria's question aloud.

"The magistrate threw the painting into a lake, thinking they would die along with the painting.  But they were not painted and survived, though the painting did not.  They swam to shore and ran, arriving at this village.  When it was not abandoned.  When I was a child."  Lao fell silent, his eyes had a look of someone far away.

Sylvie said nothing.  She knew why this village was abandoned.  Sickness had wiped out most, and those left fled.  Lao had stayed though, to care for her.  Orphaned before she was old enough to remember her parents.

Lao shook himself.  "Come, we will not dwell on sad thoughts today.  You have come home and that is a thing to be celebrated.  Tomorrow we will find a place to hide it.  I am glad you are home."

Sylvie smiled and stroked Gloria with her hand, she was home.

~ ~ ~

Just a more edited version of the story.  Gloria is still a silver gyrfalcon, even though it is no longer mentioned.  I'm looking forward to seeing your artwork! 

How old do you think Lao is?