He found her, finally, in the Renaissance. She sat quietly, watching the paintings as if expecting them to change, to move, to speak, to peel themselves open and offer her transport into another time and world. He sat beside her, not too close, just out of the corner of her eye, so she would feel his presence but still ignore him if she chose.
Eventually, she reached out and held his hand. “I don’t like this one.”
“Why?” He knew it wouldn’t be about the painting, not really.
“The Queen isn’t happy. She’s pretending to be, but she isn’t, really.”
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