Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven
While the duchess slept the sleep of the unfailingly absolved, Signora Bergamaschi stood alone before her easel, dark in the patio, trying, but failing, to capture her impressions of the white glow of snow upon the glass, the moonlight which seemed to reach out to her through it, and the unremitting blackness beyond. The signs were there, uncloaked, as naked as the duchess, but Genevra fought the urge to recognise them. She felt, but would not think, she was on the verge of a revelation which would immerse her whole person in meaning, soak her through, stain her irreversibly, but which would in the same swoop annihilate all else she’d ever known.
She looked to the blank canvas. It was already white.
She put down her brush.
She prayed; she couldn’t help herself.