Ilaria crossed the threshold and the room seemed to inhale with her.
At first glance the Dawn Gallery looked immaculate. Where she remembered cluttered rugs, stray blossoms and the scattered tokens of a hurried vigil, now every cushion lay flat, every brazier polished, the small table wiped bare as if someone had swept memory itself into a corner.
The hush in the air had the precision of a hand that had scrubbed and smoothed away any hint of chaos. Her feet made no sound on the stone as she moved deeper, the gallery swallowing her steps like water. The painted light over the frieze, which once looked like dawn breaking across a careless sea was muted, as if someone had drawn a veil over the colours.
The place looked tidy, respectable. But tidy places could hide things, and the neatness only sharpened the sense that everything of consequence had been deliberately removed. The immense glass wall loomed in shadow, holding the night's darkness like a mirror filled with ink.
