And here, of course, you are again, in this fine Joshua Reynolds piece—look how playful your expression is as you play with the duke’s children (from his first wife, you see, a charming woman by all accounts but frail). Blessed with a fine gift of a stepmother though, said the countess, coy.
          Catherine had misheard. She looked a bit closer at the painting, out of politeness. She supposed the woman in the silk brocade bore a resemblance to herself, but was the countess actually suggesting some sort of ancestry? That would make Catherine and the countess… cousins of some sort, she supposed, indulging for just a moment in a fantasy of ancient wealth and privilege. But she should rejoin the others now: countess, this has been lovely, but could you direct me back to the group?
          The countess must not have heard. This one over here you might like even more, she said, unslipping the velvet rope and leading Catherine onward with a light touch on her shoulder. My husband would say it was second-rate, but I think you can see the resemblance more clearly. I think Reynolds is very fine with his portraits, but in the groups he gets a little sloppy. The relative positioning of all the faces, I think it is. A little strained, unnatural.
          Catherine smiled and looked at the new painting, then recoiled in shock.
          It can have that effect sometimes, said the countess.
          But it’s me! Catherine almost shouted. It’s exactly me! Who painted this?
          Alas, a poor artist whose name is lost in time, explained the countess. He must have had access to the finest of society, though. Look at the gown, the sash around the waist—almost eastern.
          Who—who was the woman?
          Well, it’s you, my dear. Don’t you remember? The countess reattached the velvet rope.
          I—don’t remember.
          The countess was sympathetic. It’s all right, dear. Why should you? You died so young.
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