palazzo, feet pounding the frozen ground, the f loor shakes and dust falls from the ceiling. In the chimneypiece, a log tumbles and f lips open the hearth door. A shaft of light is thrown across the room, illuminating the signora at her table. 

   Now he sees her face. Skin like pale parchment, veined and watermarked, stretched over a tiny skull. She keeps her back straight and neck long, though her body, under layers of black tulle, is as thin as twigs. It is like looking at time itself. 

   “Prepared to die, yes,” she says. “Some people are. They’re ready to walk into fire, into battle, knowing they’ll not return. They’re willing to do it—so the rest of us can be safe.” 

   In front of her, the decanter and glass rattle on the tray, the surface of the brandy shivers as the pounding of soldiers’ boots reaches its apogee, before beginning to diminish. Down into the valley they go, in their nightly maneuver to guard their city. Domenikos’s heart quickens. He feels suddenly grateful he came to Rome, beyond doubt that the journey was worthwhile, sure he’s found a kindred spirit. He’s desperate to know more of Giorgione now, of what he made, what he painted, what he risked, that six decades later this woman in front of him is still in awe of it. Domenikos feels a light creaking open inside of him, a shiver of excitement—a sensation he hasn’t had in months. In years, perhaps. 

   The signora gives a nod and with her knuckle pushes the decanter toward him, and then the spare glass. “Drink.” 

   Domenikos fills the glass, throws back its contents in one, inhales against the reassuring shock of alcohol and says, “I’m listening. Tell me all about him—all about this color storm.”