I found her in the last room, looking at a painting of a darkhaired woman in a white Victorian dress. The woman was standing tall and erect, a pale hand resting on the back of a stiff, plumcolored chair. She had a thin nose, and her small lips were pressed into a heart shape. Looking at the slender line of Vivienne’s profile, I saw then how still and pale she was, the composed readiness of her smile. I read the plaque and found out that the woman in the painting was an English duchess. I relayed this information to Vivienne.

“Does that mean she’s royalty?” I asked.

“Hmmm…” Vivienne squinted, looking closer at the painting, as if the answers were to be found in the brushwork or a detail of lace. The duchess retained her composure under the scrutiny. Vivienne stepped back at last from the painting, regarding it with an odd, mesmerized sort of gaze.

“Did you find anything to write about?” she asked.

“What? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. I think I’ve got enough notes,” I lied. I hadn’t taken any notes. As usual, nothing had sustained my interest, and as usual I was lazily confident that I’d be able to come up with something at the last minute. “It’s almost four. We should probably go, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes, I suppose we should.”

As we took the escalator down to the lobby, Vivienne complained about the poor lighting in all the exhibitions and the carpeting in the Asian Art room.

“Art and carpets,” she declared, crossing the lobby floor. “No.”

As we walked towards the exit, Vivienne noticed a set of double doors to our left.

“Oh, I wonder what’s in there,” she said, already walking towards it.

“Vivienne,” I protested. “Dad will be waiting.” I stopped a moment, then decided to catch up.

Standing side by side, we peered in through the row of small glass panes set in the top halves of the doors and saw a large, white space. We entered the room, gravely silent. A parade of black floor-standing speakers formed a circle around the room’s perimeter. I noticed that there were breaks in the circle after every five speakers. There were eight breaks. Forty speakers total. A comfortable-looking bench stood in the center of the space. Vivienne and I lingered by the doors, uncertain. We decided the exhibition was probably still in preparation, but as we turned to leave, the room started humming with sound. Startled, our eyes darted around. No. It was just the two of us. We smiled at each other, confused and a little embarrassed. Vivienne checked the sign by the door. Forty Part Motet (2001). Sound installation. Her expression relaxed into recognition, and she gestured to the speakers.

“They’re preparing,” she said triumphantly.

“They? Who?”

“The choir,” she smiled, still pleased with herself.