On Christine and Alex’s last full day, he and Lydia and Nathan caught the train to Vicenza, for a change; Zachary and Christine stayed behind because Zachary had promised to show her the Tiepolo ceiling in the Scuola dei Carmini. The day was overcast, the sky spat flurries of rain, tourists thronging in the narrow passageways were disconsolate. Yet forging her way among them, with Zachary steering, a touch on her shoulder or her elbow – this way, down here, turn left – Christine felt weightless and at ease, as if some effort of performance had fallen away. She was too transparent in her social relations, she thought, allowing the others’ moods and perceptions to be reflected in her chaotically, responding in too many directions, making doomed efforts to appease. Now that she let critical awareness drop – like sinking beneath the busily reflective surface of a lake – she was present in the day as quietly and alertly as if she were alone. Zachary, somehow, didn’t count; they were dear old companions, they needn’t try too hard. They exchanged one significant full smiling look, when the bells tolled from the Carmini church.

They had the Scuola to themselves at first. It took a few minutes, once they had ducked into the unpropitious entrance and were out of the flow in the streets, for its peace to sift down into consciousness; the sensation of driving forwards beat on noisily inside them while they stood blinking in the dim foyer, eyes adjusting and hearts slowing. They breathed a different stale, cool, motionless air: its ashy aftertaste of incense, layered deeply over centuries of consecration, alien to both their sensibilities and yet powerfully nostalgic. The cold stone itself smelled of it. A woman sold them tickets from behind the usual meagre display of dun postcards. In truth Christine had hardly thought in advance about the art, she was tired of being amazed by things, and Tiepolo anyway wasn’t one of her painters. She had thought the Scuola was going to be on a different scale and was pleased by its modest size, which suited her mood; she peered benignly, as if she were actually interested, into cabinets of religious insignia, medals, silverware, certificates of indulgence, embroideries brittle with age. And she was looking forward to finding a characterful little bar afterwards where she and Zachary could stop for coffee, confide their moods, share the latest art gossip.