It was a painting of five people—three women and two men—wearing costumes from the Middle Ages. The woman in the center had on a dress in blazing white. She knelt, blindfolded. Her left hand was outstretched, looking for support. A balding man in a fur cloak guided her toward the wooden block where her head was to rest. On the extreme right, a sinister guy in red tights leaned on the handle of a humongous ax. There was straw on the ground, ready to soak up blood.

“Whoa,” someone said.

“Anyone?” Mr. Z crossed his arms, smiling at the room.

“Joan of Arc?” Alicia Hwang ventured.

“Good try, Alicia. In fact this is a piece called The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, painted by Paul Delaroche in 1833. Another scene set in the Tower of London. The original hangs in the National Gallery in London and it’s huge—I’ve seen it—eight feet high and ten feet wide. When you’re standing in front of it, these figures are life-size. You feel like at any second, they’ll start moving and they’ll chop off her head.” Mr. Z looked at the picture in awe, adding softly: “It’s . . . electrifying.”

Rosemary tried to imagine the original painting. Even as a slide projection it achieved the effect of palpable dread.

“Lady Jane Grey was deposed as the Protestant queen of England after just nine days in 1553, when she was fifteen years old. Again, she was done in by a jealous relative, in this case, her sister-in-law, Mary. Mary gave Jane the option of converting to Catholicism before they executed her, but Jane politely said no thanks. So much for blood ties . . .”

To Rosemary’s mortification, Mr. Z directed his laser pointer to her chest. The red spot bounced around her left breast like a neon flea.

“How old are you, Rosemary?”

“Fifteen,” she mumbled.

“Then you can probably imagine what the poor girl must have been going through.” He gave her one of his smiles that also looked like a wince.

“Who are those two ladies lurking behind her?” someone asked.

“Her loyal maids-in-waiting. Again, look at the different ways of dealing with trauma. Jane is completely calm while her two maids are in hysterical agony. One of them has her eyes closed and the other has her back turned to the action. In fact, look . . .” Mr. Z moved his pointer across all five characters on the screen. “Not one of them is looking back at us at all. You can’t even see their eyes. That’s part of the horror of the scene. It is so intimate, so hermetically sealed-off. As a result, we feel as if we’re witnessing true, unmitigated emotion.”

He shut off the slide projector. “All right. Enough art.” He clasped his hands together. “Time for some trust exercises.”