She is exhausted. Can’t keep her eyelids open. What has he given her to drink! She will be one of thousands of butterflies, preserved in formaldehyde! Her ashy-blond hair, like metallic filaments, will be preserved for all to admire.

Together, she and her male companion will drift off to sleep. Whiskey has warmed them. Her hand clutches his. If she tried, she could not hope to close her fingers around his wrist.

The happiest she has been in her posthumous life.

7.

But no: there is no sleep.

Happiness, but happiness is fleeting.

No sleep beyond a few fluttering seconds, and when she wakes suddenly, her eyes fly open to see that Vnn has left her to bring some of his art supplies to the sofa.

Over his (unshaven) jaws the artist has affixed a half mask of white gauze, of the sort worn by medical workers at risk from contagion.

On his big-knuckled hands he has managed to force surgical gloves.

Out of a cloudy, quart-size commercial bottle he has poured a virulent-smelling transparent liquid onto a wadded white cloth of the size of a face towel. Frowning as the liquid soaks into the cloth.

Oh, what is it? Ether?

Chloroform.

The whiskey has made her sleepy. The smell of chloroform—harsh, heavy—makes her sleepier still.

Wanting to protest—But I am innocent! Have mercy.

Yet—what is most mysterious—L.K. does not really seem so frightened of what is about to happen to her. For perhaps it has already happened and she is only remembering.

Carefully the man in the white mask is speaking to her. Patiently.

His animosity toward her, that has so wounded her, seems to be past.

“Remove your ivory bracelets, dear. And the necklace.”

Fumbling to obey him. Her face flushes with chagrin. She would protest—But I did not buy this ivory jewelry new! It is all secondhand.

Vnn takes the beautiful bracelets and necklace from her and sets them carefully aside. He has only to glance at her watch, and L.K. slips it off her wrist.

“Very good, dear! Now take this cloth. You will press it against your mouth and nose and hold it there for as long as you can. It may help to shut your eyes. Breathe deeply.”

Handing her the wetted cloth, which she takes from him hesitantly.

What has he instructed? Press the cloth against her—mouth, nose?

“You are one of the rare subjects allowed to control her own fate. That is, you will be allowed to ‘put yourself to sleep.’ It is painless.”

Vnn speaks tenderly to her. Despite his disheveled appearance and the winking gold stud in his earlobe, he is a gentleman and will not hurt her.

“You are not to blame for the shallowness of your soul—none of your kind are to blame. You must be extinguished, but it will not be punitive, only just. So, now—you may put yourself to sleep as prescribed.”