She put out her cigarette and ditched the idea of smoking another. Better to save them for later. There was no one left she could borrow money from. Even with alternative sources of income, she was barely scraping by and would soon be forced to choose whether she could afford to smoke or draw. Unless, that was, her contacts found the right buyers. The material was in her atelier waiting to be sold, and the thought made her chronically short of breath.

But, she reminded herself, if this works, I can get out of this predicament once and for all.

The rent for the atelier was expensive, and so were her tools. Every single trip to buy art supplies was a catastrophic hit to her modest budget. When she was around heavy cardstock, markers in little jars, and felt tip pens, she didn’t know how to stop. And unlike her artist colleagues, she had always abstained from licking the asses of the board members in the Danish Arts Foundation and had accordingly never even once received any of the grants she routinely applied for every year in January.

Her ambition had never made for a comfortable life. She wasn’t interested in predictability and safety.

What is the point of life if not striving to uncover the divine we all carry within? French fries, generic shopping malls, and retirement savings, nothing else.

I’m trying to find God before God finds me.

She smiled at her own profundity and went back to the wooden box. This time she unfolded the tissue paper without hesitating and took out the mask, held it carefully by the wooden pin on the back, and inspected it. She had chosen one of the unknown ones that she knew wouldn’t be missed for a while. The face was young and pure, the gender hard to decide; it looked like it belonged to a sleeping teenager. She carefully set the death mask on her workbench and took out her old Olympus. The photo documentation had to be in order, otherwise it wouldn’t sell. And then a strong sales blurb, evocative and detailed.

Jenny positioned the mask so that the fine plaster eyelashes could be seen clearly, and started taking pictures.

On November sixth the previous year she had turned fifty, and ever since she had been fighting to keep her faith. Believing that her breakthrough was, if not imminent, then at least still possible was all she had. If she lost that, she might as well lie down and die.

AT TIMES WE lose sight of how those closest to us are doing and only really discover the truth when we observe them in an unfamiliar situation. Across the lunch table at the restaurant in the tower of Christiansborg Palace, amid the massive stone walls and elegant designer furniture, Gregers suddenly looked sick. A used dishcloth among the freshly pressed damask, worn and so incredibly frail.