Ross looked at the painting. “Why did you choose a fallen Vestal?”

“I don’t know. It just intrigued me that someone wanted, or needed, love so badly that they would risk everything, even their lives.”

“So it did happen—one of them was buried alive.”

“Eighteen of them.”

Ross was surprised. “Eighteen?”

She looked up at him, as if suddenly woken from the trance. “Though one of them was raped by the emperor and punished for it. Hardly fair.”

“No, I think not.”

“The world has always been full of double standards.”

Ross felt as if she were talking about something else.

She turned back. “Shall we start?”

Ross returned the portrait to the others then came over by a chair in front of the easel.

“You want me here?”

“Yes. Just sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’ll do my best to make you uncomfortable in just a moment.”

Ross sat back in the chair.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait?”

“No.”

“Like I said, it’s easy.” She was suddenly quiet as she stared at him. “Move a little forward. Okay, now put your hands here. No, like this.” She came around the canvas, took his hand, moved it to his thigh, but still didn’t like the pose. “Maybe you should be holding a closed book in your lap, just something to give the picture some balance. Let’s try this.” She handed him a book; its leather cover was dyed dark maroon, with the Florentine lily embossed on it. “Nice. That works. I was thinking of doing something a little more dramatic, so I want to try using a spotlight on you and dimming the lights.”

She moved the light until it surrounded him with a small halo. Then she stepped back to her easel and studied him. Ross sat quietly and his eyes darted around the studio. It was like peeking into her mind. Not just what she painted, but what she surrounded herself with while she painted.

On the counter behind her there was a stack of books, mostly religious, intermingled with Italian love stories. There were photographs. Dozens of pictures, mostly of Alessio, chronicling his age. There was one picture of the entire family, shot at a photo studio, though it was obvious that it had been shot a while back. Alessio looked scarcely two years old in the picture. There was another of an older American woman with silver hair leaning against a fence post in front of a horse. It was pinned to the wall next to a picture of a man. The man was dressed in corduroy jeans and his hairstyle dated the picture. Ross guessed it was Eliana’s father. There were several other pictures of horses, and also an actual horseshoe with writing on it that looked like a signature next to Happy trails.

She cocked her head to one side. “Okay, we’re almost there.”

She switched on a desk lamp directed toward her canvas; then she turned off the room lights. She studied him again then sat down on a leather-capped stool.