“So what’s the routine?” Ross asked.

“I start with a pencil sketch. Then, sometime after you’re gone, I’ll paint in the background, for balance. Then I start painting.”

“Are you using acrylics?”

“No, I only use those to practice because they dry fast. This is special so I’m using oils.”

Ross scratched his forehead, careful not to move. “That reminds me of something. Francesca, she’s the woman I work for at the Uffizi, told me this story about one of the paintings. A newly wealthy merchant asked Leonardo for a portrait. They agreed on a price; then the merchant asked what medium Leonardo would be painting in. ‘Oils,’ Leonardo said. His patron was incensed. ‘Where do you think you are, Naples? In Florence we do everything in butter.’ ”

Eliana smiled slightly. “I would believe that’s true.”

“Oils. Linen canvas. So what makes this portrait special?”

“You. You’re my first real model in Italy. Not counting Alessio.”

“So after you paint the background, then what?”

“Over the next several sittings I’ll paint a black-and-white picture of you. Then I’ll start applying the paints. I’ll start with your hair, just because it’s higher on the picture and I can still rest my hand against the canvas, then on to your nose and work out from there.”

“How long will it take?”

“That depends on how many questions the subject asks.”

“At this rate?”

She grinned. “About ten years.” She sat down at the easel. “All right, I’m ready.”

She lifted her pencil and began to sketch, sometimes hidden behind the canvas, sometimes peering around it at Ross. Her pencil made a smooth, comforting sound against the linen. After about twenty minutes she said, “All right, let’s take a break.”

Ross took a deep breath and exhaled. Eliana rolled her stool out from behind the easel.

“You doing okay?”

“Yes.”

He stood, walked over near her. “May I see?”

She held up her hand. “No. It’s bad luck.”

“You artists are all mad.”

“È vero.” It’s true. Her eyes darted away from him as if she was suddenly embarrassed. “Speaking of crazy, I want to apologize for the other night.”

“For what?”

“My tongue was too loose. I’m sorry for dumping all of that on you.”

“For the record, I really enjoyed myself the other night. A little honesty is refreshing.”

“I think you’re just being polite. My husband says that American women talk too much. In this case he’s right. But it just felt so good to talk to an adult in English.”

“It was fine. Really.”

She took a sip from her glass, emptying it. “Thank you. Let me know when you’re ready to start again.”

“Just a minute.” He stretched again. Then he sat back down. “Okay. Is this right?”

“Scoot back a little . . . to your right a little more . . . no, your other right. Perfetto.”

She looked at him for a moment then raised her pencil to the canvas. “So I realized that every time I asked you about yourself you changed the subject.”