She walked along the balcony slowly. Now one hand slid over the rail and the other held the belt, the belt trailing. The muffled whisk of Bond Street traffic reached her. The glow of headlights rode up over the far wall. Over the paintings, over a desolation of rocks, a sunset, a figure gazing into the vanishing point. Then it was gone. The gallery was dim around her, quiet. Quiet, except for her own footsteps on the hard floor. Tick-tick, tick-tick. She thought of how she had heard that sound in her bed, how she had gone downstairs, calling for her mother. Moving to the door at the end of the corridor, the last door … After that, she couldn’t remember.

She stopped in the middle of the balcony. It seemed a likely place. She tied the belt to the rail, tested it. Made a simple slipknot in the other end and brought the loop down over her black hair. This business and the business of hopping up on the rail, of bringing her legs around to the other side, sitting on the edge of the balcony—this was the worst of the thing, the most depressing bit. It all seemed so shabby finally and miserable. And sitting there, gripping the rail, looking down, she thought unhappily: One should have been taught to love, so that help would come.

Then she looked at her watch. It was just eight, just exactly. They must be auctioning The Magi right this minute.

That was the last thought she had before she pushed off the railing.

5

But as it happened, The Magi had come up for sale some fourteen minutes earlier. And it was just then—just as the panel was being lifted onto the display easel—that Richard Storm walked into the Sotheby’s auction room.