“They could at least supply an air conditioner,” she said.

“Who’d have guessed it would stay this hot this late in the season? It’s strange weather, isn’t it?”

Jane nodded noncommittally. A day didn’t go by when she didn’t worry about the rapid rise in global temperatures, the scrambled features of the seasons, about the peculiar new intensity of the sun that scorched skin, even in winter, about the extreme storms brewing in the clear waters of distant oceans, but there was something so dreary about the people who spent their time obsessing over matters they couldn’t control, she’d rather not be counted among their ranks. Standing with her back to the window and the sultry summery breeze blowing against her hair, she started to feel a little faint. Perhaps it was from the heat, or the exhausting climb, or something in the atmosphere of the pale green room. There was paint peeling from the wall in one corner, a patch of water stains and plaster dust and a hint of yellow floral wallpaper from some earlier era. She sat on the soft mattress of the bed, crossed her legs, and tried to regain her composure. “I know what it is about this place,” she said. “It’s your archetypal Parisian atelier.”

“I’ve thought that, too. It must be the view and the round windows. Although I can’t say I’ve ever been in a Parisian atelier.”

“Neither have I,” Jane said. “I don’t suppose anyone has. Unless they have them at DisneyWorld.”