I examined the painting carefully, fastidiously.
“A shadow,” I said—although only after some length. “Like a dark cloud, or a kind of stain, only—” I hesitated. “No. No, that’s not it. More of a ... an undertow.”
“‘A demonic sublime,’ as Yvonne Jacquette put it,” she said; and looked at me. “Something lurid, carnivalesque, frenetic—almost noirish. Something primal and unrestrained. He had it.” She laughed, suddenly. “Until he didn’t. But then, we all do; to a greater or lesser degree.” Her greenish-brown eyes flicked up and down my face (for she’d moved closer; a lot closer). “Even you.”
My brow must have furrowed even as I smiled. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
“I’m not sure how I meant it.”
Now it was my turn to do the sizing up. “Precisely none of which explains why you were bow
