She found the room easily, tucked away by itself, no larger than Simon’s study in Chelsea. Unlike the exhibition rooms she had passed through to reach it, Room 7 contained only one piece, Leonardo da Vinci’s full-scale composition of the Virgin and Child with St. Anne and the infant St. John the Baptist. Additionally unlike the other exhibition rooms, Room 7 was chapel-like, dimly illuminated by weak protective lights directed upon only the artwork itself, furnished with a set of benches from which admirers could contemplate what the museum plan called one of da Vinci’s most beautiful works. There were, however, no other admirers contemplating it now.

Deborah sat before it. A tightness began to curl in her back and to form a coiled spring of tension at the base of her neck. She was not immune to the excellent irony of her choice.

It grew from the Virgin’s expression, that mask of devotion and selfless love. It grew from St. Anne’s eyes — deeply understanding in a face of contentment — cast in the Virgin’s direction. For who would understand better than St. Anne, watching her own beloved daughter loving the wondrous Infant she’d borne. And the Infant Himself, leaning out of His mother’s arms, reaching for His cousin the Baptist, leaving His mother even now, even now…

That would be Simon’s point, the leaving. That was the scientist speaking in him, calm, analytical, and given to looking at the world in terms of the objective practicalities implied by statistics. But his worldview — indeed, his world itself — was different from hers. He could say, Listen to me, Deborah, there are other bonds besides those of blood…because it was easy for him, of all people, to possess that particular philosophical bent. Life was defined in different terms for her.