“But I did. I knew her. I’d seen her with Deirdre, which should have marked her for death, but how could any lover of art mark a woman like this for death? She was beautiful. She was gothic. She was a muse in the flesh. Titian would have switched from redheads to brunettes for her. Aela O’Neill. Walking salvation and the promise of hell. I should ignore her, should send her packing, but instead, I rumbled, “Hello, Aela,” and took my first steps, without even a blink, into the abyss.”
