The portrait was of a woman who might have been smiling.
Julian Cross stood in front of it for forty-seven minutes, examining the brushwork, the pigments, the canvas weave, the craquelure pattern, and feeling nothing. No certainty. No doubt. Just a hollow space behind his eyes where certainty and doubt were supposed to go. "It's Botticelli," he said. The words came out flat and uncertain, which was unlike him. Julian Cross did not do uncertain. He...
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