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188 pages, Paperback
First published April 30, 2026
She admires the Guercino, Guido Reni, Gellée, most of all the Murillo. Gazes at a painting of the Three Graces dancing barefoot in a glade and, suppressing a smile, thinks of her mother and her Aunts - Mary, Everina, Eliza, three sisters. Had they ever danced like that, girlishly, with ribbons in their hands? The two younger ones are looking up to Mary, expecting her to save them from ... from what, exactly? From themselves?
Disorientated now, she passes through an arch and another arch and finds herself facing a small, dark painting. Fanny feels snared by this picture; it has caught her off guard and demands she look. Objectively, she admires the composition, the light, the handling of the drapery, the subtlety of the colours - Venetian reds and umbers. A painting of three women, but these three are not dancing. One spins, one measures, one cuts. And they are old. Older than Aunt fiza and Aunt Everina, older than all the pious dead of ode portraits, older than the Bible even. These three are the Fats, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos busily making, allotting and terminating lives. The first sister glares out towards the viewer, the second looks distractedly over her shoulder at something beyond the frame. The third sister's face is half-hidden in shadow.