Anselme's visage greeted Charles with the grace of an artist that his children lacked. It held something unique that intrigued The Photographer.
But he didn't have the time to figure out what that was.
The Lady wouldn't allow it.
He saw her.
She was there—at the end of the corridor.
As a puppet with its strings cut, she stood motionless.
With uncertainty, he approached her.
But it was just a mirror showing her reflection. He looked back, to the left, and to the right.
Mirrors.
They were everywhere.
As if attached by a rope, his chin was yanked down.
There, he saw her.
Below the glass floor, looking up at him, was The Lady in her wooden umbrella.
She winked at him and moved in circular motions across the piece of canvas on which she stood. It was large enough to cover the entire room.
Rotate. Hop. Stretch.
She danced with grace, drawing black lines with her feet.
The violent deviation from Fur Elise boomed in the rooms.
Charles could do nothing but watch in awe.
