There was a counterpoint, a descant of tap, tap, tap of footfalls that were not her own on bare floorboards. It was not immediately apparent, Olivia did not turn to look and see but the hazy awareness of someone other than herself that spread itself between the rich reds and blues of the canvases. Nor did she, ultimately care. There was a moment, tiny and fractious and grating in which she wished that the gallery was closed, that it was impossible to share the paintings with other people who would cough or rustle or worst of all, talk. People had a tendency toward all of it no matter which gallery or painting.
Her heels were a castanet click, slow and measured and the beat of something almost dreamy. Olivia admired the sweep of brush-strokes as though listening to a symphony. The art slid in between her shoulder-blades, began the unwinding of the knot there.