I pour two, hand her one, and keep the other.
She takes it, sips without a word, then sets it down.
"Are you going to say something clever?" she asks.
I consider it.
"No. I save clever for men who need convincing."
A faint smile, gone before it takes hold.
"You think I'm convinced?"
"I think you don't need to be. That's what's interesting."
She lifts her glass again, inspects the surface.
"You've been through my house," she says.
"You've taken what you want. Do you ever wonder if there's anything left?"
I look her up and down.
"There's always something left. Otherwise, we wouldn't be here."
She laughs quietly. "I suppose you're right."
We stand like that, the portrait looming overhead, neither of us willing to blink first.
I try to imagine what she must think of me—the intruder, the executioner, the man who will never be allowed to forget he is not from here.
But her gaze is not accusing.
It's assessing, the way you'd look at a rival chess player in the middle of a long, ugly endgame.
A waiter comes up the stairs, whispers that the guests are assembled, the council is waiting. Keira doesn't move.
She lets the silence settle, then turns her face back to the painting.
"Did you know," she says, "that my father never sat for a portrait until after he knew he was dying?"
"No. Why?"
She shrugs.
"He said the only honest likeness is the one taken at the end."
I nod, more impressed than I care to show.
"He was right about that."
She finishes her drink, sets it down, and faces me.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then."
That's all, just a brief, knowing smile before she turns and walks away.
And I let her, but not before my eyes lock on the sway of her hips, that hypnotic roll like sin wrapped in silk.
