Veneziano slowly closes his eyes, revisiting that grand old house in his mind’s palace, every corridor, every stuccoed ceiling, every glossy ornament, every magnificent aureate chandelier and the marbled ballroom he used to recall so vividly, sparkling splendidly in the glow of hundreds of candles. But he goes deeper, still, into the hallways of that derelict building in his past. He idly runs his fingers along the spines of dusty, forgotten volumes, neatly arranged in a multitude of rows that reach the ceiling - the old library, a place that smells like must, dried flowers and aged paper. He then moves to the music room and his gaze briefly traces the sensual curves of the grand pianoforte a coda, the room’s most admired centrepiece. That secret sanctuary, testament to a burning adoration for the liberal art that set Roderich’s spirit free, soaring in the passionate flames of the most gloriously transcendental strains of his music. An enviable array of instruments are neatly arranged therein, as if from a prized collection in a museum, but they are not there to collect dust: they are cared for and frequently played by slender, loving hands. His mind then begins to inexorably strip the multitude of layers of an elegant construct, of an exquisitely fabricated façade. This is a land of kings, of regal glamour and polished gold, of etiquette and art, of masters and masterpieces, of aesthetically designed gardens and snow-capped mountains. The valley echoes with the sharp cry of an eagle as it glides between the clouds above. He opens his eyes. Veneziano finally begins to apply careful strokes to his canvas. The delicate, darkening hues of late Autumn suit his subject, deep and intense. He returns to a time of simplicity, stripped of vapid pomp; it is a vast landscape, one which begins from the bottom of a crystal clear lake to the tips of the gargantuan mountains that frame it. The lake is a mirror that reflects the soaring silhouettes of the giants that look over the valley, cloaked in deep shades of golden-brown and burnt auburn, a mantle of forests as far as the eye can see. There is a bubbling spring coming down from the tallest and bare, jagged mountain crests, and next to it a quaint chalet. It is the colour of fresh cream with an exoskeleton of dark wooden beams, girdled by multi-coloured, flower-laden balconies, and smoke puffs out of its stone chimney. A figure, neither youthful nor old, dressed in deep purple stands on the lakeshore, hands clasped behind his back, raptly engrossed in the contemplation of his reflection in the still waters of the lake.
