“Besides,” says Alessandro, raising his hand as if to cup the waning sun that bathes his corner of the room. “What good is an artist without his light?” Sabine stares at the handsome youth, bemused. “You say this now, when you’re still young and life seems endless. But one day, your beauty will wither, and your flesh will sag—” “And my bones will be buried in the family plot,” he says, returning to his work, “and if God sees fit, something good will grow from them. But it won’t be me.”
