‘It isn’t the champagne,’ said Fran after a moment. ‘I do see it.’
Michael and Lucy were still dancing – the floor was crowded, but it was easy to pick them out. As they moved, there was a moment when it seemed to Francesca that two other figures moved with them – like the overlaying of a transparent photograph, or like the superimposing of an old, old film – so that it was no longer Michael and Lucy, but two other figures from a long-ago night.
Lucretia von Wolff and Conrad Kline, together again, dancing beneath the glittering chandeliers of a Viennese ballroom…
Fran looked back at Alice who had been watching the dancers and sipping champagne, and who had died quietly and happily, one hand turned palm upwards, as if eagerly reaching out to clasp the hand of someone who had been waiting for her…