Deno leaves the library and I take a moment to admire the place, the long bookshelves, the thousands of books, the brown ladder that is polished, looking brand new and not withered by the signs of time. My fingers touch the leather couch, as I scour the area in wonder of what it was like to be her, Bernice Antonella DeMarco.

My eyes stop at the portrait and I stare at her, black eyes, hair pinned up with loose curls hanging from the side. Her face is painted like it was porcelain, her ...