The gallery was empty when Emma arrived, the white walls and polished floors waiting to be filled with her work. Arthur Whitmore had given her the key, telling her to come whenever she needed to think, to plan, to imagine what the exhibition could become.

She walked through the space slowly, her footsteps echoing in the silence. It was a beautiful building, all light and air and possibility. The main gallery was large enough for thirty or forty paintings, with smaller rooms branching ...