“Found something you fancy?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She tapped the price-sticker in the corner of the frame. “seventy-five dollars or question-mark, it says. You told me you could give me fifty for my engagement ring. Would you be willing to trade, even-Steven? My ring for this picture?” Steiner walked down his side of the counter, flipped up the pass-through at the end, and came around to Rosie’s side. He looked at the picture as carefully as he had looked at her ring… but this time he looked with a certain amusement.

“I don’t remember this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before. Must be something the old man picked up. He’s the art-lover of the family; I’m just a glorified Mr Fixit.” ’does that mean you can’t-” “dicker? Bite your tongue! I’ll dicker until the cows come home, if you let me. But this time I don’t have to. I’m happy to do it your way-even swapsies. Then I don’t have to watch you walk out of here with your face practically dragging on the floor.” And here was another first; before she knew what she was doing, Rosie had wrapped her arms around Bill Steiner’s neck and given him a brief, enthusiastic hug.

“Thank you!” she cried.

“Thanks so much!” Steiner laughed.

“Oh boy, you’re welcome,” he said.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been hugged by a customer in these hallowed halls. See any other pictures you really want, lady?” The old fellow in the topcoat-the one Steiner had called Robbie-walked over to look at the picture.

“Considering what most pawnshop patrons are like, that’s probably a blessing,” he said. Bill Steiner nodded.

“You have a point.” She barely heard them. She was rooting through her bag, hunting for the twist of Kleenex with the ring in it. Finding it took her longer than it needed to, because her eyes kept wandering back to the picture on the counter. Her picture. For the first time she thought of the room she would be going to with real impatience. Her own place, not just one camp-bed among many. Her own place, and her own picture to hang on the wall. It’s the first thing I’ll do, she thought as her fingers closed over the bundle of tissue. The very first. She unwrapped the ring and held it out to Steiner, but he ignored it for the time being; he was studying the picture.

“It’s an original oil, not a print,” he said, “and I don’t think it’s very good. Probably that’s why it’s covered with glass-somebody’s idea of dolling it up. What’s that building at the bottom of the hill supposed to be? A burned-out plantation-house?”

“I believe it’s supposed to be the ruins of a temple,” the old guy with the mangy briefcase said quietly.

“A Greek temple, perhaps. Although it’s difficult to say, isn’t it?” It was difficult to say, because the building in question was buried almost to the roof in underbrush. Vines were growing up the five columns in front. A sixth lay in segments. Near the fallen pillar was a fallen statue, so overgrown that all that could be glimpsed above the green was a smooth white stone face looking up at the thunderheads with which the painter had enthusiastically filled the sky.

“Yeah,” Steiner said.

“Anyway, it looks to me like the building’s out of perspective-it’s too big for where it is.” The old man nodded.

“But it’s a necessary cheat. Otherwise nothing would show but the roof. As for the fallen pillar and statue, forget them-they wouldn’t be visible at all.” She didn’t care about the background; all of her attention was fixed upon the painting’s central figure. At the top of the hill, turned to look down at the ruins of the temple so anyone viewing the picture could only see her back, was a woman. Her hair was blonde, and hung down her back in a plait. Around one of her shapely upper arms-the right-was a broad circle of gold. Her left hand was raised, and although you couldn’t see for sure, it looked as if she was shading her eyes. It was odd, given the thundery, sunless sky, but that was what she appeared to be doing, just the same. She was wearing a short dress-a toga, Rosie supposed-which left one creamy shoulder bare. The garment’s color was a vibrant red-purple. It was impossible to tell what, if anything, she was wearing on her feet; the grass that she was standing in came almost up to her knees, where the toga ended.

“What do you call it?” Steiner asked. He was speaking to Robbie.

“Classical? Neo-classical?”

“I call it bad art,” Robbie said with a grin, “but at the same time I think I understand why this woman wants it. It has an emotional quality to it that’s quite striking. The elements may be classical-the sort of thing one might see in old steel engravings-but the feel is gothic. And then there’s the fact that the principal figure has her back turned. I find that very odd. On the whole… well, one can’t say this young lady has chosen the best picture in the joint, but I’m sure she’s chosen the most peculiar one.” Rosie was still barely hearing them. She kept finding new things in the picture to engage her attention. The dark violet cord around the woman’s waist, for instance, which matched her robe’s trim, and the barest hint of a left breast, revealed by the raised arm. The two men were only nattering. It was a wonderful picture. She felt she could look at it for hours on end, and when she had her new place, she would probably do just that.

“No title, no signature,” Steiner said.

“Unless-”

He turned the picture around. Printed in soft, slightly blurred charcoal strokes on the paper backing were the words ROSE MADDER.

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “here’s the artist’s name. I guess. Funny name, though. Maybe it’s a pseudonym.” Robbie shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then saw that the woman who had chosen the picture also knew better.

“It’s the name of the picture,” she said, and then added, for some reason she could never have explained, “Rose is my name.” Steiner looked at her, completely bewildered.

“Never mind, that’s just a coincidence.” But was it? she wondered. Was it really?

“Look.” She gently turned the picture around again. She tapped the glass over the toga the woman in the foreground was wearing.

“That color-that purply-red-is called rose madder.” “she’s right,” Robbie said.

“Either the artist-or more likely the last person to own the picture, since charcoal rubs away fairly rapidly-has named the painting after the color of the woman’s chiton.”

“Please,” Rose said to Steiner, “could we do our business? I’m anxious to be on my way. I’m late as it is.” Steiner started to ask once more if she was sure, but he saw that she was. He saw something else, as well-she had a fine-drawn look about her, one that suggested she’d had a difficult go of it just lately. It was the face of a woman who might regard honest interest and concern as teasing, or possibly as an effort to alter the terms of the deal in his own favor. He simply nodded.

“The ring for the picture, straight trade. And we both go away happy.”

“Yes,” Rosie said, and gave him a smile of dazzling brilliance. It was the first real smile she had given anyone in fourteen years, and in the moment of its fullness, his heart opened to her.

“And we both go away happy.” She stood outside for a moment, blinking stupidly at the cars rushing past, feeling the way she had as a small child after leaving the movies with her father-dazed, caught with half of her brain in the world of real things and half of it still in the world of make-believe. But the picture was real enough; she only had to look down at the parcel she held under her left arm if she doubted that. The door opened behind her, and the elderly man came out. Now she even felt good about him, and she gave him the sort of smile people reserve for those with whom they have shared strange or marvellous experiences.