My hand lifts without permission, hovering just short of the canvas. Not touching-God, even I know better-but close enough that it feels like heat radiates from the paint. "...Antonio?" Diego's voice is wary. I don't answer. I can't. I'm staring at her the way men stare at omens. "Diego," I whisper, "who is she?" Diego steps beside me, eyes widening. He whistles low. "She's... wow. She's-" "I know." "Antonio," he says, putting a hand on my shoulder, "you look deranged." "I feel deranged." He laughs, then cuts himself off when he sees I'm not joking. My pulse is hammering. I don't even know this girl's name, and yet something in me is clawing forward, hungry, fierce, desperate. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in destiny or signs or prophecies or whatever nonsense my tutors preached when I was a boy. But looking at her- I almost do. "She's the Princess of Prussia," Diego finally says, reading the tiny plaque at the bottom. "Victoria." Victoria. The name hits like a strike to the chest.
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