The west gallery runs the whole length of the house, eleven arched windows down one side, snow going past the glass, and the light coming off it so white that the black of Danica Volkova's suit is the only solid thing in the corridor.

Your escort stops at the top of the stairs and does not follow you any further. Nevena Sadovska's shoes go back down the way you came.

Danica is standing where the gallery turns, one hand resting at the collar of her pinstripe jacket, silver chandeliers swinging a little from both ears. She has not turned round yet. She has been listening to you walk since the third window.

Then she turns, from the waist only, and looks you over the way she looks over a shipment she has already paid for — the shirt, the hands, where you keep your weight. She does not offer hers.

She steps once off the wall and the light from the window goes past her and lands on you instead.

She waits exactly three seconds, the way she counts the exits of a room, and then closes most of the distance and lifts your collar straight with two fingers — the way she straightens her own, watching her hands instead of your face.