Amsterdam knew about space, and restraint. The Old World does. Small rooms, tailored, efficient, the breath pauses, the way a note has time for its own die down. A place where you can hear the rain before it is raining, even through the windows.
The bed was light wood, with a headboard where you could store things. There was a desk in a mini-alcove with a small, good chair. It was early dark on the second day.
Alexi pulled the chair up to the side of the bed. Vivienne was lying on the bed, in her sleek charcoal grey pants, her soft rust zip-up high boots, and her aqua sweater. Alexi saw her first in that sweater, across the aisle in the plane. Her artist photo in her book showed a woman with no hair and no eyebrows, bright eyes.
He had watched her on the plane, her face to the window,
