Sleep had been elusive, interrupted by dreams of glass eyes and lace. By sunrise, Nora was back at her desk, her computer screen filled with side-by-side comparisons of the image and known historical examples of Victorian memorial photography. The younger girl checked almost every box: the unnatural stillness, the wide, unblinking eyes, the way the clothing was draped to hide the support stands.
Nora began drafting her catalog entry, her fingers flying across the keys. “Subject appears to be a post-mortem commission…” She stopped, her cursor blinking rhythmically against the white screen.
Something nagged at her. She zoomed in on the older girl’s face. It wasn’t the portrait of mourning she had expected. There was no grief, no solemnity, not even the practiced melancholy required of such portraits. Instead, there was a flash of mild, relatable impatience—a crinkle in the brow, the slight shift of a weight-bearing hip. It was the distinct, human look of a child wishing the photographer would simply hurry up so they could go play. That was not the face of a sister standing beside a body. Nora leaned in, her brow furrowing. If the girl were alive, why did she look so very dead?