“This canvas is named Lucretia and it's by Rembrandt van Rijn,” I said. “Have you heard of Rembrandt?”

Angelo sighed, like I had just asked him if he had ever heard of cereal. “Of course I know Rembrandt.”

“Oh good,” I said. “Well, this is a famous work of his. It shows the moment after Lucretia pierces herself with a dagger.”

“This painting makes me feel terrible.” Angelo turned to me. “I've collected lots of perfectly awful feelings to put in Rosaline’s song. We can leave now.”

“There’s just one more painting I want to show you,” I said. “Close your eyes. Don’t open them until I say when.”

Lethargically, Angelo obeyed.

With the moon-white frog standing on my palm, I passed oil portraits in golden frames and marble statues of angels. I turned into the Impressionism room at the end of a long hallway.

“Keep your eyes closed,” I said.