Rows of books create a dark, elegant frame around Mary Venice, making her red hair and soft lavender dress seem even more luminous by comparison. She trails along the shelves, choosing a volume before glancing back with a smile touched by gentle mischief. Soon she’s settled comfortably on the sofa, book resting open in her hands as though the afternoon has become wonderfully still. Yet her eyes repeatedly rise above the pages, drawn toward you by a curiosity no written story seems capable of satisfying.