Sophia ordered a martini, noticing that it was a popular choice among the women, and slowly walked around the studio, trying to find something to hold onto in her search for a solution. The task was indeed no easy feat.

Over the centuries, the Ephor had encountered various opponents. There were bankers, soldiers, circus performers, stablehands, and plantation slaves. But they all shared one common experience: they had endured a profound shock that began to return their memories of past lives.

Now, however, the situation was different. According to available information, Constantin had grown up in a well-off family, comfortable and well-cared-for. He had done well in school and hadn’t lacked attention. Thanks to Libby, he possessed a strong charisma. He wasn’t afraid of moving, and any task seemed easily manageable to him. He wasn’t prone to depression. So what could have triggered such a rapid return of memory? That was what she needed to find out.

Continuing to walk through the space, Sophia tried her best not to pay attention to the other guides. There were many of them, and they quickly recognized her as an Ephor, but to their credit, they didn’t bombard her with questions. Some glanced at Libby with sympathy. Rumors in High Society spread as quickly as they did among ordinary people.

One by one, the paintings captured Sophia’s attention. The chaos in Constantin’s mind was skillfully reflected in his art-house works. To grasp the depth of his creative ideas, she had to scrutinize every detail, missing nothing.

In one painting, a young girl with enormous light blue eyes was depicted. Gold leaf adorned her eyebrows, and her long white lashes seemed to reach for it. Her porcelain skin seemed to glow through the canvas. A teacup rested atop a significant portion of her head, with her ear forming the handle of the cup. She was completely naked, modestly covered in strategic places by steam rising either from the saucer in her hands or from her own skin.

Next to her, there were duplicates of the girl, only twenty years older. As the girl approached old age, her porcelain skin dulled, and the wrinkles on her face and cup resembled cracks and chips in fine china. The sparkle in her eyes faded, and the saucer in her hands had completely vanished. Now, the elderly woman, broken in places and standing completely naked, embodied the wear and tear of body and spirit. Tea leaves were painted on her cheeks, resembling tears.

“Simply astonishing, isn’t it?” Libby asked, standing to Sophia’s left. “How finely he perceives this world.”

“There’s something to this painting,” the Ephor replied, without much enthusiasm. “As for perceiving the world, people are incapable of seeing the truth, no matter how hard they try.”

Libby looked at Sophia in surprise and rolled her eyes.

“They are the truth, Sophia. Their passion for life is proof of that, don’t you think?”

“Passion—” the Ephor pronounced the word almost with disgust. “What is passion, anyway? Just banal animal instincts, nothing more.”

“Everything is passion on a mental level, just as everything is art. You can find pleasure in creation and even greater ecstasy when your work is accepted and appreciated. The eroticism between people is simple and clear. But what you feel from creativity is something more.”

“His state is borderline. In his creative fervor, Van is mad,” Sophia replied, not turning her head toward her companion.

“But he’s mad just enough to return. Yes, within him lives that dark matter that envelops him, merging with him into a whole and forming what everyone sees – the artist.”