I enter the Hall of Mirrors, exactly at the peak of a magical moment.
At this time of day, the spacious, magnificent rococo-style hall is a never-ending light and shadow interplay of refractions and reflections.
I see my face again and again, fractured by rays of light and reflected in the Venetian mirrors. I move about as if dancing, and my image multiplies and fills the space.
In this moment of solitude, I think I can hear the echo of past celebrations and festivals. The laughter of noblewomen, on the arms of their knights, seems to linger joyfully and gracefully in this evening illusion. It’s as though I can hear the sound of violins and see hundreds of candles flickering, surrounded by gold, shimmer, and swirling skirts. I brush my hand over the white, ornate tiled stove and the piano keys.