Moretti’s face had curdled. He didn't shout. That would have been merciful. Instead, he’d assigned her a penance. "Tonight," he whispered, his breath smelling of bitter espresso, "you will not touch the painting. You will stand before it and learn to pronounce its name. Correctly. Or the painting will remain a forgery to your ears."
She said it all together, not as two words, but as one breath, one object. " Rosso Brunello. " how to pronounce rosso brunello
And in the silence that followed, Lena could have sworn the painted cherries glistened just a little brighter, as if they had been, at last, properly introduced to the world. Moretti’s face had curdled
"Ross-o," she breathed. The 'o' wasn't a long, nasally American 'oh.' It was a pure, round, shocked little circle of sound, as if she’d just tasted something unexpectedly bitter and sweet. The double 's' wasn't a hiss; it was the rustle of silk. Instead, he’d assigned her a penance
She tried again. "Row-so."
When Dr. Moretti arrived at dawn, he found her pale, exhausted, but smiling. He looked at the painting. Then at her.