Brown eyes, whiskey colored hair, a vague almost saintly stare. Several centuries had rendered him sacred and worthy of worship in this dim, secular church. All of the men looked like Charles II, staring off to some better place. Dutch, protestant burgers, who, as a mark of success, commissioned artists to render them immortal. They’d succeeded. The slow stream of people filing past them in Melbourne, four hundred or so years later, gazed at them adoringly, hushed and respectful. Lisa stared at Abel Tasman and his family, his wife round, smug and gleeful. She looked pleased he was about to sail off and discover Tasmania and New Zealand. No wonder she looked happy. A long sea voyage would be a break from seventeenth century sex and childbirth. Although how anyone could be happy in those long, full gowns with their stiff white neck ruffs was something Lisa tried to understand. “They made women’s’ necks highly desirable.” She turned to the voice behind her and saw a man staring intently at the portrait, a sneer on his face.
