This is some sort of heavy-handed fanfic for a set of tapestries. The story does not have an independent reason for being. I read half the book while stuck in a café with no other options, and it was precisely as engaging as watching an infomercial because nothing else was on.
Perceptive readers will be able to see through to the source material, which I estimate to be a 5-paragraph museum placard: 2 paragraphs of art appreciation and 3 of history. The book repeatedly reminds the reader that, because tapestries are larger than paintings, they cannot focus all attention on the center foreground as viewers will experience all the bits separately. Also, the nouveau-riche patron is passively angry at his pious and beautiful wife because she produced no sons, only beautiful sex-kitten daughters. Remember that. Now, how is a tapestry different from a painting?