OK, this is exactly the kind of question I didn’t want him to ask me. I need to come up with some convincing artisty answer, quick. Something about form. Except I never listened in art lessons.

“Form is dead,” I pronounce at last, in my most Gallic accent. “C’est morte.”

Perfect. If form’s dead, I don’t have to talk about it.

“Let us go to ze studio,” I add, trying to usher Raymond out of the kitchen. But he doesn’t move. He seems slightly staggered.

“Form is dead?” he echoes finally.

“Oui, c’est fini.” I nod.

“But—”

“Form, eet ees no more.” I spread my hands, trying to look convincing.

“But Miss Audette, h-how can this be?” stammers Raymond. “Your own design…your writings…your books…are you really giving up on a life’s work? It can’t be!”

He’s staring at me in consternation. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. But I can’t backtrack now.

“Oui,” I say after a pause. “C’est ca.”

“But why?”

“I am artiste,” I say, playing for time. “Not woman, not human, artiste.”

“I don’t understand,” says Raymond, looking unhappy.

“I must seek ze truth,” I add, with sudden inspiration. “I must be brave. Ze artiste must always be brave above all, you understand? I must destroy ze old ideas. Zen will I a true artiste be.”

I hear a tiny snort from Suze but ignore her.

“But—”

“I do not weesh to speak of it further,” I cut him off firmly.

“But—”

“To ze studio!” I wave my hands. “Allons y!”

My heart is thumping hard as I follow Raymond through the house to the far end. I can’t cope with any more conversations about art; I just want to know about my dad.

“Are you supposed to be Pauline Audette or Yoda?” Suze’s murmur comes in my ear.

“Shut up!” I mutter back.

“We need to cut to the chase!”

“I know!”

We arrive at a big room with white walls and a glass roof. It’s bright and messy, with a heavy wooden table in the center and two potter’s wheels, all covered with splotches of clay. But that’s not what I’m seeing. I’m eyeing up the big set of display shelves at the far end of the room. They’re covered with clay statues and sculptures and weird-looking vases. Bingo. This is what we wanted.

I glance at Suze, and she gives a tiny nod back.

“You must tell me, Raymond,” I order. “Which, to you, are ze most precious pieces in ze room?”

“Well.” Raymond hesitates. “Let me see. Of course, there’s Twice.” He gestures at a sculpture which seems to be of a man with two heads. “That was nominated for the Stephens Institute Prize, few years ago. It was mentioned on a couple websites; I don’t suppose you…” He shoots me a hopeful look.

“A fine piece,” I say, with a brisk nod. “And which ees precious to your heart?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Raymond gives an awkward, heavy laugh. “I have a fond spot for this one.” He points at a much larger, abstract piece, glazed in lots of different colors.