“I suppose he could be,” Antoine replied as he handed her a silk handkerchief, pretended not to look as she wiped at her eyes. “But she wouldn’t ever say. The point is, don’t be like her. Don’t lock yourself away for fear of what may come spilling out. Life is too short for you not to be daring, especially when it comes to love.” He paused. “So what’s his name?”

Emily twisted the handkerchief around her hand. Antoine was little more than a stranger, yet somehow understood what she was feeling.

“He has a girlfriend.”

“They always do,” he said, looping his arm around her and taking her back inside, up and around the staircase that climbed to the sky. “In my experience, men like that aren’t worth the hassle.”

Emily followed him into a turret room with windows on all sides, a glorious view of the coastline stretching out before her.

“My darling girl,” he said, sitting down on a chaise longue and opening a small glass dish to reveal a sugar-laden stack of Turkish delight. “You deserve someone who will treat you like a queen.”

Emily put a piece of gooey deliciousness into her mouth and sucked at the sweetness as she looked around the room. It was a cacophony of objects, none of which seemed to be in quite the right place. Buckets of brushes, stacks of paper, drawers half open with pastels and tubes of paint all chucked in at random. It seemed to suit him, more than the glitz and polish of all the money back downstairs.

“The money was never mine,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I only inherited it when J-C died, but I’d give it all back in a heartbeat if I could have him instead.”

“I know what you mean.”

Emily walked around the room, noticing there were four easels, all of them faced out, each on a different point of an invisible compass. Three were covered with cloth, but the fourth was on display. It was another portrait of her grandmother, dressed all in white. She stood in the shallows, with the ocean curling around her feet. Her face was in profile, and she seemed to be looking toward somewhere just out of view.

“Where was this?”

“Nowhere. I’ve found myself painting her more and more, simply from memory. It helps me remember.”

“She always loved the water.” Emily stepped closer, looking at the layers of paint Antoine had used. Tiny brushstrokes to recreate the dips and lines of her grandmother’s face. It was a talent she envied, to be able to capture a mood, an expression, of someone that they themselves were probably completely unaware of.

“Did you ever consider going to art school?” he asked.

“Why would I do that?” At one point she had considered it, but she was too scared to try.

“You’re very talented, I can see that from the illustrations in her books. But untrained. I could train you.”

“That’s very kind of you, but…”