The truth of this statement made me defensive. “You haven’t been shy about conveying your opinion of him.”

We turned toward the side street near Émile’s apartment. She stopped and faced me again. “What do you want from me?”

“You are my friend. I don’t want anything from you.”

“Are you blind?” She shook her head and I saw tears in her eyes. She grabbed at her chin-length curls before taking my face in her hands and kissing me hard on the lips. When she pulled away, she had tears flowing down her face. “I am in love with you, Cecile. Do you not see that? He is wrong for you.”

I was so taken aback by her words—and her kiss—that I felt faint. “Since when have you been in love with me, Sylvie?”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand and began to walk ahead. “It has been for several months now. I was as surprised by it as you. I’ve been sick just watching you fawn all over him these last few months, especially after what he did to you.”

“Several months?” I stopped dead. “Since the painting?”

She considered this and shrugged, her blond curls bouncing as she moved. “I guess so.”

“Think.” I pointed my finger at her. “When?”

She looked down at the ground. “I suppose it was then. I remember noticing things about you—things that I had seen for years, but they became pronounced. Every time you walked in the room to check on the painting, I found myself holding my breath. At first, I thought it was crazy; we’ve been friends since we were girls. But as you helped him sketch my face on the canvas…” She paused and looked out at the street. “I don’t know; something in me stirred.”

I’d known that Sylvie had a brief dalliance with a socialite she’d met at the Ritz. We’d stopped going there when the woman’s husband relocated to Paris, although the woman had very much wanted to continue to see Sylvie. At that moment, I became aware of everything. The cars going down Boulevard du Montparnasse, the clink of glasses, the smell of men’s sweat as they passed by too close, and Sylvie, the outline of her dress against the sun and the freckles that formed on her full checks as she stood outside. She had the most perfect heart-shaped face, like a cupid’s. Then I recalled that I had signed Sylvie’s painting with the EG. Father’s curse had the subject falling in love with the painter. As far as the enchantment was concerned, the painting was attributed to me.

I closed my eyes. “It isn’t real, Sylvie. It was a curse that Father placed on the paintings.”