“Non. Ce n’est pas ça.” He shook his head, blinked rapidly. “It isn’t that at all. You look . . . you look like Mère.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” She’d always taken after their father, not their mother. And Maman had certainly never had short hair. Though she had occasionally styled the sides in waves, for special occasions. It had been years since Margot had seen her make such an effort. Before Papa died.

“Look.” Lukas reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. From within it, he slipped a small photograph. “I had it with me in Paris. Before the invasion.”

She took the thick paper, her throat going tight when she looked down at it. Maman, smiling at the camera, looking beautiful and polished. She remembered the portrait—it was what Papa had wanted for his birthday the year before he died. But she’d thought all the prints of it were gone, like everything else from her past.

“I didn’t know you had this.” Each feature was so familiar. So beloved. The darkest hair. The sparkling eyes. The perfectly proportioned face, symmetrical and unequivocally beautiful because of it. And waves on the sides of her hair.

Even so. Her brother may see their mother in her, but only because he wanted to. She handed the photo back and forced her tone to go light. “Does that mean you won’t disown me?”

His smile was crooked. “I did not disown you the other times, did I?”

“No. But I was a child.”

“You were never a child.” Chuckling, he put the photograph back into his wallet, that back into his pocket, and then stepped closer to fold her into his arms. “But you are still my baby sister.”

He said no more. But he didn’t have to. She knew all the things he didn’t voice.

After a moment, she pulled away with a muted smile. “I’d better get home. It’s getting late.”

“You do not . . .” Have to. But he didn’t say that again either. Just sighed and nodded. “Be careful. It is dark already.”

He was coming a long way, this brother of hers. It used to be that he wouldn’t think of allowing her to travel the distance home alone. But as that had proven impossible to keep to, given their very different hours with his concert schedule and her work, he’d settled for making sure she could defend herself against any attacker. Willa and Barclay had taught her all she needed to know.

She said good-bye to the other girls and soon slipped out into the night. The November air was cold but welcome, chasing a few bits of residual clutter from her mind. She buried her hands in her pockets and strode along, from gaslight to gaslight, from Kensington back toward her flat in Chelsea.