“You are the professional when it comes to restoration and establishing provenance. Isn’t that why I hired you? Why you agreed to take me on as a client?”

“Lia—”

“You will keep me informed throughout the process? If anything comes up?”

“Of course.”

“For what it’s worth, I apologize for whatever intrusion I subjected you to.”

“This wasn’t what I…” Gabriel stopped. “I still want you to have this.” He bent and retrieved the violin case and held it out to her. “I meant what I said.”

Lia shook her head. “I don’t think that is a good idea, Gabriel.”

“Why?”

“Because it belongs to you and your family. Not to me. And like the rest of whatever secrets live up here, it’s where it belongs.”

“Lia—”

“It seems like it’s for the best.” She turned and started down the stairs.

She did not look back at Gabriel or any of his paintings.

Chapter ​18

Chapter
​18

Sophie

Paris, France
20 August 1943

Sophie examined the painting hanging on the wall.

Rendered in a palette of wintery blues, frosty greys, and brilliant whites, each brushstroke brought an almost violent movement to the eye. A ship battled a turbulent sea, and Sophie could feel the bite of the wind that tore through the ship’s sails and taste the sharp saltiness of the freezing spray that whipped over the bow.

When she and William had been twelve, their parents had taken them sailing off the Scottish coast. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel Will pressed beside her, laughing with abandon. Below their feet, the ship’s deck had reared and bucked across the frothing waves, and above their heads, the sails snapped and cracked like rifle reports. Clouds had scudded across a cobalt sky, and the wind had torn Sophie’s neat braid into a glorious mess and consigned Will’s cap to a watery grave somewhere in the Irish Sea.

Will had painted nothing but seascapes for months after that.

“Is this a Turner?” Sophie asked casually without taking her eyes off the painting.

“I didn’t take you for an artist.” The woman Sophie still knew only as La Chanteuse sat on one of the ornate sofas in the low light, the silent, dark-haired, dark-eyed little girl tucked beside her, her small head in her lap, fast asleep.

“I’m not.”

“A collector, then.”

“Not really. My brother is the artist. I have merely been his unwitting student about the virtues of every artistic genius whom he studies.” She paused, her eyes travelling over the collection of paintings that surrounded the seascape. “You have a fortune on your wall here.”

“Yes.” Her answer was flat. And uninterested.

“Turner’s composition here is remarkable.”

“It is.” Another indifferent response.