She led him past the landscapes and Impressionists and into the short gallery, partially separated from the rest of the exhibit by a wall of frosted glass. There were people here, too, in small groups, speaking in hushed voices, or alone, simply standing in front of the images. The white, square wall that faced them was adorned with canvases blazing with saturated color beneath the lights.

Gabriel stopped, feeling fevered and freezing all at once. His skin prickled with a sensation he couldn’t name, each breath an extraordinary effort. He pulled his fingers from hers.

“What have you done?” His voice was hoarse.

Lia didn’t turn and kept her eyes on the canvas where two figures tangoed under a streetlight, alone against a backdrop of darkness. Beside them, a ballet dancer lifted her head toward her audience, the love of her craft caught in her eyes.

“These…” Gabriel stopped and tried again. “These paintings are…”

“Part of this story. They deserve a space on these walls just as much as any of the others.”

“No. These paintings aren’t part of this collection.”

“Of course they are. Ironically enough, they may be the only part of this collection that truly belongs to me. These paintings are mine. To hang where I please. To share with whom I please.”

Gabriel didn’t answer but stepped forward and bent to examine the small card that had been mounted in the bracket next to the first canvas.

APRÈS, the card read in bold letters. 2017. ARTIST UNKNOWN. FROM THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF AURELIA LECLAIRE.

“Artist unknown?” Gabriel straightened and turned to stare directly at her.

“I would never have forced you somewhere you didn’t want to go. You are yet an unknown artist, just as the card says. The choice to claim your work as your own must be yours. Not mine.” She opened her clutch and drew out a small white card.

She handed it to him. It was identical to the one already on the wall, except it read APRÈS, 2017, GABRIEL SEYMOUR. FROM THE PRIVATE COLLECTION OF AURELIA LECLAIRE. “Replace the current card with this one. Or don’t. It will have cost you nothing. You will have risked nothing. Après will stay here until the end of the exhibit a month from now, and after it is over, I’ll take my painting home, and you can go back to hiding your work in the attics of Millbrook.”

“You don’t understand. It is one thing to exhibit my work. It is another to have it hanging here, an imposter amongst a gallery full of goddamn artistic geniuses.”

“And who gets to decide who is a goddamn artistic genius?” Lia asked pleasantly. “You do yourself a disservice.”

“We’ve had this conversation,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And you were wrong then too.”

“No, I wasn’t.”