They followed Adler to the far end of the exhibit where the ballerinas still practiced and pliéd across a painted stage. There were bunches of people here, craning their heads to get a better view of the canvases. In the center of the crowds, noticeable if only for her solitary silhouette, an elderly woman stood, gazing at the dancers. She was dressed somberly in a long dress of deep wine, her white hair drawn up and twisted to the back of her head in a style similar to the dancers whom she gazed upon. One hand rested on a gleaming black cane, the other held a small packet of what looked like paper against her chest.

“Mama,” Adler said quietly, “this is Aurelia Leclaire and Gabriel Seymour. Miss Leclaire, Mr. Seymour, my mother, Dr. Alina Adler.”

The woman turned toward Lia, intelligent dark eyes meeting hers directly before dropping to the pendant at her throat, the same way her son’s had.

She drew in a sharp breath and wobbled slightly before her son steadied her with his arm. She dropped her hand, the one holding the paper, and Lia wobbled as well. For nestled at the collar of the woman’s dress was an exact replica of the pendant Lia wore.

Lia was aware that Gabriel had slid an arm around her waist, and she was inordinately grateful for that.

“Your necklace,” Lia managed. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift when I was a child,” Alina replied. “It was one of the few things I took with me when I fled France during the war.”

“How old were you when you fled?” Gabriel asked.

“I was six, maybe seven. My memories of that journey are in little fragments. Pieces that I confess I tried to avoid dwelling on for most of my life.”

“Did you leave with your family?” Lia was trying to understand what was happening here.

“No. My family was…gone. It was just me who was left. I fled France with a group of other children. I remember darkness and cold and hunger and fear. A child never forgets fear like that.” She ran her fingers over the head of her cane.

“She was one of many children who found refuge in Switzerland,” Luca said. “She was adopted by my grandparents. My aunt was also adopted.”

“I was Jewish,” Alina said. “And I was one of the lucky ones.”

“Tell me about the paintings,” Gabriel prompted gently.

Alina held out the paper she still had in her hand. Only now, Lia could see that it was an envelope. “What is this?”

“It’s a photograph. Take a look.”

Lia opened the envelope and extracted a worn black-and-white photo. It was a picture of a little girl with dark hair and dark eyes, sitting in the lap of a pretty woman with the same dark features. They were both laughing, the woman’s arms wrapped tightly around the little girl.