The old woman rapped her cane on the floor. “I know your type,” she snapped. She eyed his shaggy hair and the ink on his arms. “And you’re not wanted here. This is a building for upstanding citizens. Not a hovel for degenerate artists and drug addicts.”

“That’s quite a…leap,” Gabriel remarked, not sure if he was amused or irritated by the woman’s hostility.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Lia murmured beside him in English. “If a winged monkey appears, I suggest you run.”

“You think we can outrun a winged monkey?” he whispered back.

“I only have to outrun you.”

Gabriel laughed, and the sound sent the writhing dog into a renewed frenzy.

“Please come in,” Lia repeated loudly, switching back to French and stepping aside to usher Gabriel in.

He wasted no time ducking through the doorway into her apartment. The dog snarled and snapped behind him.

Lia sighed. “Have a good afternoon, Madame—”

“I can have you evicted, don’t think I can’t.” Lia’s neighbour wasn’t done yet. “I know people—”

“Good afternoon, Madame Hoffmann,” Lia said again, and then simply closed the door after them.

“She’s charming,” Gabriel commented. He could still hear muffled barking on the other side of the door.

“I’m quite sure she’s harmless. Lonely, maybe. My grandmère used to say, ‘Only beware the man who does not talk and the dog that does not bark.’” She slipped by him, a light scent of jasmine following in her wake.

“I haven’t heard that one before.” He glanced around at the small foyer with wainscoted walls.

“An American proverb, as it turns out.”

“Your grandmother was an American?”

“No.” Lia frowned briefly but did not elaborate. Then her expression cleared. “I appreciate you coming so quickly. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

“Not at all.” Gabriel set down his bag. “I was intrigued.” Just not by what she thought.

“The painting is here.” She bent to retrieve the little landscape that had been propped up against the wall near the door. Of the bold, nude canvas there was no sign.

Lia handed it to him. “Do you recognize it?”

Gabriel examined the painting. It looked even more desperate to please up close than it had in the photo, but the subject matter was easily identifiable. William Seymour was signed with a flourish in the bottom right-hand corner. “This is a painting of Millbrook Hall, a property my family has owned for generations. That is my grandfather’s signature. He painted dozens and dozens of landscapes featuring Millbrook.”

“He was an artist?”

“He was a wealthy landowner with a lot of free time on his hands who loved art,” he allowed. “He always dreamed of exhibiting his work.”

“And did he?”

“Only in the manor dining room, despite his wife’s vehement objections.” He glanced up with a wry smile. “Or so the story goes.”

Lia smiled back.