“That whatever secrets lie beyond are not going anywhere. Standing here and procrastinating is stupid. The sooner I know what I’m dealing with the sooner I can start making reparations.”

“Whenever you’re ready, then. I’m not going anywhere either.”

Slowly, Lia stepped forward, reached into the wardrobe, and pushed the door open.

The light flooding in from the bedroom revealed a small room with a single bed that ran the length of one side, a narrow table that lined the long wall opposite, and a chair positioned against the back wall between the two. Wool blankets were folded neatly on one end of the bed, pillows on the other. And on the wall above the bed, three paintings hung, all of ballerinas.

“The painter of dancing girls,” Gabriel remarked, not knowing what else to say, gesturing at the paintings on the wall. They were all depictions of ballerinas at rehearsal, all looking as though they might dance right off the wall in their glorious costumes. And Gabriel would bet the entire collection of art in this apartment that they would prove to be genuine Degas.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s what Edgar Degas called himself. Ironically, it wasn’t the girls themselves who interested him insomuch as subject matter, but their movement and clothes.”

Lia blinked at him. “What?”

“The paintings in here,” he said. “A first-year art student standing where I am would be able to identify the artist. When I take them to London, I will confirm that they were painted by Degas. They will also be worth an utter fortune.”

“Um.” Lia looked back into the small room.

“A peculiar décor choice for a hidden room.”

“Yes,” Lia replied faintly.

“Are you going in?”

“Yes,” she said again.

Gabriel nodded and moved to the side so Lia could step up into the wardrobe. She ducked and stepped down into the small room and motioned for Gabriel to join her.

They both stood in the center of the room and gazed around.

On the far edge of the table was an oil lamp beside a tall stack of books. A pad of paper that looked like an artist’s sketch pad leaned against the books, a collection of pencil stubs at its base. A small, hand-carved wooden dog sat next to those. On the end of the table nearest to them was a porcelain washbasin, a mirror, and a men’s shaving kit. A steamer trunk had been shoved beneath the table, securely latched.

“Grandmère was hiding people,” Lia croaked.

Gabriel couldn’t tell if that was a question but he answered anyway. “Yes. Looks like it.”

“She wasn’t a collaborator.” She sounded like she was going to cry.

“No. I think that everything out in that apartment was put there to make you think that.”