I moved closer, until Excalibur filled my entire field of vision. Not only was the woman riding her horse into battle, but she was enjoying it, laughing into the wind. The swirls of color transmitted something that could never come through the internet, as if Violet had left a piece of her soul on the canvas.

I felt that if everybody around us would fall quiet, I could hear the painting breathe. “I’ve always wondered why she didn’t paint in the sword. That’s what Excalibur means, doesn’t it? King Arthur’s weapon that he drew from the rock?”

“Who do you think the woman is in the painting?” Strena watched me.

“Arthur’s queen, Guinevere?”

“It’s Violet. Look at her. She painted this when she was thirty, in her full power. Unlike Arthur, who pulled his weapon from the rock, Violet pulled her power from herself. She is Excalibur.”

“Okay. That’s deep.”

I’d seen the painting before, but I’d never examined it closely. You couldn’t stare at a life-size naked woman in a museum that long without people starting to think you’ve been looking at it too long.

With Strena at my side, I examined every inch. It was Violet. A younger Violet, with much darker and longer hair. How had I missed that?

Out of nowhere, an unreasonable jealousy burned me that Strena had insights about my grandmother that I didn’t.

“What does Strena mean, anyway?” I sounded peeved, and I didn’t care. “Why don’t you have a last name?”

“Strena is enough. Lets me have a private life. It means storm in Papiamento. I was born in Aruba, during a hurricane. Any other questions?”

I was never going to be as cool as she was. I gave up. “Thank you for telling me about the painting.”

I pondered it on my way home. Since the weather was warm enough, I walked.

Power from within. You are the sword.

Forget Trey taking Ludington’s from me. Over the past few days, my grief over losing Violet had sapped my strength. But this auction wasn’t over yet. I had to reach deeper inside me and find something more to bid.

I was the sword. I didn’t want my life to be a still life. I wanted it to be one of Violet’s paintings. I wanted the kind of strength and joy she had. Power from within.

When I reached the house, filled with newfound optimism and firm resolution, I found a visitor waiting.

“Hi. Beatriz Amoso. You must be Emsley.” Violet’s Realtor was about my age, tall and slender in a dove-gray dress and matching high-heel shoes. A magnificent heron, taking a break from gliding over a silver glen.

I tugged my shirt straight. “Hi.”