I sucked in a loud breath that sounded like a sob. “I wonder why she didn’t sell it. She sold the house to pay her bills.”

“She might not have realized it was a Herschell. Or that the paintwork is by Daniel Muller. I doubt she was aware of the true value.”

“Are you sure about that value?”

He scoffed. “What am I, an amateur?”

“You’re an angel. You might have just saved my life. I don’t suppose you speak Dutch?” At that moment, nothing seemed impossible.

“Would it make a difference as far as our marriage prospects go? I could learn. Not too late to toss Bram aside and run away with me. Just kick him to the curb. Bam!”

“It’s not like that between me and Bram. I wouldn’t.” I hopped off the carousel. “He’s married.”

I hated the obvious disappointment in my voice that gave me completely away. I hated feeling pitiful, being attracted to a man who was unavailable. But what I hated the most was that I kept thinking about him, even knowing he wasn’t the man I thought he was. I had daydreams about us in an alternate universe.

Sergei followed me. “Why is it a problem that he was married?”

I stopped. “Was?”

“His wife died two years ago. He didn’t tell you?”

“He wore a wedding ring. I thought…”

Sergei watched me with as much interest as if I had a second carousel hidden behind my back. “A number of people who love him, including myself, have been trying to convince him to take the ring off ever since the first-year anniversary. We’ve been worried that he isn’t moving on. He told us where to put our unsolicited opinions. Hint, it’s a place where neither sun nor moon nor stars shine. Then Bram met you, and the ring disappeared.” He paused for emphasis. “Everyone who thinks that’s significant, raise their hand.”

Both of his arms shot into the air.

Later, I could not recall what we talked about after his revelation. All I could remember was that Sergei had an appointment, so he eventually left.

While I had to go back to work and not think about Bram.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Johanna

February 1891, Paris, France

“You don’t want to leave Paris because your memories of Theo are here?” Dries’s tone betrayed his impatience. We were walking close enough to each other so our shoulders brushed as we hurried down Rue Jean-Baptiste Pigalle.

“His dreams are here. I have to see those dreams come true. I have to make sure.”

Theo’s dreams for Vincent’s legacy had become mine, living stubbornly in my half-dead heart. My dreams were part of Paris, as the city’s cobblestones were part of the streets. My hopes were carriages racing down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. I had found my life’s purpose at last.