“Father arranged an opportunity for me in insurance there. I start in Amsterdam at the beginning of next month.” He removed his hat and brushed the snow off the top, better on the black-and-white tile than inside the apartment. “Don’t look at me like that. Wanting her children around her doesn’t make our mother a monster. I don’t want to leave you in Paris alone.”

“I’m perfectly capable.”

“I worry about the anarchists.” He brushed off his shoulders next.

When the front door opened behind us, Dries removed his hat again. “Madame Biset.”

“Monsieur Bonger,” the landlord’s wife returned his greeting, focusing on me next. “Madame van Gogh.”

Don’t say it, please. Not now. Not in front of Dries.

Of course, she did. “Le loyer?” The rent.

“Bien entendu.” Certainly. I gathered my excuses, nearly expiring from embarrassment that my brother would witness such a moment, that he might tell our parents.

“Allow me, madam.” Dries handed Madame Biset a handful of bills from his pocket with a flourish, as if he had the money in there precisely in the hope of running into her.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.” She shot me an unimpressed look that spelled about time, counted the money, then bustled into her own apartment.

Dries’s pleasant expression disappeared. “Theo shouldn’t have left you without sufficient funds.”

“Thank you for that. I mean the rent. I will repay you as soon as I am able.” I pressed my lips together as I unlocked the apartment door, but could not hold back the rest for more than two seconds once we were inside. “Theo was not an irresponsible man.”

“He paid for Vincent’s lodgings, his every meal, his medical care, the paints, the canvases, every last pouch of pipe tobacco. Maybe if he did less for Vincent, there would be more left for you.” Dries clicked his tongue. “I introduced you. I feel responsible.”

His shoulders sloped, and I could nearly see the cloud of guilt that sat on them, too much guilt for the confines of the kitchen. Not enough room for it all, not with my own mountains of guilt already there, crowding the space, thinning the air.

“I should have done more,” Theo had shouted when he’d raved. The words took root in my own heart. I should have done more. I owed it to Theo to see his life’s work succeed. I had to finish his quest, to redeem myself.

The paintings on the walls reminded me daily why Theo believed in Vincent. Winter might have ruled outside, but our home was bathed in summer. The pale pink of almond blossoms were joined by the robust blue of irises, and the indomitable yellow of sunflowers. At times, I felt as if the colors were singing together and calling me to dance. I swore the miracle of Vincent’s paintings would not remain forever locked away in our apartment.