“Sometimes Violet sold things to buy art supplies for her students.”

Bram held out his hand. His grip was warm and gentle.

I followed him onto the slowly moving carousel. “Horse or chariot?”

“It’s easier to make out in a chariot.” He drew me to the nearest one and helped me in.

Then he left me. He crossed the basement to the light switch by the stairs, and a sudden darkness fell.

My heart pounded. “Don’t trip on anything.”

“I’m here.” He hopped onto the platform behind me and took his seat. “How’s this?”

“Magical.”

The basement was black around us, the carousel’s small color bulbs the only light.

“Like a fairy tale.” I set my mug on the flat front edge of the chariot, leaning back in the seat.

He paired his cup with mine, slid closer, and put his arm around me. Our surroundings were invisible. The entire world outside the two of us disappeared. We were alone in the night. And Bram promised to kiss me.

“How are you coping?” he asked. “Beyond the present moment. It’s been a rough week.”

“I miss Violet so much. I’m heartbroken. And freaked out. Everything’s happening too fast. I’m starting a new company. In New York.”

“I have faith in you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have invested. You’ll figure it all out.”

“How do you know?”

“You figured it out the first time around, when you left New York and went to LA.”

“I think you should kiss me.”

The fairy lights reflected in his eyes. “Should I?”

“The suspense is killing me.”

He rubbed his thumb over my shoulder. Then he leaned in.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Johanna

October 1891, The Hague, Netherlands

I refused to allow Vincent’s art to be consigned to the trash heap of history. I was going boldly out into the world and fighting like the Amazons of ancient myth. Or, at least, fighting the crowd on the platform at the train station at The Hague.

“Pardon me. I must go through.”

I traveled to ask Holst for his support, determined to gain it before the day was over, but as I reached the street at last, I thought again about Gauguin’s unread letter in my bag.

I had written to Paul Gauguin, the artist friend with whom Vincent had shared the yellow house in Arles, for help before I’d given up on France. He had never replied, and I thought he might have sailed back to Martinique to paint its saronged women. When we had last met, he’d talked about moving to the islands for good.

I had mostly forgotten about him until his letter arrived just as I had been rushing off to catch the train.