“Wow.” Bram tapped the side of his index finger against his temple. “Raoul. The Vicomte de Chagny?”

My first impulse was to like him because he knew Raoul’s full name, but I resisted and didn’t. I wasn’t in New York to like a man, especially not one who was married.

My slippers teased me coyly from half under the bed where I’d kicked them. I curled my toes on the bare floor instead of bending until my butt wiggled in the air. Bram had seen too much of me already. Yet, I could not bring myself to say, Pardon me while I put on a bra either. Maybe he hadn’t noticed anything.

“Let’s talk next door.” I ushered him into Violet’s study, which had the same parquet floors as all the upper levels in the house, and the same velvet curtains. A dozen vibrant paintings, gifts from former students, balanced out the dark mahogany furniture. A proper English gentleman’s lair.

I sat in the massive leather armchair behind Violet’s desk that I’d covered with the yellowed letters from the mystery box. I couldn’t read them, but I’d sorted them into chronological order. The little green book was by the bed in the bedroom, on the nightstand. The robin’s-egg-blue, paint-splattered box, holding nothing but the strange painting of the ugly baby, rested on the floor by my bare feet.

Bram nodded toward the painting. “Where did you find that? Doesn’t look like one of Violet’s.”

“She gave it to me before she died, along with an antique diary and these letters. I don’t suppose you speak Dutch?”

“Sorry, no.” He picked up a letter and scanned it. “It’s a shame you can’t read them.”

“I can read the diary.” I was back to thinking that it might be a diary after all. “It’s by a Dutch woman, Johanna Bonger, who married Vincent van Gogh’s brother. I’m at the part where Vincent cut his ear off and then decided to go into an asylum.”

I couldn’t wait to find out what happened next.

I could have googled that too, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want a dry, academic summary. I wanted Jo to tell me her story in her own vivid words. She made me feel like I was there with her. Having her diary made me feel special, as if we had a connection. I doubted that, other than Violet and me, many people had read the account of Jo’s life.

Bram lay the piece of paper down with the others. “You could have these translated.”

“I will. When I have a minute.”

My expression must have betrayed my conflicting emotions, because he asked, “Not what you expected to inherit?”

“I didn’t expect anything. I can’t figure out why Violet thought I should have any of this. I wish she gave me…”