“We want nothing more than for you to feel at home here.” I tallied how much I had left in the household account. If I rose an hour early in the morning, I could visit the market again before the baby woke. He often fell into a deeper sleep toward dawn, after being up most of the night.

Theo brought a bottle of champagne to the table. “To celebrate Vincent’s first sale at the seventh annual exhibition of Les XX, in Brussels.”

He popped the cork with great ceremony, but without making much noise, so he didn’t startle the baby, thank heavens.

“The very reason why I invited Toulouse-Lautrec.” Vincent drained his wine to make room—we had not purchased champagne glasses yet. “He defended my honor at the exhibition.”

“Who would insult you?” Theo’s voice snapped with instant indignation.

“Henry de Groux, that ox, disparaged my talent.” Vincent jumped to his feet. “He refused to have his paintings hung next to mine. Toulouse-Lautrec challenged him to a duel, on the spot,” he added with hearty satisfaction. He seemed to be energized by the naked admiration in Theo’s eyes. He grabbed my rolling pin from the sideboard, thrusting it forward like a rapier. “And Signac warned the idiot that should Toulouse-Lautrec be killed, Signac would pick up the sword and finish the duel himself.”

“What happened?” I barely dared to ask. “A duel. My goodness. So very French.”

“De Groux, the coward, withdrew,” Vincent said with contempt, then he discarded the rolling pin and dropped back into his chair.

And then he switched to French again, saying something about Theo paying the bill at the asylum and how much money Vincent needed to start life over at Auvers-sur-Oise.

“I should feed the baby.” I could barely follow the conversation anyway, so I excused myself.

I hid a slight stagger in the hallway by stopping to kiss the baby’s head. Once in the room, I wilted into the armchair in the corner and unbuttoned my dress, frustrated by my weakness. “Here you go, my darling.”

His mouth made an eager sound on my breast. My sweet and precious child. I stroked his cheek and whispered, “What do you think of your uncle?”

I’d expected a sick person, but the ruddy-faced man in our kitchen was a sturdy man, wide shouldered, healthier than either Theo or I were.

“He seems to be in good cheer.” I was glad for that. Vincent’s sadness and melancholy tended to infect Theo, even through his letters.

“This visit will make your papa happy.” I kissed Wil’s fuzzy head. “And that shall make us happy.” I was just so very, very tired.