“I am going to hold a retrospective for Vincent in our old apartment while it stands empty, before it’s rented out again.” For the first time since the tragedy, his eyes glinted with excitement instead of being lost in the shadows of sadness. “I am going to ask Émile Bernard to help. He is writing a biography of Vincent and means to include some of their letters to each other. People are suddenly talking about Vincent’s great talent.”

“I hope he sees it all from heaven.”

Theo kissed the tip of my nose. “I will make him famous yet.” And just like that, my husband was back to being a dreamer. He cradled my face in the palms of his hands and kissed my lips next. “Will you help me, my dearest?”

“Always, my love.” My heart filled with the kind of iridescent light that Vincent painted so well. Hope unfurled its whisper-soft petals. “Together, you and I will triumph. We will leave all darkness behind. Now that we have more space…” I whispered between kisses.

“Our Wil should have a brother or sister to play with?” Theo smiled his first smile since Vincent’s death. “Yes.” He pulled me closer. “My darling, yes.”

Later, I fell asleep looking at one of the paintings on the wall, dark skies over a wheat field. In my dream, I walked into that field, and as I strolled forward, the storm clouds cleared. Flowers opened their petals. The birds sang.

I woke abruptly to a sharp pain in my shoulder. Theo was thrashing in his sleep and had struck me. He gnashed his teeth, emitting an eerie sound of anguish that raised the fine hairs on my arms.

I shook him. “Wake up, my love. You are having a nightmare.”

Instead of opening his eyes, he howled, a mournful wail that filled our home and my head, a haunting sound I shall never forget—like ghosts calling from the distance.

Gently, I brushed the hair from his brow, and I felt the heat of fever.

No, no, no. Not now.

I jumped out of bed. “I must fetch help.”

Then the window caught my eye. I looked out into the darkest night. I couldn’t run for the doctor until first light.

I shook Theo’s shoulder. “Wake up, dearest!”

Chapter Fifteen

Emsley

How many years of life does the average person waste being an idiot?

How many hours had I wasted in middle school—spending entire evenings gazing at Timothy Dalton on the internet?

My grandmother hadn’t kept my grandfather’s identity a secret to spare his reputation because he’d been a married man, a famous man. She’d never spoken about him because she’d wanted to forget him. She’d never told my mother because she’d wanted to protect my mother from the terrible truth. But then, of course, the silence had hurt my mother anyway.