Now that I was watching the performer close-up, I could see that what I’d previously thought were twigs and branches were actually paintbrushes—hundreds and hundreds of them—glued together to make her tall collar.

The audience watched, enraptured, as the masked dancer climbed out of the throne and took the stage, swaying in that same hypnotic dance she’d done at Slay Gallery. She danced for a minute, then fell still, her masked head bowed.

The Duchess applauded and the crowd joined in. Mona Pearl took a bow, and then slowly, carefully, removed the collar.

Beneath was a beautiful young woman, a few years older than me. She had honey-colored eyes, a black waterfall of curls parted straight down the middle, and skin the same shade as the Duchess’s. She was the same woman I’d seen talking to Zeke when the Duchess and George were making their entrance. And she looked just like her portrait. Mona Pearl turned her back to the audience. She was looking straight at us—at Zeke, who was still holding the goddess statue. She held out her arms for it, and Zeke handed it over.

Mona Pearl embraced the statue, spinning on tiptoe like a ballerina. She kept spinning, moving closer and closer to Diana, who was already giggling. The crowd clapped louder, as if this was all part of the show. When Mona Pearl was dizzy, she stopped, planting her feet right in front of Diana. She held out the statue, swaying slightly.

“I’m sorry for all the dumb stuff I said earlier. You’re my collaborator. I should’ve listened to you. I know I can trust you to tell me the truth.”

Diana accepted the statue, her round face blushing. Though her voice was quiet, I heard her say, “I forgive you, Mona Pearl.” They hugged the statue together, both grinning like crazy.

The crowd, confused but understanding that the statue’s reappearance in the Strickland mansion was undoubtedly a good thing, gave another round of applause.

“Champagne!” somebody yelled.

“More dancing!” cried someone else.

“More cake!” yelled Bess.

Mr. Gatewood grabbed the microphone and cried, “Shhh!” There was a screech of feedback.

When the crowd settled, the Duchess drew Zeke and Mona Pearl to her side. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. And now, as promised: the first gift of the evening. To my grandchildren, Ezekiel Romare Strickland and Mona Pearl Primus Strickland, a pair of invaluable Shammas portraits.”

Behind her, Mr. Gatewood, huffing and puffing, hauled the two portraits up through the throne trapdoor on a special pulley system.

“Nobody touch! They’re still wet!” he cautioned.

Mr. Gatewood displayed the freshly finished portraits beside Mona Pearl and Zeke. The crowd looked on, murmuring in amazement at the painter’s skill and gradually making the connection: the subjects of the portraits were standing before them. Duchess Strickland had revealed the family secret.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m D. Shammas,” said the Duchess. “And every painting you see here—every painting in my collection—they were all created by the same artist. The one and only Daisy ‘Duchess’ Strickland.”