At that moment I spotted Angelica Velvet in the crowd. She had changed wigs since I last saw her, and was now wearing a severe black bob and hexagonal glasses with red frames. The assistant from Slay Gallery hovered at Angelica’s elbow, watching her anxiously. A muscle twitched in Angelica’s jaw. It was impossible to tell if her expression read as anger or amusement, fear, or satisfaction.

“What is the meaning of this?” yelled the mustachioed man in the kimono. “Are you telling me I spent half my inheritance on fakes?”

“How droll!” said the man with the antlers, toasting to the chaos.

“Let’s hear her out!” shouted Mr. Covarrubias.

In the commotion, Mr. Gatewood climbed down onto the platform beneath the Duchess’s throne and reemerged carrying a pile of canvases. As he unstacked the paintings and set them out one by one, faceup on the stage, he looked unhappy but resigned.

“Don’t worry, he always looks that way,” whispered Zeke.

“Thanks to my dear, creative, hotheaded grandchildren, my art will find a new life without the mask,” the Duchess continued. She spread her arms toward the crowd. “And so, let us begin. To my grandson, Ezekiel Romare Strickland, I give his sister’s portrait, and to my granddaughter, Mona Pearl Primus Strickland, your brother’s portrait, so you remember that a loving family is also a work of art. I know you think I’m losing my mind, giving things away. But they’re my things. I made them. All I ask is the power to decide who looks at them.”

Mona Pearl smiled with tears in her eyes. Zeke nodded and threw a long arm around the tiny Duchess. I could see the younger Stricklands were both proud of their talented, tricksy grandmother. In the crowd, Angelica Velvet whispered to her assistant, who nodded frantically and scribbled something in a notepad. She didn’t seem concerned that her entire career had just been exposed as a scam. Maybe Zeke was right. Angelica was already thinking of a way to use the Duchess’s unmasking to her advantage.

“I accept the consequences of my actions,” the Duchess continued serenely. “If the collectors sue, let them sue. I’ll pay back every cent they paid me. All I care about now is healing my family.”

The Duchess gave her grandchildren another squeeze. “Rufus Le Crous, step forward, please. I believe you have something of mine.”

Le Crous did as he was told, holding the Duchess’s ledger book above his head.

“Journalistic privilege,” he said smugly. “I already photographed several key sections and sent them to my publisher. You can’t stop the truth from getting out.”

“I don’t want to,” said the Duchess. “In fact, I encourage you to publish the whole thing. And I offer myself for one-on-one interviews, on any subject you like. In exchange, I’d like a cowriter’s credit on your new book, of course.”

Even a man as pompous as Rufus couldn’t give up such a big scoop. He nodded and bowed low, clasping the book close. “Madam, I am at your service. Consider me your scribe.”