"There is no sign of forced entry." Henri indicated my front door. "Arthur checked the back and the windows as well. All are intact."

As I inserted my key into the lock and turned it, I groaned. "Paul had a key. Years ago. He told me he'd lost it."

"And you believed him."

"Yes."

In the vestibule, I stood still as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and listened to the silence of the house. Gooseflesh prickled my arms and the back of my neck. Someone had entered uninvited.

Henri flicked on the lights, breaking the spell. "Nothing seems to have been disturbed; nothing taken, save the painting."

I saw it play out in my mind: Paul arriving at my door, ringing the bell, waiting until he was sure I would not answer. He'd have let himself in and called for me, checking the house room by room.

To what end, I couldn't say. Maybe he'd come to apologize — to win back my favor with sweet words and empty promises, as he had more than once before. Maybe he'd had something less pleasant in mind.

The attic would have been the last place he checked — an afterthought, perhaps, and unfortunate.

"I know a locksmith," Henri said, breaking in upon my troubled reverie. "Would you like me to call him?"

I nodded distractedly. "Yes, please."

He went to my phone, lifted the receiver, and asked the operator to direct his call.

Meanwhile, I began a slow, measured climb to the top floor. I needed to see it for myself.

In the attic, I stood in the dim, dust-laden air and stared at the cobwebbed corner where the portrait had been. A strange calm settled over me: the surrender of the quarry who knows the chase is up. Henri's light tread and the creak of the stairs matched the rhythm of my breath, and I didn't move until I felt his warm hand on my back.

"Alec?"

Lost, I turned to face him. "Will you have Arthur send over my things?"

He frowned. "Why?"

"I can't stay with you, of course," I said. I meant it, but my voice shook.

Henri watched me steadily. "Even with the locks changed, I don't think you ought to be alone."

I shook my head. "This is what I tried to warn you of. If Paul exposes me, and it gets out that I've stayed with you, you will be guilty of my sins by mere association."

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, and he hesitated. Then his features settled, and he took a breath before he spoke. "Alec, don't you understand by now? I am guilty by more than association. I have come to care for you... quite deeply."

I took a step back. He lifted his hand.

"I don't expect reciprocation," he said. "But I won't leave you unshielded so long as you will accept what protection I can offer you — my hospitality a while longer, at the very least."

Speechless, I remained frozen in place. I had been so careful of my own feelings, so as not even to examine them, that I knew not what to say. "You...?"

He smiled slightly. "Yes."

I went to Eddie's old sea chest and sat heavily, resting my head in my hands. If I were alone, I might have wept.

"What do we do now?" I asked, leaving it to him to decide what I meant.

Henri crossed to the small gable window at the end of the room and gazed out. There was a good view on clear days: the railway, the zoological gardens, sunlight glinting off the Schuylkill's water in the late afternoon.

"Now we wait, though we need not wait passively," he said. "I have a few ideas. Will you come back with me?"

He stood in silhouette, a glow of light surrounding him, the brightest thing in a darkness that, in his absence, might have drowned me.

"Yes, all right," I said.

We returned downstairs. He switched off the lights, and I locked the door as we left. It felt final, somehow, like closing a tomb, though I wasn't yet sure what had died.

***

Arthur drove us back to Spruce Street, where Henri encouraged me to rest for the remainder of the day, as he had other business to attend.

I lay down and slept, awakening some hours later to a light knock on my door.

"Alec?" Henri called softly, quiet enough not to wake me if I were in a deeper slumber.

"Yes?"

"Dinner will be ready soon."

"I will be down. Thank you."

He retreated. Since my recovery, he'd been very careful not to enter my room. I'd thought him merely polite, but now wondered if a different sort of restraint had been at play.

I have come to care for you...

The promise and the danger in those words both excited and terrified me. An unfamiliar sensation stirred within my chest, and I pressed my hand over my heart, unsure of its origin.

A word surfaced.

Alive.

I felt alive, and found it strange.

Laughing at myself a little, I dressed and went downstairs to the dining room, where Marguerite had already laid the table. There was no sign of Henri, but she gestured for me to take a seat. She understood more English than she could speak, but was keen to learn and liked to practice with me when she could.

"Your rest is good?" she asked, setting out a pitcher of water and a pair of glasses.

"Yes, I rested well," I said.

"Ah, 'well.'" She tutted to herself, as if making a mental note.

Like her husband, she was around forty years of age, with ruddy cheeks, bright eyes, and a matronly figure. Her manner was kind and cheerful, but she carried the shadows of one who had lived with grief. When I had asked if she and Arthur had children, she had answered, "not anymore," and left it at that.

"What is for dinner?" I asked, catching a hint of something savory on the air.

She winked at me. "You will see. Monsieur is in the cellar."

When Henri paired a particular vintage with a meal, it meant Marguerite had gone above and beyond. "Must be something special, then," I speculated.

"Non. Someone, I think," she said offhandedly.

I laughed. "Pardon?"

She waved at me as she headed back towards the kitchen. "Monsieur is... brillant, but he is... alone. You do him well."

"Good. It's, 'do him good," I corrected automatically, but she had already gone.

Henri appeared shortly, with a bottle of wine and two long-stemmed glasses in hand.

"I know you must be careful," he said, setting the glasses down and uncorking the bottle. "But a taste will do."

He poured the burgundy liquid into a decanter to let it breathe.

"Red wine makes me sleepy," I said.

"Ah, so it will," he agreed. "But so too it eases the day, a little."

He took his seat and regarded me for a moment, as if simply enjoying what he saw. A hint of humor touched his lips, and I realized I had been doing the same. He looked very fine in his evening suit.

Blushing, I touched my silverware, though Marguerite had laid it out perfectly.

"You mentioned not waiting for Paul's move," I said. "I'd like something to do."

"Indeed. Do you recall me saying I meant to leave the auction before the bidding even began?"

I nodded.

"I did not lie when I said I had seen all I needed to see. The items I sought were not there. Neither were any forgeries. Those who trade in such things have been driven to ground by my presence. This explains what you overheard, I think."

"But that means the culprits were there, even if the pieces were not," I mused.

"Yes. It also means that if they are no longer trading in such public venues, they will have shifted to more private ones. This is where I could use your expertise."

"Mine?"

He lifted his brows at me. "You are the artist. You know the galleries, your competition. Perhaps you have contacts at the Academy? It would not surprise me to learn someone of a more... academic variety was involved."

I thought for a moment. Thomas, Paul, our mutual history — jagged pieces sliding into place.

"Yes," I said at last. "I can think of several leads. There's an instructor at the academy who taught Thomas all he knew about reproduction — Professor Gracci — and several exclusive gallery owners I know."

"An excellent start," he said, "but that is for tomorrow. For now — dinner."

He smiled as Marguerite returned, bearing a large enamel dish with a domed lid. She retreated once more and returned with a loaf of rustic, home-baked bread and butter in a dish.

"Bon appétit," she said, and lifted the lid to reveal a luscious dish of coq au vin, swimming in sauce.

She served us, and then retreated, leaving us alone.

Henri poured the decanted wine into our glasses and raised his to me.

"To new beginnings," he said.

I raised my glass and touched it gently against his. "To new beginnings."