Before we visited Professor Grazzi, Henri decided, at long last, to tell me what we were searching for.

"During the war, many artworks and artifacts were lost, destroyed, or stolen."

We stood side by side, leaning over the table, on which he had spread photographic prints and many pages of notes.

"Most had little in the way of documentation to begin with, so inventing a believable history is not so difficult. Before you, however, we see the special case."

He gestured at the photographs. All were of paintings in frames, hanging on a gallery wall. Though without color, I could glean enough to identify the style and tradition of the art.

"Looks Northern Renaissance: Dürer, Bruegel, Campin. That one could be a Bosch." I pointed. "These are genuine?"

Henri nodded. "This particular collector kept scrupulous notes, and when war broke out, he made these records as a precaution. Unfortunately, neither he nor his collection survived, but by good fortune his records came to the archives at the Sorbonne. Recently, some of these pieces have resurfaced — more than once."

"More than once? I don't follow."

"What is better than an undiscovered work by a great master?" He asked rhetorically. "Two undiscovered works. Three would be a risk, and any more than that too obvious."

"Copies." I stated, catching on.

"Precisely." He straightened and paced before the table. "An unknown work surfaces. No one has seen it before, but it comes with authenticated provenance. It sells for several thousand dollars; perhaps more. Then, in another city, the same painting sells again to a different buyer. Only one is the original, but the sellers have profited twice."

"And unless it made the papers, or the buyers knew one another, they might never discover the other existed," I said.

"This collection," Henri gestured at the notes and pictures, "is what has brought me here. A piece sold in Paris last spring — a portrait by Jan van Eyck. In the summer, I heard from a friend of mine in New York who was very excited to have acquired what sounded like the same work. I confirmed it and then followed the trail here to Philadelphia, where I encountered Barrington, who asked me to authenticate that forgery of Thomas's. The rest you know."

I was silent for a moment, absorbing what I'd learned.

"You think Paul is involved, then."

"I do," Henri confirmed. "Though how deeply remains to be seen. I believe he was testing the waters with that painting of Thomas's, seeing how I would react. But it wasn't his thought you overheard at the auction."

"So he's not doing this alone," I mused.

"No, though if they are wise the ring will be small. Two or three who arrange things, a reproductionist, and someone to provide authentication. That last element might be what holds them up."

"And where better to shop for expertise than an art school?"

Henri gathered up the photographs and notes. "Précisément," he said. "And thus, our next stop."

***

The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts occupies several buildings on North Broad Street, roughly equidistant between Rittenhouse and Washington Square. Arthur dropped us before its hallowed doors, and as we mounted the steps, a bittersweet nostalgia gave me pause.

"The ghost of my innocence walks these halls," I said, when Henri looked back at me in question. "Eddie had put some money aside for my education, but I still couldn't afford to attend full-time. Even so, I cherished the courses I took. The world never felt more promising to me as it did then. Of course I met Thomas here, and dared to imagine what happiness might look like. I'm much wiser now," I added.

Henri did not return my self-deprecating smile, but held the door for me as we entered the museum hall. Twin white marble staircases hugged the walls, leading up to the gallery above. I took Henri through less public corridors to the wing where Professor Grazzi kept his office. I had not called ahead, for the professor had kept the same schedule without fail for nearly two decades.

I paused before the carved wooden door, rehearsing what I would say in my head, and knocked. His familiar gruff call of "Yes?" answered me, and I let Henri and myself in.

Grazzi sat at a desk piled high with books and papers, his spectacles on the end of his nose and his bristly brows furrowed in concentration. Sketches covered the walls, paintings at various stages of completion sat on easels, and the astringent scent of turpentine tinged the air.

He looked up as we approached. At just over five feet tall, Grazzi reminded me of a plump conductor — spine straight as a rod, every movement full of quick, frenzied energy, but perfectly precise.

"Hello, Professor Grazzi," I began. "Alec Monroe. I don't know if you rem—"

"Monroe!" the professor leaped to his feet, his face a paroxysm of surprise and pleasure, and came out from behind his desk to greet me. "Why, it has been ages since I last saw you. Are you back to studying?"

"N-no," I stammered, a little taken aback by his intensity. "I've only come to get your opinion on a matter. This is Mr. Henri Deschamps, of the Sorbonne."

I would have gone into more detail, but Professor Grazzi's eyes popped wide with excitement, and he immediately launched into a string of rapid French. Henri replied, seeming to warm to the man, and then switched to Italian. I was left momentarily an outsider, unable to follow what was said, but gathered by their manners that the men had mutual acquaintances, or at least some experience in common. When he spoke English once more, Henri confirmed this.

"We have corresponded, indirectly," Henri said. "We have read each other's papers."

"Your theory on the Mycenaeans was very clever — very clever!" Grazzi pronounced. "You've taken up with a brilliant scholar. Well done, Monroe."

He gave my arm a robust pat and laughed effusively.

I tried not to blush, and failed. "I am only assisting with some business."

"Too modest, this one," Grazzi said, addressing Henri. "Never accepting the praise, though I don't give it out undeserved! He is among my most promising students. Then, one day, he vanishes! And he wonders if I will remember him!" He harrumphed. "After that business with Woodson, I feared the worst. Had to find out secondhand you'd only dropped out."

I winced. I suppose I had left rather abruptly after Thomas's death. I had thought no one would care.

"Actually, it's Thomas Woodson we've come to speak with you about," I said, hoping to redirect the conversation to a topic other than myself.

"Oh?" Grazzi resumed his seat at his desk and gestured for us to take the chairs in front of it. "That was a sad business, certainly. Such a promising, talented young man. A shame the war would not stop dogging him."

"I've seen a sample of his work," Henri offered. "Most impressive."

"His talent was unique." Grazzi sighed, his weathered features softening. "He might have been the most sought-after copyist this side of the Atlantic, and perhaps in the world. I have always wondered if there was something more I could have done for him." He rubbed his chin and gazed, unseeing, at the papers on his desk.

I glanced at Henri, but he seemed content to let me take the lead.

"Have you had other students that could match his level, or perhaps come close?"

He scoffed, paused, considered. Watching Grazzi teach had always been a highlight for me; it was as if he acted his thoughts aloud.

"Hmm, no, and yes. I suppose it depends on whether you want a practical or theoretical answer."

"Give us both," Henri said.

Grazzi bowed his head. "In the theoretical sense, yes. Like unique flowers, to bring to full bloom, each artist requires something different. So in that way, yes I have seen students as talented as Woodson. On the practical side, no. I have, to this day, seen no one — student or otherwise — achieve the level of perfection in reproduction that he did. He could have fooled me, if he were not so scrupulous as to put his name to every piece."

Henri and I shared a look.

"What about professionals?" I asked. "Do you know of anyone who could at least come close?"

"Certainly! Go to Paris, London, Rome — even New York. You will find half a dozen. But each has his or her own style. Certain distinguishing features the trained eye can recognize." He leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Why is it you ask? Is there some forgery afoot?"

I let Henri answer as he would.

"Perhaps," he said. "I am here on commission to investigate the sale of stolen art, and to return what I can to my country and countrymen. The problem of forgeries is, by association, relevant."

Grazzi narrowed his dark eyes, making them appear rather beady beneath his wiry brows. "I see. And because I taught the best copyist to have graced the city, you come to me."

Henri inclined his head. "Just so."

"I think you had better tell me in more detail if you want the best answer I can give," Grazzi said.

Henri glanced at me. It took me a moment to realize he deferred to my judgment. I nodded. We could trust Grazzi. The man was honest to a fault.

Acknowledging this silent assent, Henri relayed the gist of what we sought and why.

"So," he said at last, "we are wondering who, besides Thomas Woodson, might have been recruited for this task."

The professor scratched his temple, thought for a moment, seemed about to speak but didn't, until at last he arrived at his conclusion. He shook his head. "As I have said, there are many copyists. Any one of them can do decent work. Some can do incredible work. But very few achieve perfection. Woodson would have been among a handful in the world, if he had lived. Those others who come close to his skill are well known, and scrupulous. I suppose there could be some self-taught, unknown genius doing this, but..." He shook his head. "What you're describing sounds like something only Woodson could have done. When did you say those pieces went missing?"

"I didn't. But it was fairly early in the war. 1915, I believe."

"Hm. Woodson started here in the fall of '20, if I'm not mistaken."

He glanced at me. I nodded. I had met Thomas the following spring.

"He could have finished sooner, but he liked his summers off. He had all but completed his studies, when..."

His words drew me back unwillingly to the winter of 1924. That December had been brutally cold, especially in the week before Christmas, which had been Thomas's last.

"I didn't mean to awaken painful memories," I said, as the professor removed his glasses and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the corners of his eyes. "And I'm sorry I never contacted you after I left. It is only that I..."

He reached across his desk for my hand, which I offered uncertainly.

"Alec," he said, and squeezed my fingers. "You need not explain. I understand. And please — you are young, still! I encourage you to return. If nothing else, you may audit my classes any time. I have no patience for pretenders, but true talent I will nurture like the gardener with his sprouts."

He smiled. I withdrew my hand and expressed my awkward gratitude. With a few more words, Henri and I excused ourselves and left him in peace.

Outside, I remained silent as Henri hailed Arthur, who had parked across the street. I said nothing as we got into the car and drove back to his house. It was not until we shut the front door at our backs and were quite alone that I gave light to the thing that had rooted in my brain.

"He'd completed them," I said. "Thomas. The paintings. He'd finished them before he died. Paul and whoever he's working with have been sitting on inventory, unable to move it, and you threw a wrench in their plans."

Henri had his back to me. He'd paused midway through hanging up his hat. Completing the task, he turned to face me. "If I am right, and Thomas did not die by his own hand..."

"His conscience," I said stonily, as horror's shadow crept upon my soul. "If he found out what Paul really intended..."

"And if he'd done the work already..."

Henri had closed the distance between us and now stood very close, as if he expected me to fall.

"Paul would be regretting it, now," I whispered, looking up at him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Just natural shock, I think. It makes more sense than I care to admit, in retrospect."

"You've gone quite pale." He moved closer still. I felt his breath on my cheek.

"I'm fine," I insisted.

He arched a brow in a now familiar expression of mingled daring and disbelief, his eyes locked with mine.

Made reckless by all I'd learned, I cupped the back of his neck.

"I'll prove it."

I kissed him.

He froze. For a heartbeat, I feared I'd misread his invitation.

Then he kissed me back.