I stared. Did he mean resisting his mind reading or identifying the hidden painting?
But what really made me reel was what Grepper slipped in next.
“Your father would be proud.”
I stared. “You knew my father?”
He nodded, savored another sip of his drink — or some memory — for a long time, then studied me quietly.
Finally, he pointed to the next room. “Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”
I gulped. The Monet?
Roux blocked me when I tried to step past him.
Grepper chuckled. “Very protective. You choose your friends well, Miss Durand.”
“I’m finally learning,” I muttered, slipping past Roux into the next room. Logs in the fireplace burst into flames as I entered, illuminating the space. Another of Grepper’s little tricks, no doubt.
Roux prowled in beside me, sniffing for…traps? Explosives?
“It’s on the desk,” Grepper called casually.
Roux padded over to the sliding doors that opened onto a balcony, where wisps of steam rose from a heated pool, melting snowflakes in midair.
Check if the door is open,he urged.
I shook my head and headed for the desk.If I’d wanted to run, I would already be far from here.
Roux sighed, following me back to the living room.
Grepper motioned, and I propped the framed painting up on a side table. Then I stepped back to admire it.
“Beautiful, no?” Grepper murmured.
I nodded dumbly. It was. The golden light, the dappled leaves. The simple lines of Manet’s hat and beard.
But that was just a slice of a wider scene that had played out in 1874. I pictured a triangle with Monet at one corner, painting Manet from the side while Manet focused on Camille and Jean, who sat at the third corner of the triangle.Thatwas what captivated me — the view that stretched beyond the canvas and the elements I could hear, louder and clearer than ever before.
Birds chirped. Bees buzzed. Water trickled in a stream. And a little boy sighed from somewhere to the right, “off-screen.”
Maman, Maman. Ça va encore durer longtemps?little Jean complained, much as I had as a kid.How much longer will this take?
Of course, I hadn’t been sitting for a portrait done by the Father of Impressionism, as some called Édouard Manet.
“Je sais que tu ressens, petit,” I murmured.I know how you feel, kid.
Encore un petit moment, mon chéri,the boy’s mother replied.Just a little longer, my dear.
I stood there, transported from this snowbound warlock’s lair to a sun-drenched scene in a different time and place.
“He found it, you know,” Grepper murmured.
I blinked, getting my bearings. Who found what?
“Your father found this painting,” Grepper said.
I whirled around. “He found it…where?”
