“And you’re sure that’s it?” Bene asked.
Gen nodded. “I’m sure.”
She and I had visited earlier that day to confirm exactly that. I worried she might snatch it off the easel and run, but she’d kept her cool and pretended to inspect a vase instead.
At one point, I’d noticed her cocking her head with her eyes closed.
What are you doing?I’d whispered.
Shh. I need to listen,was all she’d said.
Listen — to a painting? It made no sense, but Gen moved to the beat of her own drum, and I hadn’t asked.
On the live feed, a newcomer entered the room and took a seat near the back.
Henrik perked up, muttering, “Anatole.”
“You know him?” I asked. When he nodded, I ventured a guess. “Vampire?”
Forget long fangs. The best way to spot a vampire was to look for a tall, pale, haughty guy with a bored,Remind me what century we’re inexpression.
Henrik nodded, looking concerned. Not a good sign.
“Who’s Anatole?” Marius asked.
“A vampire who works for Alexandre Ernaux, the head of the Saint-Germain coven. Even Gordon might choose to back away from him.”
Marius and I exchanged wary looks. We were already dealing with an angry warlock and a scheming succubus. Now, fate was throwing a vampire into the mix?
Not fate,Marius grunted.Celeste.
An older couple took their places at the auctioneer’s table and introduced themselves as Monsieur and Madame Robert.
“Mesdames et Messieurs, please take your seats,” Monsieur Robert announced. “We’ll begin with lot 471.”
Lot 471 was an antique rocking chair set up near the front of the room. The starting price was €750, and it sold for €905.
An assistant moved it aside, opening the view to a bulky dresser that probably weighed more than a minivan.
“Lot 472,” Monsieur Robert announced. “Late eighteenth-century oak dresser in the style of Louis the Sixteenth.”
A series of feverish bids between two older ladies took it from €2000 to over €3000.
“Sold for €3025,” Monsieur Robert said. His wife made a note in her ledger.
It was such a low-key event, he didn’t even have a gavel.
The third item was a pair of mirrors set in ugly gilt frames that screamedRococo on steroids. Bids came from two people in the crowd, plus a third bidding remotely, as indicated by a light over a device in front of Madame Robert.
The mirrors went for €1340 — nearly double the list price.
Then came the painting by Gen’s father. She leaned forward in anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, lot 474, a charming scene of a countryside château in oil by Thomas Durand.”
Gen gripped Mina’s hand.
“Bids open at—” The auctioneer looked up, annoyed, at a late arrival.
