I turned and pointed again. “Silverware and china, like in a kitchen.”
“Café,” he murmured, clearly impressed.
I could think of two. “The one by Degas or the one by Van Gogh?”
A sharp intake of breath told me he was blown away.
Good, because this was important, dammit.
I continued a few steps, but Roux pulled me to a stop when someone cut in front of us. When they passed, he nudged me onward.
“What about that one?”
I frowned, listening. “I hear rubbing…or scraping… Something heavy being picked up, then put down.” I waited. “Am I right?”
I couldn’t see him nod, but he could well have, judging by the awe in his voice. “Raboteurs de parquet, by Gustave Caillebotte.”
The floor scrapers.I could picture it.
“Believe me now?” I asked rather smugly.
“Yes. I’m impressed.”
Rare praise, indeed. I nearly raised my arms in triumph.
“Bring me to your favorite piece,” I said, flush with success.
He did, but oops. Whatever the painting depicted, it was really, really quiet.
I listened — intently — because this felt especially important.
Then I shook my head. “Crickets. All I hear is crickets. Water lapping in the background…”
Then I slumped. Maybe I wasn’t as good at this as I’d hoped.
Roux gently pulled down my blindfold, murmuring, “Well done.”
I blinked at a blurry nighttime scene with swirls of light. “Oh.”
It was Van Gogh’sStarry Night Over the Rhône, a scene as peaceful as they came. And a fitting choice for a tiger shifter who liked to prowl around in the dark.
“One of my favorites,” he mumbled a little shyly.
I held his hand to my heart and whispered, “I promise not to tell anyone.”
His eyes sparkled like Van Gogh’s stars, and my soul warmed.
Seconds passed, then a minute, and I lost track of where we were and why. We might as well have been on the banks of the Rhône with Van Gogh that night more than a century ago.
Then someone bumped my shoulder, and the illusion broke.
Roux glared at the man, then cleared his throat. “Okay, I believe you. You can hear paintings. But how do you know the voices you heard aren’t coming from your father’s painting?”
“No one matching those voices was at that Easter with us. Also, they’re fainter, like they’re coming from deeper down.”
Roux waited, as if I were holding something back, but that was all I had.
“So, what painting?”
