I slumped, because that was the million-dollar question.
“I have no idea,” I admitted.
He chewed that over, and I braced myself for a critical comment like,Not very useful magic, is it?
I hung my head. No. It wasn’t.
Instead of pointing out the obvious, Roux wrapped me in a hug, and I just about melted into it.
“Well, it’s a start. Now we know what everyone is after. A painting.”
I could have stayed in his embrace forever, but an ugly thought struck me, and I slowly peeled away.
“So we know what Gordon was hiding — a painting.” I shook my head. “But why? And why would he ask us to go after Dad’s painting without mentioning that important detail?”
Roux gave me a long, hard look.
I winced. “Because he’s as corrupt as Mina says he is?”
Roux nodded slowly, then checked his watch. “We should get going. But not a word of this to him. You understand?”
Feeling sick, I nodded. “I understand.”
Roux motioned toward the exit, and I followed him on leaden feet. The events of the past days suddenly overwhelmed me, and I wished myself back into my old life, designing sets for the Children’s Theater of New England.
But then I remembered the other parts of my old life — the bad relationships, the stupid mistakes — and decided I didn’t want to go back after all.
So whatdidI want?
A crystal-clear image popped into my mind. I wanted a safe, tranquil, and happy life. I wanted to revive the château. And Roux. I wanted Roux.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Was that a hopeless fantasy, or a blueprint for the future?
“Maman, Maman…” a young boy called.
I whipped around, yanking Roux to a stop.
“We really need to get goin—” he started, then trailed off.
I barely heard. I was too busy staring. Not at a boy, because there wasn’t a single child in the gallery, but at a painting. I stepped closer, then closed my eyes.
Maman, Maman…
Oui, mon chéri?his mother replied.Yes, my dear?
I opened my eyes again, stunned.
Roux looked at the painting, then at me, though he didn’t speak, letting me think.
The painting showed a woman and a boy strolling through a field of poppies. They appeared twice, in fact — once in the distance, then closer to the artist’s vantage point, indicating movement over time.
“The voices. They’re exactly the same,” I whispered. “That’s them.”
“Monet.Coquelicots,” Roux whispered without looking at the plaque.
I nodded. “That’s Monet’s first wife, Camille, and his son Jean.”
Roux cocked his head. “But this painting isn’t hidden behind your father’s.”
