It’s Isabella, hidden in a painting that isn’t of her at all.
I spend another hour searching. I find six more tucked into forest scenes, reflected in sparkling water, and crossing frozen lakes. Henri scattered her across decades of landscape portraits, and no one noticed.
I mentally map the locations, noticing that each hidden Isabella faces a specific direction, pointing toward the next. It’s a trail that I follow. The final one faces a wall in the queen’s private sitting room, where a faded rectangle shows something was removed.
The painting is gone. The trail goes cold.
I let out a disappointed sigh as I walk back through the gallery, slower this time, looking not at her, but at the way she was rendered. The early portraits are confident, each stroke precise and alive. By her fifties, the brushwork is tighter, more controlled, as if he were holding himself back. By her sixties, he was masterful and found his flow.
Found her again.
I stare at the ceiling and blink hard because I refuse to cry in the middle of the palace over this. But I understand now why Louis wanted me to leave. I don’t think I’d be able to survive it.
“The painter, right?”
One of the princesses stands a few feet away in a dress that screams imported designer. She’s tall, blonde, and beautiful, with a pretty smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I suck in a deep breath and give her a polite smile.
“One of the artists competing for the portrait commission,” I say, still studying the painting. “I’m Addison.”
I try to give her my hand, and she looks down at it.
“Princess Cornelia,” she states.
I give her a curtsy because she expects it, and it’s the polite thing to do. “Honored to meet you.”
She moves closer, studying the frame I was examining. “Must be an incredible opportunity to be able to spend this time in the palace and watch everything unfold from the servants’ quarters.”
“I’m at the cottages actually.” I try to be as friendly as possible, even though she’s throwing as many jabs as she can.
“Is there a difference?” She laughs at her own joke. “I’ve seen your work before. It’s very …American.”
My brows crease, and I realize she’s trying to insult me.
“I’m sure that aesthetic appeals to certain crowds, but royal portraiture requires an understanding of refinement.” Her gaze travels down my black slacks.
Movement catches my eye at the far end of the foyer, and my pulse kicks up before my brain even registers why. Louis walks through the archway. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s close enough that he will. I keep my expression neutral and continue my uneventful conversation with Cornelia because I cannot look at him right now.
She clears her throat. “Some of us were raised for this life, while others wander through it.”
“I agree. Or at least, that’s what we were taught when I attended Le Rosey.” I let my voice stay pleasant, conversational. “And before that, Miss Porter’s. My mother was very particular about refinement.”
Cornelia’s smile falters for a fraction of a second because she knows those names. Everyone in her world does. Le Rosey is where royalty sends their children to be educated alongside other royalty. Miss Porter’s has produced refined women since 1843. My credentials are impeccable, and she wasn’t expecting that. No one in this palace knows, except for Louis, because he did a background check on me.
“How nice for you,” she manages.
“It was.” I let my smile tighten. “Some of uswereraised for this life. Some of us were given the choice to choose a different path.”
Her eyes narrow, and I watch her recalculate, trying to figure out who I actually am beneath the slacks, silky blouse, and messy ponytail. I could tell her that my trust fund alone makes Montclaire’s GDP look like pocket change, or that I’ve turned down twelve marriage proposals from men with titles longer than her full name, but that would be petty. The boarding schools were enough to make my point without spelling it out.
“I’m sure your little paintings are very fulfilling,” she says, recovering. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do with myself if I had no expectations to meet. No duty. No legacy to uphold. Just …self-expression.” She makes it sound like a disease. “Sounds boring.”
Louis is closer now, maybe thirty feet away, and I can feel his presence like a low hum beneath my skin. I don’t look at him.
“Only for the small-minded,” I say sweetly.
Cornelia’s brows furrow, and she’s searching for a response, something to put me in my place, but before she can, Louis’s voice cuts through the silence.
