Lucia stumbled back, her eyes wide as her lips parted—lips Penelope had almost tasted.
“What? I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me. I…” She paused. “Is anything you’ve told me true?”
Lucia recoiled as if Penelope had slapped her. “Yes. Every word about myself is true, well, every word about who I am personally.” She shook her head. “How did you…”
“Colors have flavors.”
“Come again?”
Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve always been able to perceive colors differently than most people do, though to be fair, I don’t knowhowothers see things.”
“OK,” Lucia drew out the word. “But flavors?”
Penelope sighed. “It’s difficult to explain, but I don’t just see colors. I feel them, taste them. They almost have a scent.”
“Chalky?”
Penelope huffed a laugh despite herself. “You’d think so, but no. Anyway, that’s how I know. Every artist has a unique signature, like a fingerprint. I’ve not encountered two artists who paint with the same flavor.”
Lucia’s brows furrowed. “Oh, what you’ve seen here compared to—”
“The Bellini and Alessi pieces, yes. Also, the Santini. Even your art from middle school. I couldn’t be sure because the image quality was awful.” She halted.
“Grace Emerson.” Penelope raised her chin.
The name hung in the air, heavy, with pressure that deepened the fault line between them.
Lucia’s face hardened. “I see. Looks like I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.”
“You can hardly compare the two! I only researched youbecauseI recognized the same hand had created the Alessi and Bellini pieces, even if our assessment team was fooled by your Bellini.”
Lucia’s expression flickered with something dangerously close to pride.
“Seriously?”
“Sorry.” Lucia sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could explain.”
“That easy?”
“Most things are. We just tend to complicate them.”
Lucia chuckled. “All right.” She held Penelope’s gaze, hesitation flickering behind her eyes. “Wanna go to the bedroom?”
Penelope arched a brow. “I’m sorry—you want to do what?”
“Oh, no! To sit. Like, there’s no place to sit here, and I…” Lucia rubbed the back of her neck. “I could make us a cup of tea, and we could talk? I only have black and herbal—chamomile and some kind of red tea.”
Penelope only stared at her. The tension of these last few weeks, of today, ebbed in the face of this ridiculous moment.
“Sure. I’ll take ‘some kind of red’ tea. No sugar.”
And with that, she marched along the hallway toward the back, praying she wouldn’t embarrass herself by landing in the bathroom.
Luck stayed at her side, and the first door she tried led to the bedroom.
