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Hoping to distract herself from these unsettling thoughts, Iris slid off the bed and wandered into the hallway until she stood facing the line of portraits. Immediately, her gaze snagged on the most familiar face in the lineup, in the frame that hung third in from the left.

In the painting, Blair sat at a slight angle, peering off into the distance with the calm, thoughtful expression he so often wore. The slight crease between his eyebrows reminded her of the times he sat with his journal at home, staring off into space while he considered what to write next. Before he’d revealed his past to her, Iris had wanted nothing more than to read the confessions he spilled across the page, staining it with thoughts she desired in the same way her father had craved drink.

His wavy golden brown hair was loose about his shoulders, and one hand rested on a tabletop, while the other clutched a leather bound book on his knee. Iris leaned in closer, but she couldn’t see a title. Her cheeks warmed as her eyes moved over the loose-fitting white cotton shirt he wore, which gapped slightly at the top of his chest. She had to admit, men’s fashion had gone only downhill in the last few centuries. She squinted against the dim light, trying to read the signature and the date at the bottom right of the painting. While the messy scrawl of the signature was illegible, the painting was dated 1730. Iris shook her head in bewilderment as she turned her attention to some of the other paintings.

The two portraits to the left of Blair’s were of his parents. Thomas’ painting showed only his face surrounded by a dark background, his white collar frilled out around his cheeks. In the second painting, Jocatta sat beside a round cherry wood table, one arm propped on it while the other rested in her lap. She was donned in a sky-blue dress—not unlike the one she was wearing today—that brought out the color of her eyes, and peach lipstick that matched the flowers on the table. Iris noticed she was depicted wearing her jade necklace. This portrait was completed later, in the 1850’s.

To the right of Blair’s portrait hung a painting of a pale-faced girl with dark auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and a glint of mischief in her eyes. A pearl crown rested in her wild hair, and an elaborate ruby and pearl necklace was draped over her frilly dress. This portrait was once again a later creation, dated 1874. Given what Blair had told her about his sister Venetia’s vivacious personality, Iris imagined her to be the most likely subject of the painting. Iris was still a little salty about not getting to meet Venetia when she’d dropped by the house unexpectedly a few days after Christmas. Iris had missed her by only a matter of minutes.

The frame next to Venetia’s held a painting that was completed much more recently, dated October 4th, 1996. It featured a man in a deep gray sweater and ebony jacket. His brown hair was parted to the side and swept back over one ear, his lips pursed in an almost haughty expression, yet kindness shone in his rather small eyes. His facial hair was minimal and modern. He looked quite out of place when compared to the older portraits.

The next painting must have been of Blair’s other sister, Espirit. She had a rounder face, deep set hazel eyes, and curly strawberry-blonde hair that was pinned up at the sides. Her portrait was from the early eighteenth century. She was unsmiling, but her gaze was contented. She had a small birthmark on her temple, and there was something in her expression that reminded Iris of Blair, though she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Espirit held herself. She seemed meeker, less ostentatious than the images of both Venetia and the man beside her.

Next to Espirit’s portrait hung five paintings of various men, ranging from on the young side to gray haired and lined. Iris had no idea who they might be.

Blair’s distressed voice suddenly rose from the sitting room a floor below. Iris stepped cautiously to the landing, her hands curling over the curve of the banister. Her heart ached to hear the anguish in his tone, even if she couldn’t make out the words. She bit her nail, wondering if she should join him downstairs so he wouldn’t have to face this alone. Or would that do more harm than good? Maybe it was better to let him work things out with his family without her interference.

“Hello.”

Iris gasped, whipping around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and coming face to face with the subject of one of the portraits. Her hair was shorter now, curling beneath her soft chin, but the birthmark was in place, and so was the serenity in her expression. Iris wondered if she was cognizant of what was happening downstairs.

“Are you Espirit?” Iris asked. She felt a ripple of nerves and wished she could smooth down her hair without looking painfully obvious. It was too late to worry about what Blair’s parents had thought upon meeting her—though she hadn’t yet been properly introduced to his father—but she at least wanted to make a good first impression on his sisters.

The woman nodded, extending a hand as perfectly manicured as her mother’s. “You must be Iris.” Her voice was warm and a little nasally. Like Blair, there was not a single line on her face; she appeared to be around her mid-twenties. Iris assumed this must have been the natural age the three had stopped growing older, thanks to their mother’s unusual genes.

Iris gestured to the paintings. “I was just admiring your family portraits.”

“Ah!” Espirit’s face lit up as she turned to face them herself, leaning back as though viewing an exhibit at the Met. “Do you want me to identify everyone for you?”

Surprised, Iris eagerly agreed, and Espirit began the tour, starting with the portrait of her father at the far left.

Iris had been correct in her assumption that the woman pictured to Blair’s right was Venetia. The man next to her with the haughty pout was Venetia’s husband, Steven. Iris tucked his name away in her memory for future reference, wanting to remember everything she could about Blair’s family. It was funny; he had seemed so solitary when Iris had first met him. It was staggering to learn how many family members he actually possessed.

“These paintings are of my partners through the years.” A bittersweet expression settled on Espirit’s face as her hand hovered over the portraits of the men to the right of her own. “I refuse to let my mother remove the portraits of those who have passed on. I tend to outlive my husbands,” she added with a sad smile.

Iris had no idea what to say to that. She was grateful when Espirit continued without missing a beat.

“Over here is Gérard, my current husband.” She brushed her fingers gently over the framed portrait of a handsome dark-skinned man in a tailored suit, who was looking off to his left, a bright smile touching his eyes. The direction of his attention made it appear as though he were gazing at the portraits of the two little boys next to him. Both children had warm hazel eyes and light brown skin. The boys looked very similar, except that the first had ringlets of curly dark hair and the other’s hair was slightly more wavy and the same shade of auburn as Jocatta’s. The child in the first painting had his arms wrapped tightly around a slobbering spaniel, while the other grinned from his perch in the branches of an apple tree. Their young faces were alight with joy.

“My children, Ennis and Tommy,” Espirit said, her smile soft as she dusted her knuckles over the glass. As she spoke, Iris heard the pitter-patter of small feet and raised voices coming from downstairs. Espirit’s eyes drifted over to the landing. “They’ll be thrilled to see my brother. They all but worship him.” She turned a beaming face on Iris, who was still trying to wrap her mind around Espirit’s situation. She supposed that since Espirit had been alive for close to three hundred and fifty years, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that she’d had so many husbands.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen Blair?” Iris asked, while Espirit peered down the staircase.

“Several months. My family lives in Paris now. I’m grateful that his visit happened to coincide with ours.”

“Paris,” Iris said, her eyes widening. “Wow.”

“Well, you only live once.” Espirit gave Iris the familiar self-deprecating smile that Blair often reserved for her. She placed a warm hand on Iris’ shoulder. “I hope you and Gabriel haven’t minded the intrusion too much. I know my brother can be a bit of a handful.”

Given that she lived so far away, Espirit had certainly been kept well informed. But Iris didn’t appreciate Espirit’s insinuation that she and Gabriel were doing Blair a favor by opening up their home to him.

“We love having Blair with us,” Iris said, trying to keep her tone even as a seed of resentment sprouted in her chest. “He’s part of our family now.”

It was difficult to stay angry with Espirit when Iris saw the expression of genuine joy that lit her face at those words. “That’s wonderful. Well, I’ll just pop down to say hello.” She descended the staircase, her ballet flats muffling her steps. Halfway down, she paused and turned back. “It was a delight to meet you, Iris. Truly.”

Iris smiled. “Nice to meet you, too.”

She watched Espirit round the corner into the sitting room before heading back in the direction of Venetia’s room. But just as she reached it, an idea popped into her head, setting her pulse racing again. Iris slipped like a specter down the dim hallway until she found what she was looking for: a second staircase along the back wall, nearly hidden behind a partially closed door. She felt her way up the dark carpet-covered stairs, her hand trailing along the wall. There was no banister. Rounding a corner, daylight shone from a window on the landing, illuminating her last few steps.