CHAPTER 13

Adrian took the envelope.

He did not know why. His hand simply reached out and closed around it, the way a hand reaches for something falling.

Sophia watched his face. "You should open it now," she said softly. "Before your mother finds out what is inside."

"Not tonight."

"Adrian..."

"I said, not tonight."

He turned and walked down the hall. Behind him, he could feel her eyes on his back, cool and patient, like someone waiting for a kettle to boil.

In the bedroom, the maids had already started carrying things back. A box of dresses. A small lamp. A bag with a hairbrush poking out of the top. Mrs. Carter was setting the lamp on the window sill with both hands, as if it might break.

"Leave us," Adrian said.

They went out quietly.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the envelope on his knee. The paper was thick and creamy. The name on the front was written in black ink, in a hand he did not know. He turned it over. The back was sealed with a drop of red wax.

For a long time, he only looked at it.

His whole life he had been a man who opened things. Contracts. Letters. Doors that other people were afraid of. But now his thumb would not move. Something told him that once he read what was inside, he could never go back to not knowing.

He opened the nightstand drawer. The sketchbook lay inside, with Elena's note folded at the back. He placed the envelope on top, shut the drawer, and turned the small key.

Then he sat in the dark and did not sleep.

Three hours away, in the long bright studio at Westbrook, Elena was painting.

It was past midnight. The other students had gone home. The only light came from a tall lamp beside her easel, and the room smelled of oil and turpentine. Outside the window, the town was asleep.

She did not feel tired. She felt like a river that had finally been let out of a pipe.

On the canvas, a long dining table stretched across the picture. There were many chairs along the sides, all empty, and one more at the head. But the chair at the corner was different. It had a woman's hand resting on its arm. That was all. Only a hand, pale and still, beside a plate of cold food.

She had painted it from memory. Every curve of that table, every shadow, came from five years of evenings she never wanted to forget and could never stop seeing.

She worked on the hand for an hour. The fingers had to be loose, not stiff. They had to look like they were waiting. She mixed grey and rose and a little yellow, and laid it on so lightly that the brush hardly touched the cloth.

When she stepped back, her breath caught.

It was the truest thing she had ever made.

"The Fifth Year," she whispered. It was the only title that fit.

The door creaked. Chloe stood there in her pajamas and red boots, holding a flask of tea.

"I saw your light from the street," she said. "I thought you were being murdered. Or painting. Same thing."

Elena laughed. "Come in."

Chloe walked across the room and stopped in front of the easel.

For a while, she said nothing. Her mouth opened a little, then closed again. She put the flask down on a stool.

"Elena," she said at last. Her voice was thick. "Who is this?"

"Nobody."

"This is not nobody." Chloe wiped her eyes roughly with her sleeve. "I am sorry. I did not mean to cry. I am not even sad. It just hurts in a good way."

"I know."

"You have to enter this in the winter exhibition."

"I might."

"You have to." Chloe sniffed and looked at her. "Promise me."

Elena smiled. "I promise."

They drank the tea together on the studio floor, under the lamp, and Chloe fell asleep against her shoulder halfway through a sentence. Elena covered the canvas with a clean cloth, to keep the dust off while the paint dried. She woke Chloe gently and walked her home in the cool early morning.

She went to bed happy. It was a small, quiet happiness, like a candle in a window.

She did not know it was the last night she would feel it for a long time.

The knock came before the sun was fully up.

Elena opened the door in her nightdress. Chloe stood on the landing, red faced and gasping, holding her boots in one hand.

"Elena. Get dressed. Now."

"What happened?"

"I do not want to say. Just come."

They ran all the way to the college. The sky was grey and the grass was wet. Students were beginning to gather in front of the main hall, where a long sheet of paper had been pinned to a notice board.

Elena's stomach dropped.

"Wait," she said. "I need to check the studio first."

"You should look at the board."

"Chloe..."

"Look at the board first," Chloe said quietly. "Please."

Elena pushed through the small crowd. People moved aside for her. A few looked at her with strange faces, the kind people make when they are not sure whether to be sorry or curious.

At the top of the board, in black print, were the words Winter Exhibition: Selected Works.

She ran her finger down the list. Names. Titles. Small notes about size and materials.

Halfway down, she stopped.

The Fifth Year. Oil on canvas. Vanessa Reed.

Elena did not move.

She read it again. Then a third time, slowly, as if the letters might change if she looked hard enough. But the paper was cold and plain and the ink would not move.

A roaring sound filled her ears.

It was her painting. The table, the empty chairs, the cold plate, the waiting hand. Every brush mark was hers. She had made it only hours ago, with her own fingers, in the dark. And now someone else's name was printed beside it, on the wall of the school, for everyone to read.

She spun around and ran back across the grass and up the stairs and into the studio.

The easel was still there. The lamp was still there.

The canvas was gone.

On the floor, a small corner of cloth lay crumpled where it had been dragged away.

"Looking for something?"

The voice came from the door.

Vanessa Reed stood there with her arms folded, in a white coat that looked brand new. Her hair shone. Her smile was calm and sweet and perfectly still, like a painting of a smile.

"You took it," Elena said. Her voice shook. "That is my painting."

"Is it?" Vanessa tilted her head. "I do not see your name anywhere."

"I painted it last night. Chloe saw me. She was here."

"Chloe is your friend. Of course she would say that." Vanessa walked slowly toward her, her heels clicking. "The list is official, Hart. Professor Linden approved it herself. Everyone has seen it."

"I will tell her the truth."

"Please do."

Elena stared at her. She felt as if the ground had turned to water under her feet.

Vanessa leaned close, so that only Elena could hear. Her perfume was sharp and sweet.

"A girl who works in a café does not win against a Reed," she whispered. "So if it really is yours, go ahead and prove it."

She straightened, smiled once more, and walked out.

Elena stood alone in the empty studio.

Prove it. How? She had no photograph. She had no witness but Chloe. She had never signed the canvas, because it was still wet. The only person in the world who knew her work well enough to say, with all his heart, that it was hers, was Alexander.

And Alexander was on a plane, far across the sea, and would not be back until the end of the week.

She looked at the crumpled cloth on the floor. Her hands began to shake.

Then, behind her, the studio door opened again.

"Miss Hart," said a stern voice. "Professor Linden wants to see you in her office. Immediately.”