“How do you think I know? She left. She did not give me her itinerary.” He put a hand to his head and winced. Apparently his evening had involved too much wine.

“You look like hell. Where were you last night?”

He hesitated again. “Lili’s,” he said, cradling his head. “The night did not go as I planned.”

“That’s what you get when you spend evenings at les maisons closes.”

“Whores are nicer than fifteen-year-old girls. No wonder you did not help her.”

I stopped. “Help her with what?”

He buttoned up his sweater tighter. “She talked again and again, always about her mama and a secret that you would not share.”

The paintings in the gallery. She’d come to Paris not to escape me, but to find her mother.

“You should find some coffee.” I clapped Bauer on the shoulder and he winced again. His evening must’ve been rougher than I thought. “I’m going to go find her.”

“Crépet.”

I turned in the doorway.

“You should be careful near her.”

“What, so I avoid a black eye?”

“She seems to like older boys.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Watch that she does not throw herself at you.”

“Clare is only a child.”

“Not as much as you think.”

I thought of her following me through the woods, insisting on drawing me when I’d tried to keep my distance.

“Don’t underestimate Clare Ross,” I said.

—

She was at Galerie Porte d’Or, of course.

She hunched in a doorway across the street, wrapped tight in a light gray linen jacket. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her hat. It was summer, but she shivered.

“You don’t hide very well, mouse.”

She didn’t even look up, just slumped lower.

“Hi.” I took her arm.

At my touch, she flinched. She looked up then.

“Clare,” I said softly, “are you okay?”

She stared at me, shaking, but didn’t say a word. I slipped off my coat and held it out to her, but she shook her head. Her hands clutching at the neck of her jacket were white. Along the back of one was a long, thin scratch, bright red.

“What happened to you?”

“It was my hat pin.” She brought her hand up to her lips. “It was an accident.”

“But you don’t even have a hat on.”

She blinked and put a hand to her head. Her hair was loose over her shoulders. “Imagine that,” she murmured.

“Have you been out here all night?”

“I had a place to stay.” She pressed her lips closed. “At least I thought I did.” Her breath caught and she pushed a thumb against her mouth. “Oh, Luc, I was all alone and I didn’t know who to trust and I can’t even trust that painting. I’ve been staring at it all morning through the glass, and I don’t know if it’s her or not.”

“Did you go inside?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“I’ll take you in there.” I reached for her arm again. “If you’d like me to.”

Hesitant, she lowered her thumb. “I would.”

I took her in the shop, waving away Monsieur Santi’s solicitations. She stood before the five other paintings and slowly lifted her chin.

Looking at them again, there was no doubt in my mind. Maman’s enigmatic directive to leave well enough alone seemed to confirm it. But Clare’s face, so near, was mirrored in the paintings.

“It can’t be her, Luc, can it?” She stepped closer, touched the frame. “She couldn’t have really been in Paris all this time. Been so close and not come to Mille Mots to find me? It can’t be her.”

Through her jacket, her back was straight.

In the center painting, the model reclined on a curve-backed sofa in a dress the color of rubies. The neckline of the dress was edged with puffs of lace and it fell unabashedly off one shoulder. There, right by a pink nipple, was that same mole.

Two artists and seven intimate paintings of Maud Ross. How many others were there? Clare hadn’t wanted to see the first one.

Her gaze roved from one to the next to the next. The model danced with flashing calves. She sipped absinthe with a heavy-lidded expression. She leaned towards the painter with her dress dipping forward. She stretched, languid, disheveled, on a sofa. Clare’s breath caught.

“Is it her, Luc?” She asked the question hesitantly, almost fearfully, as though she didn’t want an answer.

When I didn’t reply, she turned her head away.

She wanted her mother. But she wanted the refined Scottish mother who raised her, the elegant woman who had elegant dinner parties, the lady artist who sat so beautifully tortured at her easel. Not this woman who ran off to be painted like a courtesan. The mother Clare talked about and wished for was an icy ideal. I couldn’t give her the one here in the painting, not when she held her breath, willing me not to. “You know, I was wrong,” I said, moving forward. Near to her, but not touching her. “It’s not her. Clearly it’s not.”

“Really?” She turned to me, hopeful.

“Actually, now that I look at the paintings again, I think it’s Sarah Bernhardt.”

Her face cleared. She exhaled. “It does look like Sarah Bernhardt, doesn’t it?”