"Rue Saint-Honoré, dans l'après-midi. Effet de pluie" (Rue Saint-Honoré, in the afternoon. Effect of rain) by Camille Pissarro (1897), desperately yet involuntarily traded by Lily Cassirer in exchange for $360 and safety as her family fled Nazi Germany, after she was told the possibility of getting exit visas was entirely contingent on her giving up the painting—but she did not receive the money nor her family's safety. After the war, Cassirer filed with a tribunal organized by Allied forces for its return, but the painting was presumably auctioned off and missing; she received $13,000 for its loss by the German government. Yet, the painting was found in 2000 by a descendant visiting a museum in Madrid, the museum claims current ownership; her descendants now wage a decades-long battle in court for the painting's return to the family - value $30 million

Chapter Fifty

The knock on the door was hesitant.

It was different this time. June had bled into August.

June had seen my parents withdrawing, removing their scraps at my door to focus on their other daughter. It wasn't surprising.

Carrie had been accepted into a prestigious PhD program that flaunted lauded scientists like class rings. She was taking academic strides my family hadn't achieved before. Of course, it'd worked out for her. Of course, my parents were thrilled. Of course, they were. God, it was painfully familiar. It was a wound I found comfort in again, purely because of its consistency; it was a loss more reliable than my parents themselves. It wasn't surprising. No, not at all.

June saw less visitors outside my apartment. The once-daily knocks had slowed to a stop; June had brought quiet.

So these knocks now weren't what they used to be. They were different, because I'd asked for these. I'd requested their return, to restart what'd died weeks before; I'd asked for their resurgence.

The sound of rapping knuckles was crisp and forceful as they announced their reappearance. Even in their hesitation, loud.

But that hesitation wasn't surprising, either. I could imagine how the arm had perhaps hovered over my door, frozen, while the required courage was summoned. I could imagine how his hand had perhaps fisted tight, then relaxed, because he didn't know bloody knuckles or crescent marks on palms. Sure, he'd known storms before—but lightning only ever flashed for some people; it didn't strike. I didn't think it would ever truly strike for him. Not like it did for me, not like I knew lightning, not like how I brushed fingertips on the slices it left on my world. No, I could imagine how his back had straightened and his chin had rose, like it always had and always would.

When I didn't answer the door, brooding in thought, the second knock was stronger. More frustrated. More desperate. More annoyed.

"Eleanor?" he called.

I should've flinched, or started forward, or done something, but I didn't. I didn't move. I stood on the other side, brow furrowed and mind clouded. I was alone, which was why I'd sent a message to the man on the other side of the door, telling him it was time.

End it. End it, and maybe you won't have to tell Simon everything. Maybe it will fade. Let him say what he needs to say, whatever it is, and be done.

Even so, my hand was still carved stone on the waiting knob. This reminded me of a game played by children: where one was a museum security guard, patrolling at night, and the other kids were 'sculptures'. It was a game where exhibits came to life, but only behind the turned back of the patrolling guard—because if the guard saw a sculpture move, it was game over.

Maybe I was frozen because I was afraid to get caught.

Get it over with. As quickly as you can.

I swung the door open so suddenly it startled me as well as August. He jumped back, hand dropping from where it'd hung, staring blankly at me like a caught crook. I gazed back, taking in the person I'd once known so well, surely as much of a stranger to him as I was to myself.

But, I realized I still knew August. Even if he'd changed; even if his hair was a little longer, his jaw was dusted with stubble, and his clothes were a little looser—yes, I still knew him. Heat could warp metal, but not always change its composition. I knew the blue-eyed man who stood before me. I knew this stranger, running his hand through his hair. He was the same August deep down. He had to be. Beneath the justified anger and the wary uncertainty, he just had to be. He stood at my door with a bag in his hands and a white flag embroidered in the very bones of his chest. It was part of him.

I met his scorpion-grass-blue, forget-me-not eyes and remembered it was time to do just that.

"Eleanor," August faltered, swallowing.

His gaze didn't move from mine, even as my own flicked up and down again to take him in again. He was seeing a ghost; I was seeing a victim of my own hand. A survivor of all he'd been put through in a battle that wasn't about him.

"August."

August's eyes flashed at the sound of my voice—like he hadn't been sure of my realness until I'd spoken.

For a moment, we both swayed. Then, my storm shook its thunderous fist, and I stepped back to widen the space and let him in. This time, August didn't move. The blue eyes I used to know were still watching me. Still hurting. Still waiting for me to change my mind.

But I didn't. Not this time.

His own fist clenched, he blinked, and he seized the opportunity like the Whitehill he was. August strode past me to stop in the living room. He regarded me carefully as I followed and paused by the bar cart. I'd found comfort in it lately, or at least wrung it from the necks of its bottles.

I dangled one for him to see. "Want a drink?"

"Yes."

I swallowed surprise. His answer was quick—too quick for the August I knew. But I brushed it off and poured him a glass. Maybe we both knew it'd be easier with something to numb the ache, to offer a temporary bridge across the gaping holes in our lives. Maybe it'd soothe the memories of who we used to be—of how it used to be. Maybe I was lying to myself. Maybe we were all liars. I didn't know. But I embraced self-destruction like the blade kissed the sheath, and I offered August the same.

When I handed him the glass, he downed most in a single gulp. That was new, too. He wasn't an avid drinker; soon his blues would become flushed with pink, and purple would bloom from the soulful bruises our battle would leave. He was a lightweight masquerading as experienced.

I sipped my scorching drink. I was teetering in uncertainty, and I couldn't help but rock on my toes, tracing shapes beside the yawning wounds of wrenched hearts. We used to be friends. I didn't use to have to chew glass to find my words. It didn't use to be this hard.

"So... how've you been?"

August stared at his drink like it'd answer the question so he didn't have to. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

His voice was bitter; it sounded like he'd also swallowed broken glass while he waited. "Act like everything's okay," he chided. "Like nothing's changed."

"You haven't changed."

"You wouldn't know."

I deserved the reverberations across my spine from his touch-less blow. I did. Of course I did. I deserved it and more. I deserved the mulberry red and violent plum that would fade to nauseous yellows. I pressed anxious fingers tighter around my lukewarm drink.

"I know." I nodded. Then nodded again. "You're right. I wouldn't."

August sighed at my acceptance. His shoulders dropped, and the amount of remorse in my apartment impossibly grew. I hadn't known it was possible—and yet, I should've. Because I knew August. I knew how easily he carried the guilt of others. Just being here was probably infecting him, dragging him to the trenches kicking and screaming, stuffing poisoned memories down his throat. I regretted my words, my choices, my crimes. I regretted how I'd hurt him and still continued to do it.

"I'm sorry," August apologized before I could, shaking his head, weary and hollow. "I'm—"

"Don't," I pleaded. Hating how I begged. "Please."

My eyes were burning, but I forced myself to hide my weakness. August couldn't resist damsels. He was weak to his honor, his heart his only flaw, so all I offered was a watery smile as I repeated his words. "Don't act like nothing's changed."

August's gaze was different when he paused. He was taking me in, and I knew in that moment, he was letting himself really look at me. Not as who I used to be, not as who I could be, not as who I'd been labelled as. August looked at me, and for a breath, I believed he really saw me.

At least the parts I'll let you see, August.

He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet like I'd done. He would use the defenses we were trained in; he'd use the barbs of small talk to avoid the larger gashes of these awkward regrets. I recognized the familiar rumbles before August even spoke. "How are you, El?"

Before I answered, I remembered rainy days at Whitehill. I remembered similar questions spoken in my office, and bold hands extended over spicy chais. And now, how my nickname hung in the air after it left his lips. It broke my heart, whatever was left to break. It was simply habit for him. Announcing our knowledge of the other, our closeness, it was second nature for August. For me, it was painful reminiscing, and it made my arm twitch.

"Oh, y'know. I'm—"

"—hiding. You're hiding."

My chin jerked. "Wouldn't you?"

It was a joke, but it was weak; it fell as heavy as the chains we dragged behind us. Silence pulsed. August cleared his throat again. His glass had earned his gaze now.

"Lena and I are going away for the summer," he said suddenly.

Selfish selfish selfish selfish why am I so selfish selfish—

"That's nice," I replied. "Where are you going?"

"Probably easier to ask where we're not going. You know Lena."

I did.

"I do. Well, I hope you like late nights in Ibiza. Mornings in hot air balloons floating over Turkey. Gondolas in Venice. Treks in Bali. Lena's trips are no joke," I remembered, voice too high. Was it a warning? A wish? A strike of jealousy, leaving green smears like poisoned blood? They had what I would want in another lifetime, another Eleanor, another Simon. "You'll be tired. It'll all probably be followed by lunch in Rome, dinner in Lisbon, operas in Paris, plays in London. But hey, like we always said, no rest for the rich, right?"

We shared a feeble grin, an echo of the harmony that used to ring through these rooms. It was a phantom of the collaboration we used to be; a reminder of the jokes we used to make.

"Sounds fine to me," August accepted. "I'll go wherever she wants. Speaking of which, how's Simon?"

He's drowning under my anchor.

"Fine. He's at work."

August nodded, glancing around my apartment. A few of Simon's things were here and there, but not enough. Not as many as there should've been for how much of my heart Simon had claimed, carried, and consumed. August's withdrawn yet curious eyes took in the faint changes, until they caught the poppies on the wall. He walked over to stand before it. God, the glass in my lungs hurt; I'd swallowed my broken, unspoken words right down my trachea. I counted forty-seven rapid-fire beats of my heart before he spoke again.

"Gramma asked me about this painting that night," he stated.

Hearing her name stole my breath. It tore the stitches on my soul; I scrambled to hold the edges of the wound together and apply pressure. I pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed it all down so I could keep a straight face. Except August hadn't faltered when he'd brought her up. There'd been sadness under his words, sure, but also the warmth of her memory. It was a mixed glass he'd raised to her, not a downing of liquid agony. I took a breath. I knew it to be true now. I'd known it would happen, but I'd prayed for it anyway, and here was the reveal—August was healing. How lucky that must feel.

"Which night?"

August glanced back, thoughtful. "Back in November, when the alarms went off for the second time. Remember how we found her there?"

Of course I remembered that night. I remembered how strange it was she'd roamed the halls so late, alone, and how more than just the museum's alarms had been set off when she'd triggered them. Still, I was confused. I pointed at the canvas that contained my haunting floral blooms. "She asked about my poppies? These poppies?"

"On the way home," August explained, nodding. "She asked about a couple paintings in our exhibits and storage, but she specifically asked where this painting was now. I guess she thought it was at the museum."

I frowned. That didn't make sense, and I joined his side to stare between the poppies and my once-friend. At my baffled gaze, August shrugged. The tip and fall of his shoulders didn't answer my question. "Yeah, I thought it was weird, too. I just assumed she'd forgotten I'd given it to you."

He sighed, retreating inward enough for me to notice. He looked back at the painting to blankly stare at its faltering strokes. Something was being carved, something was being chipped away, something was bringing the dark back to where we'd tried to chase it out. "Looking back, maybe I should've said something," he said, voice thin. "It was so unlike her to forget anything like that. Maybe... maybe it was a warning sign I missed."

I heard the hurt in those words, the way his voice cracked like dirt in a drought. The guilt, the regret, the pain. It made me ache, yet poked me into action, determined to shove gauzy reassurances in whatever wounds of his hadn't healed yet. "Then it was a sign we missed," I rebuffed. "All of us. You weren't the only one who loved her, August."

His lip was bullied by his teeth for seven more heartbeats. My inner cheek was bruised by my own.

"On the way home, after she asked, I reminded her I gave it to you for your twenty-first birthday," he said, retracing his steps. "In fact, back then, I actually went to her for advice on what to get you. Did I ever tell you that?"

"No."

"Yeah, I went to Gramma." His smile was weak, but the memories were not. "She told me you loved everything she had, but especially paintings, and to just pick one off the walls. She knew you'd like any of them. You always did."

She was right. I used to think she always was.

"And I remember the poppies were new," he continued. "Or, new to me at least, since she was always rotating them. I'd never seen them before, but I knew they were perfect as soon as I did."

I bit down my smile, but August wasn't done. His hand twitched, his jaw clenched, and his fingers tugged at the golden spirals that brushed his ears. "I didn't realize I'd forgotten to tell you what she said that night," he admitted.

My smile turned brittle. "There were other distractions."

Purple panics, imagined symphonies, looming fundraisers.

August nodded, agreeing. Then he became distant again. "When I told her that story in November, she looked strange, though," he confessed, brow pinched. "She said she thought the painting was in the vault this whole time. And when it wasn't, she told me she'd wondered if she'd mixed it up, so had gone to the museum to look. When I reminded her I'd given you the poppies, she got quiet."

"Did she want it back?"

August shrugged again. He took a breath and stepped away, inching himself back towards not seeming too concerned. He probably didn't want to dwell much more on this; I understood, but I couldn't let it go.

"I don't know. If she did, it was too late. She couldn't have asked for it back; it's yours."

"Still, I—"

"Don't worry about it. It's yours. It's always been yours."

I didn't know what to say. I mumbled my thanks. "Thank you, August. I've always loved them."

There was a hint of warmth back in his words, and in the half-smile he granted me. Only in his words and smile, though; the rest of his body betrayed that flicker of light. "I know," he said.

I could see the memories flooding his eyes in the same way they flooded my veins. And I knew from the woe sewn across the heart on his sleeve that it wasn't only memories of us.

"That reminds me again. Gramma asked about you a couple months before that, too," August informed. His smile grew a little bigger, but also a little more like a grimace. "I guess I forgot to tell you a lot. It was just as weird when she brought you up then."

"Yeah? What was so weird?"

"Usually when she asked about you, it was general things. How you were doing, what exhibit you were working on, what country you were in. I completely forgot about it until now because it was right before the theft. Then everything happened, and, well..."

I nodded. "What'd she say?"

"Gramma asked about all the noise you were making about other galleries and collectors last summer. Remember? You went on that rampage?" He elbowed me gently, teasing me. I did remember—because that rampage now seemed like a hypocritical genocide. "You were calling out every museum and gallery that weren't being clear which works were replications."

"Oh," I mumbled weakly. "Right."

"You were like a hunter that summer. Karma herself, coming for them!" He laughed. "You made such a stink about tiny fonts and hard-to-see signs helping fool people. You really made a difference."

Did I?

"August, what did Geraldine actually say?"

"I don't remember exactly."

I wanted to shake him and scream until he remembered. This was important.

"Like I said, I completely forgot about it until just now," he continued. "I think it was just normal stuff, though. How you were learning which ones were fake, if there were any works at Whitehill she needed to be concerned about, where or what you were going to look at next—"

I didn't even look there, because I trusted her so much. Now I know.

"I found out through inside sources," I said, mind buzzing. "A lot of people hate deception as much as I do. But I still don't understand—"

"Don't worry about it, El. She was probably just curious."

August was glancing at me peculiarly. I tried to straighten my scowl, but I'd not only shown my cards, I'd tripped and scattered them on the floor.

"It doesn't matter," he assured again, seeing my stubborn unease. "You know she loved that sort of stuff. She was always telling us things. Remember when she told us how they used to layer canvasses to protect works in war? Or when she told us all about the Monument Men? She loved ingenuity and justice in art."

"No, I know. It's just... it's just strange, that's all."

"Well, she was strange even before she got sick."

I recognized the dark humor, and I tried to muster a smile. But it fell flat. August had given me too much; the pieces didn't fit together. I didn't know if they all came from the same puzzle. I didn't know if any of them were even important.

"I should go," August said suddenly, finishing his glass. "It's getting late."

"What was it you wanted to talk about? You said it had to be in person, but I don't—"

"Right," August huffed. He walked over to grab the bag he'd left on the couch. I'd completely forgotten about it.

When August handed it to me, all traces of a smile were gone. All hints of familiarity had leached from his eyes, and I saw just how much August Whitehill looked like his father; I learned just how much boiled down to business when family was set aside. He thrust the bag into my hands like it burned him.

"This is the execution of the will."

"I'm sorry?" My jaw went slack. "Did you say the execution of the—"

"Thanks for the drink, Eleanor." August brushed past, leaving his glass on the table and walking to the door. Bewilderment and desperation were an awful mix in my mind, but he wouldn't look at me.

"No—"

"Nobody else knows. Only me," he paused, "or us, now."

His back was to me; he hardly turned over his shoulder as he spoke. August's hand was on the knob. His sentences weren't as steady as before, and his body was stiff, but his head was shaking. "She told me what to do before she—" he paused, sighing, "anyway, this is... this is how she wanted it."

His eyes met mine then, blue over his shoulder—lightning struck, and I saw Geraldine. "Only us," August vowed lowly. Like me, it sounded like his teeth were grinding, or his throat was swelling.

"August," I breathed.

The bag was heavy in my hands. I silently begged, but he looked away.

"I'm sorry."

The door clicked. Augustus Leon Whitehill was gone.

I knew he wasn't coming back. I knew it the same way I knew deep down what was in the bag. I opened it with shaky hands, a shuddering conscious, and a trembling heart.

I opened the bag—and I greeted the Weeping Widow.

Without her frame, the Widow looked vulnerable. Lonely. Exposed—a woman in hysterics after being forced on the run. I held her gently, but the crumpled fabric she was on felt wrong. Too new. Too modern.  The edges where she'd been sliced from the frame were rougher than I'd thought they would be, too. Clearly, the person who'd cut her from her housing hadn't cared how she would fare in the process. I understood why, now.

She was fake. An imposter, and the more I looked, the more I could see it. It was such an impressive replica; clearly, the best money could buy. But she was fake. If I had any doubts, the lack of a stamped daisy on the back was enough to confirm it. The Widow's artist had always left it on the bottom right, a signature, on every one of her works. I'd seen it myself on the true Widow.

This widow had no daisy embellished on her canvas. This widow wasn't true in her voiceless wails or silent sobs.

I laid her on the table, still beautiful in her falsehoods and shredded gown. Still solemn and weeping. Even if this wasn't the real Widow, it was sad to think the same person who'd painted the vibrant poppies behind me had painted the poignant piece of grief that was the real one. It was woeful; the person who'd memorialized her daughter's favorite flower in oils had painted herself at her most vulnerable point. She'd lost so much to the crushing curse of creatives.

She lost herself to the greed of others and the swell of the tides. To the rocks at the bottom of the same cliff her cat once treaded. To the foam no lighthouse could rupture.

I knew the truth. I knew it. I did. I knew it. I couldn't ignore it. August had told me everything. Whether he'd known it or not, he'd put all the pieces together...

...or almost. Almost all of the pieces.

The rest were found in the letter and photo found at the bottom of the bag. The perfect, looping scrawl on the page told a story I'd half-known. Still, consuming its words knocked the air out of me.

The letter wasn't addressed to me. No, in the corner were numbers acknowledging a date years before, dutifully addressed to Geraldine Whitehill. The photo it came with was of two young women; their arms slung around each other as they smiled and laughed before the camera, their clothes and hair reminiscent of decades long past.

The truth was as bare as it could be—as bare as it could ever, and would ever, get. Tattered, yet not quite whole, since what was left unknown was forever concealed by death or age, but this... this was most of it. This was what I'd needed. I'd wanted it, needed it, chased it, but that didn't make it hurt any less now. It didn't kill me any less. It didn't ease the ache at all.

When I couldn't stand the sadness of the Widow anymore, or stare at her grief-filled eyes that I knew weren't half as haunting as the real one, I turned back to my poppies. Back to the hope I'd hid in, the love I'd barricaded myself in, and the reminders I'd prayed with.

I stared and stared and stared and stared and—what if that painting was fake, too? What if even my home hadn't been safe?

I felt nauseous as Geraldine's faults ruined even the poppies for me. I stared and stared and stared and stared—and then I got a knife from the kitchen. I didn't have any other tools; I would make it work. I stood on a chair to unscrew the glass protective case with the tip of the blade. Carefully, I eased the valuable work out and took the poppies down, feeling its weight as I set it gently on the table.

I flipped the painting over, hoping I'd be able to see the back of the canvas through the frame, but my hopes were dashed at the solid wooden backing. The frame would have to be pried off. I didn't want to break it, so I took my time removing it, hoping when I was done it could be returned to my wall without harm. I almost took off a few fingers, too.

A few minutes in, the frame was eventually removed.

I took out the painting. The work was only oil on canvas now, simply fabric pulled tight by a stretcher. My heartbeat had slowed to a syrupy rattle in my ears. When I flipped it over, trying again to see the back, I could finally see half a daisy.

Only half.

Maybe if I hadn't been so anxious, half would've been enough. But it wasn't; I needed to see the full flower, to examine it petal by petal, to ensure its authenticity.

I realized I'd have to take the fabric off where it stretched flat across its wooden skeleton to see the entire flower. It'd have to be a lone piece of loose canvas. That was odd; perhaps shoddy restoration efforts had caused the canvas to be removed and unevenly stretched back, hiding the other half. I didn't know. It didn't matter. I had to see the whole daisy. I had to fully ease the fear if I was going to ease it at all.

I sighed and got to work wiggling nails on the stretcher. The canvas was thick. I hadn't noticed it before when it'd sat behind the glass, but the canvas seemed thicker than most works, even the ones with linings.

Eventually, the first nails were removed. The stretcher holding the canvas taut slowly unclenched its grip—and I realized why. Why it was too thick. Why the canvas had looked strange, bumpy, and uneven under a closer eye. Why I'd only seen half a daisy.

And I realized why Geraldine had wanted her poppies back.

The knife slipped as the final nail popped and the canvas slumped. I hardly felt the sting, hardly recognized the blood dripping on the table beside the drooped fabrics. I hardly recognized the painful pulse when I reached out with my uninjured hand and flipped everything over. The red of the poppies matched the red tracing my limp palm.

Blunt enough to knock me down, the hurt in my heart matched the real Widow's eyes—finally freed from where she'd waited, long buried beneath a field of poppies.

I clenched that bloody knife in pale-white fingers. I stood, scarlet-kissed and betrayed, before the gaze of two Widows; one marked with a daisy, the other a surrogate clone, each flanking the field of flowers. I stood, sick and displaced, with the evidence of crimes before me. The incriminating evidence that could imprison me was unabashedly present; not fading; it was real, it was, it was real. I held the knife tighter. I ached a little deeper.

I stood and I stood and I stood and I stood and I stood and then the door opened.

The door swung open, and sound flooded my throbbing head. "Elea—"

But his voice died in his throat. Died at the sight of three ferally grieving women.

One with a bloody knife in her similarly blood-smeared fingers, finally fading to nothing but grief. The other two, created in grief, made to challenge it—then lost to another's for too long.

He was silent at the sight of the woman he loved, surrounded by the very same Widows she'd killed the self she knew for.