The sitting room was quiet except for the television murmuring and the rustle of paper.
Cartoons played across the screen at low volu — sothing with talking animals, the twins’ choice. Lily was on the floor, surrounded by blocks. She was building a castle, or maybe a hospital, or maybe sothing that had started as one thing and beco another the way her creations always did. Petal sat beside her, propped against a cushion, watching the construction with button-eyed approval.
Leo was beside his sister, cross-legged on the rug. The whale was in his lap. His tablet was on the floor next to him. He wasn’t building. He was watching Lily build, occasionally handing her a block when she pointed at it. The Lion was upstairs on his pillow, keeping watch over the empty bedroom.
Arianne was on the couch.
The Conway docunts were spread around her in careful piles. Gio had sorted them over several late nights — letters in one stack, trust andnts in another, correspondence with the family lawyer in a third. She’d been reading for hours. Her coffee had gone cold on the side table. She hadn’t noticed.
She was reading a letter from Evelyn to the family lawyer, dated eleven years ago. The handwriting was sharp and slanted, the sa writing that had been on the envelope summoning her to the estate. The letter discussed a trust andnt she hadn’t known about. The language was formal, legal, but between the lines she could see what Evelyn had been doing. Stalling. Asking questions that delayed rather than clarified. Buying ti.
"Aunt Aria."
She looked up. Lily had stopped building. Her hands were resting on a half-finished tower, her dark eyes fixed on Arianne with the particular intensity she brought to important observations.
"Uncle Franz called this morning. While you were in your study."
"I know. He told ."
"He asked how we were. I said we missed him terribly. Leo typed that too. MISS HIM." Lily paused. "I also said you’ve been unusually silent these days. And you smile less."
Arianne set the letter down. "You told him that?"
"Yes. Was that wrong?"
"No. It wasn’t wrong."
Lily absorbed this. Her fingers fidgeted with a block, turning it over and over. "Are you upset with Uncle Franz? Because he’s gone?"
"No." Arianne’s voice was steady. "I’m not upset with him. I know he’s coming ho. He’ll be here in less than two weeks."
"But you still miss him."
"Yes."
"Then why don’t you smile?"
Arianne considered the question. Lily wasn’t accusing. She was cataloguing, the way she always did, trying to understand the world by observing the people in it.
"I’m reading difficult things," Arianne said. "Docunts from my grandmother. They require concentration. When I’m concentrating, I don’t smile."
"But you used to smile more. Even when you were working. When Uncle Franz was here."
Arianne was quiet. Lily waited. Leo had stopped handing her blocks. He was watching too.
"You’re right," Arianne said finally. "I smile less when he’s gone. That doesn’t an I’m upset with him. It ans his absence is felt. Those are different things."
Lily seed satisfied. She returned to her blocks, fitting a new piece onto the tower. Then, without looking up: "I asked Uncle Franz once why he beca an actor. I still don’t understand. His family owns a big company. He could do anything. Why acting?"
Arianne set the docunts aside. Gave Lily her full attention.
"He must be passionate about it. That’s why he pursued it. Despite his family background. Despite the expectations."
"He told Daddy said he could do whatever he wanted, that Uncle Franz shouldn’t have to be the spare."
"Yes. He told that too."
"So he chose acting."
"He chose acting."
Lily placed another block. The tower was getting taller, wobbling slightly. "You and Uncle Franz wouldn’t make us run the company, would you? If we didn’t want to."
"No." Arianne’s voice was firm. "Whatever you and Leo choose to do — if you want to run Rochefort Group, it will be there for you. If you don’t, we’ll support whatever you choose. No pressure. No expectations."
Lily looked up at her. "I want to be like you. And like Daddy. Both."
"Then you will be."
Leo typed sothing on his tablet. Held it up: TOO.
Arianne looked at the screen. At the boy holding it. "Yes. You too."
---
Lily’s tower wobbled, swayed, and collapsed in a clatter of wooden blocks. She didn’t seem bothered. She started rebuilding imdiately, the sa design, the sa determination.
"Uncle Franz can do a lot of things," she said, sorting blocks by color. "Besides acting. He’s a bad cook, though. He burned pancakes once. Aunt Estella had to open all the windows."
"I rember. The smoke alarm went off."
"He said it was the pan’s fault. Aunt Estella said it wasn’t." Lily began counting on her fingers. "He can sing. He can play piano. He can write songs. He can make good short films. Leo and I watched one. It was about a boy and a tiger."
Leo nodded. GOOD FILM, he typed.
"And he draws and paints," Lily added. "Very well. He showed us once. In his studio."
Arianne’s hand paused over the docunts. "His studio?"
"Yes. The room at the end of the west wing. With the door that’s always closed."
"I know which room it is."
"You haven’t been inside?"
Arianne set the letter down. "He gave permission. He said I could go in anyti. I just never have."
Lily blinked at her. Her block sorting stopped. "Why not?"
"I assud it was his private space. I didn’t want to intrude."
"It’s not intruding if he said you could."
Leo typed sothing. Turned his tablet around: AUNT ARIA SHOULD TAKE A LOOK.
Arianne looked at the screen. At Leo’s steady gaze. At Lily, who had stopped rebuilding her tower and was watching with the expression of soone who had just identified a problem and was waiting for the solution to present itself.
"Now?" Arianne asked.
"Now," Lily confird.
---
The west wing was quiet. The afternoon light fell through the windows in long golden rectangles, catching the dust motes floating in the air.
The door at the end of the hall was closed.
It was unremarkable. Dark wood. Brass handle. The sa as every other door in the wing. Arianne had passed it hundreds of tis. Every morning on the way to her study. Every night on the way to her bedroom. She’d never turned the handle. She’d never even paused.
She paused now.
"Go on," Lily said.
Arianne opened the door.
The room was larger than she’d expected. The curtains were drawn, but the afternoon light filtered through them, soft and diffuse, casting everything in a warm amber glow. Canvases were stacked against the walls, so facing inward, so outward. Easels stood at intervals, a few holding works in progress. A desk near the window was covered in loose papers, charcoal sticks, a mug full of pencils and brushes. She stepped inside.
The first canvas she saw was of the twins. Lily and Leo, younger than they were now, sitting on the steps of the estate. Lily was mid-laugh, her mouth open, her eyes bright. Leo was beside her, not smiling, but his face was peaceful.
The next canvas was Alex. Young. Maybe seventeen. His head thrown back, laughing at sothing off-fra. Franz had captured him in motion, the way he’d looked before the company, before the twins, before the weight.
There were landscapes. The estate in winter, bare trees against a gray sky. The northern cabin, snow on the roof, smoke rising from the chimney. The view from the sitting room window at dawn, the light just beginning to touch the garden.
And then, on the largest easel in the center of the room, a single painting.
It was a woman. Not her face — the painting didn’t show her face. The figure was turned slightly away, her dark hair falling past her shoulders, her posture straight, her hands resting on a desk in front of her. She was wearing a gray suit. The light in the painting ca from a window she was facing, catching the edge of her jaw, the curve of her shoulder. There was a stillness to her, a contained energy, the sense that she was about to turn around. That she was about to speak.
Arianne knew who it was. She didn’t need to see the face. The posture was hers. The hair was hers. He’d painted her from mory.
"It’s Aunt Aria," Lily said quietly. "You can’t see her face. But it’s her. I knew right away."
Arianne didn’t answer.
On the desk near the window, a sketchbook lay open. It was large, the pages thick and worn at the edges, the leather cover creased from use. She crossed to it. Opened it.
Sketches of her. Dozens of them. Page after page after page.
The first was dated years ago — before Dominic, before the exile, before everything. Her at a Rochefort Group function, standing near a window, a glass in her hand. He’d drawn her in profile, the line of her jaw, the way her hair fell. He must have been young when he drew it. Still a teenager. Already watching her.
She turned the pages.
Her at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, hair still damp from the shower. Her reading in the sitting room, legs tucked under her, a book in her lap. Her working at her desk, brow furrowed, pen in hand. Her asleep, hair spread across a pillow, face relaxed. Her hands folded in her lap. Her profile in the car, watching the city go by. Her at the press conference, standing at the lectern, the gray suit, the two stacks of paper.
Her smiling. A rare one, caught from mory. The smile she’d given him.
Quick sketches. Detailed studies. Monts captured in charcoal and pencil. So were rough, just a few lines suggesting the shape of her. Others were ticulous, every shadow rendered, every detail preserved. Years of her. Years of him, drawing her.
"It’s always been Aunt Aria," Lily said. She had co to stand beside Arianne, her blocks forgotten. "In the sketchbook. He draws other things too. Us. Daddy. The house. But mostly it’s you."
Arianne closed the sketchbook. Her hand rested on the worn leather cover.
"He said you could co in anyti," Lily added. "He told us. He just didn’t know if you wanted to."
"I didn’t know either."
She looked at the painting one more ti. The woman in the gray suit, about to turn around. The woman he’d painted from mory. The woman he’d been drawing for years. She thought of him in this room, alone, charcoal in hand, sketching her face over and over. She thought of him loving her in silence for years, and filling this room with proof of it.
"Thank you," she said. "For showing ."
Lily nodded. Leo typed sothing on his tablet, but he didn’t show her. He showed Lily instead. Lily read it and nodded.
They left the studio as they’d found it. The door closed behind them. The paintings waited inside, patient, the way Franz was patient. The way he’d always been patient.
Arianne walked back to the sitting room. The docunts were still on the couch. The coffee was still cold. The cartoons were still playing. But sothing had shifted. Sothing had opened that she hadn’t known was closed.
In less than two weeks, Franz would co ho.
She sat down on the couch. Picked up the letter from her grandmother. Read it again. The words blurred. She set it down.
Lily returned to her blocks. Leo handed her another one. The afternoon light continued its slow arc across the floor.
Two weeks. She could wait two weeks.
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