135

Apolline resorted to physically pulling Claude to his feet, such was her urgency for ice cream. She playfully tugged on her brother's arm until he grunted, relenting at last.

"We will leave without you," Marco warned. "Isn't that right, Apolline? You're far better company than your brother anyhow."

"Yes, we will!" the girl growled through her teeth while continuing to tug at Claude's sleeve. "More ice cream for us!"

"It is difficult to tell which one of you is more impatient," Claude said. "The girl who is nine or the man in his twenties."

"Me," Marco said. "It is most definitely me."

Marco turned on his heel once Claude was on his feet and nearly bumped into Phelan, who walked outside with Elvira on his shoulder. My brother turned to keep the bird away from son while the avian flapped her wings and screeched out a warning that she would bite.

"My apologies," Phelan said.

Marco straightened his sleeves. "My fault entirely as I was not looking where I was going," he said.

"Monsieur Kimmer!" Claude greeted quite cheerfully. "Welcome back to Paris! I have that sketch you wanted. May I give it to you when we return?"

"Purchase, not giving away free of charge," Phelan reminded Claude. "What is your asking price?"

Claude scratched his bearded chin as he considered the question. "I haven't thought it over. Perhaps ten?"

"Thousand?" my brother asked, feigning astonishment. "Honestly, Claude, I thought we were friends."

Claude's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, heavens no, I would not consider it worth more than twenty."

"Now it's twenty thousand?" my brother gasped. His gaze slid to Apolline, his eyes wide and mouth dropping open in dramatic surprise. "Outrageous! Did you hear that? Your brother is attempting to swindle me out of my hard earned money."

Apolline giggled. "He meant twenty francs!"

Claude released an exasperated sigh. "Ten francs is absolutely fine, Monsieur Kimmer. I would have considered it a gift to you."

"Make it five hundred francs and we have a deal," my brother said.

"Five hundred and an ice cream sundae," Apolline chimed in.

Phelan lifted his chin and turned his head to the side. "Why, aren't you quite the little bargainer? I cannot refuse such a charming salesperson such as yourself. Five hundred and an ice cream sundae it is. Claude, you should consider hiring your sister as your art dealer. You'd make a fortune and have enough ice cream to create a river."

Again Apolline giggled.

"Would you care to join us for ice cream?" Claude offered my brother. "We are celebrating my art sale to the Golden Palace. I would be honored to have you with us."

My brother glanced at Marco, who stood with his arms crossed and his gaze averted.

"Please!" Apolline begged, jumping up and down.

"Another time," Phelan said when Marco didn't acknowledge him.

"Disappointing a child," Marco said under his breath. "How unexpected."

Claude looked from my brother to Marco. "What on earth does that mean?"

"Never mind," Marco said.

"Monsieur Kimmer, Calista and Pierre are meeting us there. I'm certain both would love to see you before your holiday," Claude said, making another attempt at persuading my brother to join them.

"Of course they would love to see me," my brother retorted with a flourish.

Marco scoffed. "Heaven knows why they would."

"What are you muttering about now?" Claude asked.

"Nothing," Marco grumbled.

"It certainly seems like something," Claude said.

"A conversion from earlier," Phelan answered. "Something that does not need to be discussed openly at the present time."

Claude didn't press the issue further. "Honestly, painters are the most temperamental individuals I've ever met," he said with a shake of his head.

"You must not know many artists then," Phelan replied. "I can guarantee you that sculptors are far worse."

"Didn't you start sculpting recently?" Marco questioned Phelan.

My brother offered a tight smile. "I've actually been sculpting for twenty years. More of a dabble. Fortunately, I've always been temperamental, which is why I'm so naturally good at working with stone and clay."

Marco rolled his eyes while Phelan reached into his back trouser pocket and nodded to Apolline, who hurried to his side.

"For you," he said, handing her a banknote. "So that you may treat Claude and Marco to ice cream in my absence." He bent forward and whispered loudly, "Make certain Marco doesn't receive a cherry on the top of his ice cream. He doesn't like them."

Wide eyed, the girl gasped. "He doesn't like cherries?"

"He does not."

"I will take his cherry then. Thank you!" she said as she reached out and grasped Phelan's left wrist, giving it a squeeze.

My brother pulled away immediately and winced as she pressed her fingers into the tender flesh beneath his sleeve. Apolline's lips parted in horror and she took a large step back before she ran to her brother and stood behind him, her eyes wide and filled with bewilderment.

"I don't know what I did," Apolline frantically said to her brother. "I don't know what I did."

Marco stepped forward and reached out toward Phelan, but paused before he made the same mistake as Apolline.

"Careful, she bites!" Elvira screeched.

"Go ahead and bite me, you little feather duster," Marco said under his breath. He shifted his weight and shoved his hands in his pockets without looking his father in the eye. "What can I do?"

Phelan took a deep breath and held his right hand protectively over his left wrist. He licked his lips, his features pinched with discomfort from the nerve damage. "It burns night and day, but sometimes the discomfort is worse when pressure is applied. There is nothing to be done," he said. "The sensation will pass on its own."

Marco looked disappointed in Phelan's answer but did nothing more than nod. "Good," he said. "Not good that it burns, but good that it will pass."

"I appreciate your concern," my brother said somewhat stiffly.

"What about the salve?" I asked. Father and son both turned and looked at me as if they'd entirely forgotten I was there. "The one in the green jar."

Phelan met my eye and I nodded, hoping a single gesture would relay everything I wished to say to him: For the love of God, Lan, allow your son to tend to you.

My brother wordlessly stared back at me, his slate eyes slightly narrowed. At last he unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and rolled the fabric up to his elbow, exposing the gnarled flesh beneath the fabric. Gingerly he touched the scars at the base of his thumb, wincing as he did so.

From the corner of my eye I saw Apolline staring at my brother, her lips parted and eyes bulging from the sockets.

"I suppose it's worth a try," he said. He looked up at Marco, who stood silently observing him. "If you would care to assist me?"

"Yes, of course," Marco said, nodding in agreement without a moment of hesitation.

Phelan turned his attention to Apolline, who ducked behind her brother again, fingers tangled in the back of his shirt as if she desired to anchor herself to him for protection.

"Apolline," my brother said softly, nodding toward the frightened girl. "A word, please."

The girl hid further behind her brother and sniffled, but Claude twisted and moved so that she was beside him. "You have nothing to fear."

"But I hurt him."

"Apologize. I am certain he will accept," Claude assured her, rubbing her back. "Go and speak with him."

Apolline made no attempt to wipe away the tears brimming in her eyes. She bowed her head and slowly lurched forward with her brother's encouragement as if she fully expected to be punished.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she said quickly. Swallowing, she held out the banknote in her trembling hand, her eyes shamefully cast down.

Her hesitation was that of a child who had suffered severe consequences for mistakes in her past. I suspected the headmistress had been heavy-handed with the girls in her care and that punishment had been swift and always physical in nature.

Phelan seemed keenly aware of her trepidation. He knelt so that he was eye-level with her and looked her over for a long moment, waiting until she lifted her gaze to meet his.

"You didn't hurt me," he said calmly. "Someone else did long ago and sometimes that pain resurfaces. This is one such moment."

"Does it still hurt now?"

Phelan shook his head. "No, and I am very fortunate to have someone such as yourself concerned for my well-being. It was not always like that for me." He lifted his gaze and looked at Marco, offering a close-lipped smile. "And I am also grateful that I have another person willing to give me an opportunity that I probably do not deserve."

"Are you certain you don't want this back?" Apolline asked. She attempted to return the banknote, but Phelan placed his hands around hers, securing the money in her closed palm.

"No, of course not. You had no intention of harming me. Why would I wish to take something away from you?"

Apolline shook her head and drew her shoulders up to her ears.

"I want you to enjoy a treat with your brother and his friends," Phelan replied.

The girl still appeared unconvinced by his words, but nodded nonetheless.

"We will be there shortly," Marco promised Apolline.

"Both of you?" Apolline questioned.

"Give me fifteen minutes and I'm certain I can convince this temperamental painter and occasional sculptor to spare a few minutes at the ice cream parlor for you."

Phelan stood and put his good hand on Apolline's shoulder. "No cherries for Marco," he reminded her. "I will see you and the others shortly."

Apolline nodded and ran back into the house. "Claude!" she yelled. "Are you coming?"

"Walk slowly!" Marco called out. "And you had better save me at least one scoop of chocolate, is that understood?"

"I will!" Apolline promised.

Claude took a step forward on his crutches and paused in front of my brother. "Thank you, Monsieur."

Phelan offered a single nod in return.

I followed Claude inside, telling Phelan over my shoulder that I would bring the salve out to him in a moment.

"Those two," Claude said as he moved aside and proceeded to follow me into the kitchen where one of the multiple jars of salve Madeline kept on hand was on a shelf with several other elixirs she ordered from her favorite catalog. "I certainly hope they can finally put their differences aside. Although I suppose it's not truly differences and more similarities that cause such bickering."

I eyed him as I gathered the salve and rolls of bandages that Madeline had stashed out of Alex's reach. For several years, Alex had been delighted to unroll all of the gauze and wrap himself up like a mummy from ancient Egypt. Meg had finally cut up an old sheet to give him something to play with and he had not only wrapped up himself, but Meg as well, and the two of them enjoyed their mutual embalming.

"Phelan and Marco are very similar," I agreed. "Although I suppose with both being artists, it isn't surprising."

"Temperamental artists and disagreeable father and son," Claude said.

I nearly dropped the salve as I looked over my shoulder at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Claude gaped at me and lowered his voice. "I…I thought you knew that they were related? My God, I hope you knew before this moment otherwise I've certainly said far more than I should have. Monsieur–"

"I was aware. How did you know?"

Claude gestured wildly and dropped one of his crutches. "Everyone knows. At least everyone who meets at the Carlisle Club. Not that we go around discussing their relationship, or lack of one, I suppose," Claude said as he leaned forward to retrieve his fallen crutch. He continued to keep his voice low while he rambled. "It's quite obvious though, don't you think? Their personalities, their expressions, and their mannerisms are all very similar. Sometimes even their sense of humor, if one could call it such, is like listening to the same dry quips formed in the same mind."

I grunted.

"Claude!" Apolline said as she walked back into the kitchen and stood with her hands on her hips.

Claude sighed. "We have at least fifteen minutes," he said as he hobbled forward. "Fourteen of which will be spent with you watching me eat a delicious iced dessert if you don't mind your manners, young lady."

Apolline took a deep breath. "Yes, Claude."

Claude smiled at his sister before he turned to face me. "Would you care to join us at Cafe Frascati, Monsieur? I know you have an appreciation for sweets. I assume you like your sugar frozen as well as heated?"

I looked at the clock while turning the jar of salve over in my hand. Meg and Alex had brought back a very melted portion of chocolate creamed ice in a silver dish the previous summer, which Alex had given to me while he very excitedly announced that Meg had bought several flavors, including her favorite: cucumber. I counted four different flavors the two of them had shared, all of which seemingly fueled my already exuberant son until well past supper.

"As delightful as that sounds, I'm afraid not today. Le Blanc is in need of a response to an earlier note that is due in the next hour and I have yet to pen a reply."

"Sounds tragically dull," Claude said before he turned to the sound of his sister calling his name again as she walked backwards down the hall.

Once Claude headed toward the foyer, I turned to walk back outside with the salve and bandages in hand.

"How did you know I dislike cherries?" I overheard Marco ask. He sat in one of the wooden chairs with his arms crossed and legs spread, his posture reminding me of Alex when he didn't want to sit still.

"Calista brought a painting of a bowl of cherries three years ago to one of the salon meetings. You made quite the fuss over how repulsive the subject matter was and I thought it was a very strange critique," Phelan answered.

"I vaguely remember this," Marco said.

"After the meeting, you told Vincent that when you were a young boy, you climbed a cherry tree, began stuffing fruit in your mouth, and while gorging yourself in the tree, you found a worm in one."

"Half a worm, which was still wriggling about," Marco said. "I had eaten the other half, part of which was lodged in my teeth and I swore I could feel it moving." He shuddered at the memory. "I promptly regurgitated the part I had swallowed, as well as everything else that I had consumed, into the garden directly in front of several women enjoying tea outside on our garden patio. They began shrieking in horror and one of the groundskeepers chased me out of the tree with a rake. After that, the mere sight of cherries sickened me."

Phelan grunted. "Reason enough, I suppose."

"How on earth did you recall such an inconsequential story?"

Phelan was silent for a moment. "There were no details you spoke of that were inconsequential to me."

"And yet you chose to have me believe that I meant nothing at all to you."

I stepped closer to the door while still remaining out of sight, fully intending to intervene if the conversation got out of hand.

Phelan sighed. "I didn't know what to say to you. The first meeting you attended as Pierre's guest, I didn't think much of it as there were plenty of aspiring artists who came and went after a meeting or two. Emile Bernard, for one, after that ridiculous incident at the studio. Do you remember that? He attended three critiques, all of them filled with praise for his work, and then he never returned again."

"I do and I believe Vincent had something to do with that."

"Perhaps so. Similar to Emile, you disappeared for several weeks and then returned one evening with an empty sketchbook and I suspected you were there to see me, but after the meeting you hurried out the door and I was left wondering why you attended at all if you had no art to share. Several sessions later between the salon and the park you brought a handful of sketches and I wasn't so sure if it was because of me or because you wished to improve your skills."

"And so you decided to say nothing at all?"

"I gave you my opinion, same as everyone else in attendance."

"That isn't what I meant."

"If I may remind you, Marco, it's been several years and you didn't say anything either," Phelan pointed out, keeping his tone civil. "In fact, half the time when I looked for you, you had already gathered your belongings and left."

"Because you ignored me."

"I wasn't ignoring you. I was making my rounds and you were always on the opposite side of the table or the room. Quite naturally you would be the last person I spoke with to end the meetings."

"So then it's my–" Marco growled in frustration. I took a small step forward and saw him make a fist and hit his thigh. "No, you are correct. I didn't say anything, as much as I wanted to ask for a moment of your time. We are both at fault."

Phelan twisted in his seat to face Marco and caught sight of me from the corner of his eye but said nothing.

"What did you want to say?"

Marco inhaled. He studied the backs of his hands, his jaw twitching. "At first, I wanted to tell you that I had one of your sketches. I had it hidden within a book that I kept in my nightstand drawer. Over the years, the books changed, but I always hid the sketch between the prologue and the first chapter. I brought the drawing with me to the first meeting and every single one I attended after that for months on end."

"What was the sketch, if I may ask?"

Marco inhaled. "A drawing of you and my mother on a piece of crumpled paper. There are notations in the background indicating what colors would have filled out the work if you had gotten around to finishing it. I intended to pull it out of my breast pocket and show it to you after the first meeting. I wanted to see your expression, to see if you remembered drawing it. And to know for certain if you were aware of who I was. The longer I stood there waiting for you to acknowledge me, the more I regretted the thought of approaching you."

"I knew who you were," Phelan replied. His lips twitched with the shadow of a smile that barely reached his eyes. "I knew from the moment you walked into the salon."

Marco chewed on the inside of his cheek. "That truly makes me feel no better."

Phelan sighed. "I suppose not. After all this time, why didn't you ever show me the drawing?"

Marco pursed his lips. "I will tell you the same thing I told your brother. What is the most polite way to inquire about being a stranger's bastard son?"

Phelan frowned. "The bastard part is not necessary and I would advise you to not think of yourself as such."

Marco made a face. "That is what I was called for as long as I can remember. Not to my face, mind you, but adults were never concerned about whether I overheard their snide remarks."

"They are the real bastards, not you."

Marco shrugged off the remark. "They spoke the truth."

"Why the prologue and first chapter?"

Marco's cheeks turned crimson and he swallowed. "For childish reasons." He paused and picked at his fingernails. "Because you were not present for my childhood, but I suppose I always hoped you would return for the first chapter."

Phelan's eyes widened with his son's admission. "Do you still have the drawing?"

"Unfortunately no. One evening before bed I opened the book and it was gone."

"That is a shame. I drew your mother hundreds of times," Phelan said. "Most of them never seemed good enough and I typically crumpled them up and tossed them aside. She was beyond my skill, as I would tell her."

Marco snorted. "And she believed you?"

Phelan shrugged. "She knew I was never good enough for her. Or for you."

"That is still your excuse? That you were not good enough?"

Phelan looked away. "It's the truth. I have made more mistakes than you know, Marco."

"I am aware of far more than you think."

Phelan's jaw twitched. "You were not aware of the absolute hell it was like living with my own father," he said tightly. "You were not aware of how often the house was freezing cold and the cupboards bare, but Bjorn's anger was certainly plentiful. If we could have survived off of his malice, we would have been fat as hogs off to market."

He flexed his damaged hand and looked over his shoulder and directly at me. Marco followed his gaze and I stepped forward, handing both bandages and salve to my brother.

"Do you object to my brother's presence?" Phelan asked.

Marco shook his head. "I welcome Monsieur Kire."

Phelan unscrewed the lid to the jar and handed it to Marco while I returned inside and retrieved a stool from the utility room, which I brought outside and set up against the exterior of the house.

"The suffering shows in your work," Marco replied once I seated myself.

Phelan furrowed his brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"The last two exhibits in particular. The figures have been more ominous in nature with your more recent paintings, the subjects always on opposite ends of the canvas or paper as though their lives are lived with such separation that they could not bear to cross paths. The themes suggest that perhaps the artist was contemplating the finality of death and the lack of impact our existence has on the world around us as they are always solitary."

"That is quite the in-depth observation of my work," Phelan said under his breath.

"There is little wonder why the shows are always packed with admirers and paintings have sold to art collectors all over Europe. You paint with your soul laid bare for the world to observe and pay to add to their collections. I heard one of the pieces from the Fyre gallery show sold for thirty thousand francs."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Vincent's brother. He was frantically running around the gallery like a headless chicken over the outlandish amount offered. I doubt he's sold anything for that sum of money before in his life."

"You will be surprised to know that I didn't sell it then."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't like the buyer."

Marco's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Well, for thirty thousand francs, I would have allowed the buyer to toss my painting in the Seine if he so desired. And for an additional ten francs, I would have allowed him to toss me in as well."

Phelan raised a brow. "I must say I am surprised that you attended the art show."

Marco rubbed his fingers through the mixture with its familiar yellow-tinged coloring and pungent scent."I suppose you would be surprised as you never invited me to the opening. The only people you ever asked to attend were Claude and Paul," he bitterly said.

Phelan kept his eyes trained on his arm. "They weren't invited. Claude manned the door and collected fees and tickets while Paul typically sat in the corner with his arms crossed, waiting for people to inquire about his own work so that he could make his own sales. Most of the time I gave Claude the compensation for two workers as he was the only one of use."

Marco held his index and middle fingers together, both digits covered in the salve while Phelan held his arm out and supported the limb behind his elbow with the opposite hand.

Brow furrowed, Marco studied the scar tissue. "Where should I start?"

"Here," Phelan said, tapping just beneath the crook of his elbow where the scar started about two inches from the crease.

Marco gently applied the salve, his touch so light that it appeared he barely made contact with the scar tissue at all.

"Does the texture bother you?" Phelan asked. His nostrils flared, his lips thinning out as he watched Marco slowly spread the ointment over his reddened flesh. I couldn't tell if the discomfort was physical or mental for my brother.

"No." Marco swallowed, concentrating on the task at hand. He appeared as uncomfortable as his father, but they were both far too stubborn to admit as much. "Does this hurt?" He glanced up, bright blue eyes filled with concern. "If it is causing you distress–"

Phelan shook his head. "Burns a bit, but not outright painful."

Inhaling, Marco nodded and slid his fingers along the inside of the jar for a second time. "I hope you know I would have gladly worked the door without being paid a single franc," he said as he applied the salve in circular motions down Phelan's arm.

My brother regarded Marco with a look of admiration while his son focused on applying the ointment. I was certain it was the same look I bestowed upon Alex countless times, the type of expression my son would catch glimpses of on occasion when he looked up from drawing or playing with his soldiers to speak directly to me. He grinned each time he noticed me studying him as if my affection was a gift he greatly desired.

"Your peers would have mocked you for such lowly duties as taking tickets at a gallery door instead of making the rounds with a glass of champagne loosely held in one hand and a sneer plastered on your face."

"They would have mocked me regardless. Crossing names off a list would have done nothing more than give them something else to discuss, such is their boring, aristocratic lives. I pity them, really, to have such substantial wealth and nothing of interest to discuss."

My brother looked increasingly uncomfortable. I wondered if he was aware of the hardships Marco had endured in his absence, the name-calling to his face and the words he heard uttered when his back was turned.

"You asked me early on if I wished to go out for a drink," Phelan said.

"Which you declined," Marco said through his teeth.

Phelan nodded. "You were aggravated by my answer and took it personally."

Marco glanced up with a look of annoyance. "Of course. Because of how swiftly you dismissed me, practically before I finished speaking."

Phelan rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "You have an aversion to cherries due to a bad experience and I cannot tolerate the smell of hard liquor. Even the sight of the bottles lining a shelf turns my stomach some days."

Marco continued working in silence, gently massaging the salve into his father's damaged flesh in a circular pattern. He felt along the uneven ridges of reddened skin that looked like melted candle wax along his father's forearm as he drew closer to his wrist where Phelan had told me the flesh burned day and night due to the damaged nerves.

"Because my grandfather favored dark liquor."

"Bjorn was never deserving of the title, but yes, because there was nothing he desired more than equal parts whiskey and blood churning through his veins.

To this day, the smell of whiskey reminds me of being shoved to the ground with such force that I hit my head and was left stunned for several moments. Before I could register being on my back, he would haul me to my feet and strike me again."

"Did you ever strike him back?"

Marco's question made me shudder. I could not imagine being so bold as to raise my hand at my own father, knowing full well he would have delivered me to the very brink of death if I so much as whimpered.

"Yes, when I was older. Stronger. Much more belligerent. I found the strap of leather he had used to beat both me and my brother hanging by the cellar stairs and I made certain he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end."

Their exchange left me feeling light-headed, the edges of my vision threatening to go dark. Heaviness filled my chest while my fingertips and scalp started to tingle. In the back of my mind I could see my father standing over me, shouting through his clenched teeth, asking me if I wanted to be struck again.

I often wondered how he had looked past the terror I knew had to have shown clearly in my eyes, the way my lips trembled as I held back the emotion desperate to escape from my throat.

With my head lowered, I took a deep breath and swallowed, focusing on the head of a nail in the board by my right foot, waiting for the sensation to pass.

Bessie unexpectedly trotted up beside me and pushed her head beneath my hand, drawing my attention to her dark eyes as she stared up at me, somehow aware of my thoughts. She jumped up, settling her paws on my thighs while she rested her head against my chest.

"Good," Marco said under his breath. "It sounds as though he deserved it."

"When he was flat on his back and at my mercy, it didn't bring me the satisfaction I thought it would," Phelan said. "Neither did watching him die from his affinity for the bottle. He continued drinking hard liquor up until he could no longer lift the bottle to his lips, and when I sat at his bedside and offered him tea instead, I knew he would have struck me if he'd had the strength."

I shivered at my brother's words, knowing without a doubt that our father would have indeed taken pleasure in his heavy-handed ways until his last breath.

"Did you–" Marco stopped short of finishing his question and shook his head.

"You may ask me whatever you wish," Phelan answered.

"Did you want to see him die? For what he did to your arm?" Marco glanced at me briefly, at the masked side of my face, and I assumed he thought my father was responsible for that as well.

Phelan thought for a moment. "At first I wanted to reconcile as I had not seen him for many, many years," he answered. "But then I spent the entire train ride and most of my time in the carriage traveling through Conforeit rehearsing what I would say to him until I was practically quaking with apathy.

"I wanted him to know that if he was suffering, it wasn't nearly enough. He had stolen from me the only person that I cared about." Phelan turned and looked at me, his gaze heavy with grief. "And that was something I would never, ever set aside no matter what he said."

Marco followed his father's gaze and frowned at me.

"What did you say to him then?" Marco asked once he turned his attention back to his father's arm.

Phelan's fingers curled toward his palm, his hand twitching once Marco reached the part of his arm that caused him endless pain. "Mostly, I sat in an uncomfortable chair and painted while I waited for him to speak, hoping he would apologize for what he had done."

"Did he apologize?" Marco questioned. Absently he leaned forward and reached for the bandage Phelan held loosely in his right hand.

My brother shook his head, his gaze distant. "No, he did not. I'm certain he had the strength to hold a conversation as he muttered and cursed me beneath his breath here and there, but when I spoke to him, he simply glared at me as if my presence at the end of his life was a great burden upon him."

Marco unrolled the end of the bandage and studied the length of it. "What were you painting?" he asked.

"The piece I refused to sell for thirty thousand francs."

"Was the buyer Jean Moreau?"

"Yes," Phelan answered tightly.

Marco slowly nodded. "Did you keep that piece for your own collection?"

Phelan shook his head. "I painted over it when I returned to the house," he said. "Erasing every bit of those four days I spent waiting for Bjorn to speak to me."

Marco solemnly placed the end of the gauze between his father's thumb and forefinger, using his own thumb to hold the bandage in place. Phelan immediately jerked his arm back, his complexion sallow. He took a deep breath and turned his hand over so that his palm no longer faced up.

"I–I apologize if I was too rough," Marco said under his breath. "I didn't mean to cause you harm."

"You did not cause me harm. Someone else did, and that pain is still as vibrant as it was when I was three and a half years old," Phelan said, his voice hollow and face contorted.

Maroc's lips parted, but he remained silent.

Phelan forced himself to sit more upright and took a deep, shuddering breath before he met Marco's eye. "I was a few years older than you are now when I sat at Bjorn's bedside and watched him take his last breath. Once he was gone, I realized he would not give me anything, not even a single word of regret for his actions or praise for my art. He left me wondering if somehow I had been to blame for everything that had transpired."

My throat tightened at my brother's raw admission, at the sentiment we had both shared when it came to our father. I had often wondered what he would have said about my music, particularly after I had enjoyed a bit of success. Part of me wished to believe he would have been proud, that he would have seen less of a monster and more of a prodigy.

Marco averted his gaze. He sat with the gauze in one hand and the jar of salve resting on his knee and released a breath.

"Sitting here now I feel as though I am back on the train heading to Conforeit, a thousand unspoken words churning through my head," Phelan said. "I apologize, Marco, for all of the ways I have hurt you, as unintentional as it may have been. You were never at fault. Never."

Marco searched his father's face briefly, grief still etched into his features. He nodded slowly and placed the cap back on the jar of salve.

"Monsieur," Marco said suddenly.

Silently I urged Marco to accept my brother's apology, to allow Phelan entry into his life. I knew my brother had missed the first chapters of his son's life, which he very much regretted, but there was still time for the two of them to be more than acquaintances attending art critique at a salon.

"We should leave if you still intend to honor your promise to Apolline," Marco said under his breath without looking his father in the eye.

My heart sank at Marco's dismissive words. The look of disappointment on my brother's face hitched the breath in my throat. Phelan kept his eyes trained on Marco and waited for him to lift his gaze, but Marco was far too preoccupied with winding the gauze up to see the expression of the man seated beside him.

"Yes," Phelan said at last. "Of course."