"Les Choristes" by Edgar Degas (1877), stolen 2009, recovered 2018 by French customs officers during bus search for smuggled drugs - value $800,000

Chapter Thirty-Five

I stood watching the dance floor, seeing the crowd sway and mingle.

Then, suddenly, I wasn't alone.

"May I have this dance?"

He always found me. I never knew how to feel, because I was too afraid of what I could feel. I knew what I'd see if I turned; what temptations I'd flirt with. So I stood still, kept my back to the flames, and shook my head. "We can't," I lamented.

Something threatened to cave from those words as they left my lips, offering to seal me in completely, but his light was bright through the cracks. Even in the dark, traces of gold glittered.

"I see."

He paused. I held my breath.

"You can't dance with the help," he concluded. I loudly scoffed.

His words held too much amusement. They were too cloudy with disregard for what I was protecting him from. For someone who said he understood, he seemed to understand so little when it came to this. His jokes would only serve to make it harder for the both of us.

"You know why we can't," I rebuffed, a little angrily. I half-turned my head to where he stood behind me. "Dancing with August was bad enough, but you? I don't need anyone thinking I have to be babysat, or accusing me of something else."

I felt as he took a step closer, the flames higher, heat tracing my sides. The fires had all been set, the foundations had all been warped, and the burns had begun to blister, but he burned hotter than the rest. He was violet in a field of red and yellow. My anger was a lie; it melted under the climbing temperatures between us. I was never angry at him. I was furious at everything else.

"I don't think they'll see it that way," he proposed, steady. "I think your dance with August shows you hold the respect of the Whitehill heir. And you hold mine, the head of the security team. I think they'll realize that if we don't see you as a threat, then neither should they."

Or they'll applaud my skills that wrapped influence around my fingers like ribbons and rings.

"Simon—"

"A dance, Ms. Vaycker. One dance."

His body was close. He stood behind me, yet still far enough away to earn deniability. His voice was at my ear. His words brought a blush to my cheeks and a chill to my spine, because I wanted more than he offered.

I want so much more.

I closed my eyes. I was never strong, or tough, or impervious to influence.

I was prone to emotion, and temptation, and changing my mind. I was never made of steel, or brick, or gold; I was glass, sticks, and stones. I was an arsonist who feared the flame, yet clung to its embers. I was a beast of whimpers and whispers, who hadn't found her bark, and regretted every bite. I was a masquerader, who couldn't decide if she longed to hide forever, or be unmasked and set free. I was the anger that hid grief, the fury that fed woe, and the rage that prolonged regret. I was furious, and hateful, and buried in spite. I hated everyone who'd turned their backs on me, and I laughed while embedding the same ornate knives I'd dug out. I was vindictive, and sadistic, and terrified. I was petrified to tarnish the gems around me, while not giving a damn about myself. I was hypocritical at every turn, pitiful like crushed leaves under boots, and too often unsure what I was even fighting for. If temptation sparkled in distraction, I was lured in too easily. The hills I died on were formed from shaky ground, and I was too selfish to preserve the land I loved.

But, lord, Simon was everything I wasn't.

So I nodded.

Eyes still closed, I felt him move from his place behind me. I hid in the dark, but the sun was rising, and so was the heat. He stood before me. I could feel it. He was there. He was close. There was no more running, at least not now. I breathed in the alluring scent of his cologne, dizzy, desperate, yearning, anticipating. Even miles from the surface, buried deep, I could sense when he reached for me. I waited, air settled in the base of my lungs, and held my breath. I waited, ready to welcome every moment he'd give me. I waited, threatening to combust into the black hole I was, until, finally—

The space was gone.

When he touched me, my very cells cooed. Heat was surely bright on my cheeks; everything was red, from my soul to my heart. I felt fingers on my hip, gentle like I was glass, but strong, like he'd hold me together for as long as I let him. When I felt him pull me in, I opened my eyes and greeted his gaze, cherishing the look that was turning me to ashes he'd scatter in his winds. I looked into black garnet and worshipped his worth; I glowed under their light.

I took his waiting hand, and pulled him even closer. It was never close enough—maybe it never could be. I took another deep breath, welcoming more of him into my lungs, pulling him into my very being.

Then, all at once, I felt us begin to move.

There was no going back now.

A new song had started, right on time; the only good timing we'd ever had. Was it a mournful song? A hopeful one? Was it a quilted blanket of both, wrapped around our shoulders to pull us closer together?

I couldn't tell. The music was too fluid, too flowing, too changing like rivers around us. Too inconsistently consistent, like we were ourselves.

It was beautiful—and we were dancing.

I forgot where we were. I forgot anything and everything, and I did it too easily. No thoughts were spared for who could be watching, if we were too close, or if I'd sealed my fate while ruining his. There was no museum, no painting, no heist. No onlookers, no rumors, no lies. There was only Simon and the inches between us; too far, yet dangerously close. There was only his hand on my waist, the other clasping mine, and my arm on his broad shoulder. Only his captivating eyes, willingly fixated on me. Only the smile on his lips, and the words I knew still waited on our tongues. It was only Simon and I—heaven almighty, there was only us.

He gracefully led me across marble and beneath stained glass. Our steps were taken together, my dress twirled as we moved to the music tumbling through the air.

And I knew, with every fated step we took, that something was growing in my chest. It made me tighten my fingers on Simon as it murmured its threats and promises in my ear. I knew it would follow through if given the chance; it waited to strike. It was something that wrapped around the guilt, swearing to throttle it, or perhaps feed it, but hadn't yet decided which would provide the most satisfaction.

It was something that told me what I already knew—Simon Gastapolous was intoxicating.

He was incredibly dangerous. He was flirting with a remorseful woman who knew how achingly miraculous it all was. Someone who knew that if she'd never fallen from the pedestal, and if the widow had never felt the grief of loss, then she never would've have met him. She never would've danced with the hound that couldn't see she was a fox; who didn't know she'd rather run forever than bring him to her den, desperate to avoid exposing what hid below.

The same woman who now wondered if that had somehow changed along the way.

If she'd in fact slowed down, and let him catch up, all while considering what it'd be like to be caught. From the start, I'd hoped he would know better than to chase, but he hadn't. He didn't, and we'd both pay the price for it eventually. Just not now. Now, we danced, and I let myself enjoy it. Now, I let him close enough to feed the flames, and desperately prayed he wouldn't burn.

"You know," Simon suddenly murmured, "you were the person I was most curious about when I took this job."

I didn't want the moment to end. I wanted to dance forever, focusing only on him. But nothing lasted forever. So I forced myself to nod in response, and slightly pulled back. "That's not surprising. My reputation preceded me."

"It was your story, not your reputation," he gruffly corrected. "I was curious about you."

I fell into bad habits. I always did.

I exposed my defensiveness, and looked away, unable to bear it as I welcomed bitterness like an old friend. A chuckle ripped from my lips. "Which story was it? The one where I found something I couldn't buy, so I took it instead?" I asked.

"No."

"The one where the rich girl pretended the rules didn't apply to her, until the real world caught up and crucified her? The one that says I took a priceless painting for greed, or revenge?" I spat, glaring at his emerald tie.

Simon didn't flinch.

He waited for me to look at him again before answering. When I finally did, begrudging and regretful, his words were plain. "None of those," he said. "I never liked those stories."

I laughed.

"Me neither," I admitted. "Especially the part people like to incessantly repeat, where they say life wasn't like the movies, so I was caught! How they say I never really cared about Whitehill, or art, or anything but profit."

The wave that rose was so fast, and so large, that it punched my vertigo into action again. The room spun, whistling with laughter as it blurred. I screwed my eyes shut. Exhausted, I laid my head on his chest, and felt his hold tighten. I didn't know whose pulse was slowly joining the chorus of musicians playing their haunting songs, his or mine, but it was a harmony I'd never heard before.

I had to say something. If I didn't, I'd lose the thread that tethered me down. My anger had nowhere to go, so it dissipated like the phantom pains it was.

My words were spoken right over his heart.

"I've realized maybe they weren't terrible stories, Simon," I mumbled. "Nobody could say the concept was uninteresting. An heiress attempting a masterful crime, only to end up in the trenches she created, purely out of greed. It's not unfamiliar. It's definitely not boring."

I kept my eyes closed, feeling the sway of our bodies as we danced on the edge of a cliff. "It's not a bad story... I'm just not sure it's mine."

"So what is?" he asked softly.

I opened my eyes and lifted my head. My smile was meant to be anything other than what it was: sad and honest. "What if I've always fought in trenches dug for someone else?"

He didn't answer for a moment. His eyes were on mine, searching, curious and dark. For once, I didn't back down.

"Eleanor," he breathed. It was low. Tight. Warning.

It was my name, like he'd said so many times before.

And yet, it wasn't only my name, either. It was the look in his eyes and the clench of his grip; the exposure of my heart he'd pried from its hiding places. It was the offer crouching in my name, like promises unspoken, and the hope that echoed in every syllable.

I leaned up, and felt Simon hold his breath. He tensed when I pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Though he looked like a masterpiece chiseled from marble, he wasn't cold like stone—he was warm. The flames I walked through were suddenly freezing, and he was incredibly warm. But the music had slowed; I knew my time was up. I whispered my thanks and abruptly slunk away from the man I hoped would find me again. It was wrong of me, but I hoped for more. I had to pray he wouldn't—yet I really wished he would.

Except, Simon didn't want to find me again; he wanted to follow. And I didn't care what they whispered about anymore. I wasn't coming back; it didn't matter. I didn't care who was watching. I didn't care about anything but the present, so I let him follow—

Until my mother stepped in front of me, her smile too wide, her eyes too knowing.

"Eleanor!" she loudly exclaimed. "Finally! Your father and I have been trying to find you all night."

I froze. I couldn't do anything but stare.

Out of sight, I sensed Simon pausing in his own tracks behind me. He was quick on his feet, so if I was lucky, he'd read the situation and run. He was far enough to divert his steps to another face in the crowd. I only had to pray she wouldn't notice my shadow.

"M-mom," I stammered, choking words out. "Hi."

I searched from the corner of my eye, trying to confirm he'd gotten away, but nearby movement distracted me. For once, Simon hadn't disappeared. No, he'd pulled a member of his team into conversation, and positioned himself near where my mother and I stood.

My heartbeat thundered on the floor that was my diaphragm. I had more to be worried about than just Simon being exposed to the bent dynamics of my family, or being lobbed with the usual parental criticisms. There was little I could hide under the direct gaze of my mother. I knew it. I knew it all too well. It wasn't good to be cornered.

And, like always, I was right to worry.

It was almost immediate; my mother's smile froze and her eyes narrowed when she got a good look at me. The crease she hated so much appeared on her brow like a battle line, a glaring confirmation she could sense something off about her daughter before her. My stomach got as tight as a fist. The list of things fitting the description of change were all secrets I wanted to keep—no, needed to keep.

"I'm glad I found you," she said, distracted.

I shuffled on my feet, subconsciously straightening my spine and unclenching my hands. I forced myself to mimic normalcy, like a posed mannequin, as if that would show innocence during her unspoken evaluation. But my mother's scrutiny turned to our surroundings, seeking anything that'd indicate the cause of the shift in her oldest daughter.

It'd only been a few fast-paced heartbeats since she'd cornered me, but I was fighting battles with each one. In a matter of moments, only the span of a couple breaths, it'd been a lifetime of familiarity being put to the test. Only a few seconds of shock, yet I'd aged far more than that under the stern gaze of the woman who'd made me.

Luckily, the crowd was too dense, too familiar, too fluid. She saw nothing. My mother faced me again, suspicious, but she lacked enough evidence to call me out. Instead, she submerged her suspicion like a submarine; my mom shifted tactics to lull the opposition into ease.

Colette Vaycker brightened, smiled, and took another look at me. "Look at you," she praised. "Ma fleur, you look beautiful!"

My mother's delicate hand reached for my own, guiding me in a twirl to show off my gown. Her neck craned when she looked over the crowd again. To my relief, and slight anger, her eyes skipped over Simon entirely.

"You have to show your father how nice you look."

"I didn't think you guys were coming tonight," I blurted. I was still kicking to get out of the riptide I'd been swept in. A lifetime of knowing these waters, and it still felt like I couldn't swim when I was sucked in.

My mother glanced back. Her perfect brow had risen in challenge. Somewhere inside me, a little girl was screaming her warnings.

"I could say the same about you, couldn't I?"

My mouth clamped shut, then dropped. I didn't know what to say. It didn't matter. The loud voice of my father shattered over my head.

"You found her!"

Roger Vaycker emerged from the crowd, wearing an identical smile as my mother when he leaned to kiss my cheek. He sang similar praises of how I looked, but I could only numbly look between my parents, waiting. I didn't have to wait long; he settled beside my mother, fusing together like chain link and barbed wire.

"We were worried we weren't going to find you," my mother started, right on time. Disapproval was a color she wore often around me; a flag flown solely when visiting this harbor. "In fact, we weren't sure you'd be attending at all. We've been calling and calling for weeks, but nothing!"

"I've been busy," I evaded.

"We can't get you on the phone, you never seem to be home when we knock on your door. Carrie's told us multiple times that she's seen you and you're doing fine, but it'd be nice to hear from you," she continued, as if I hadn't spoken at all. "We knew you wouldn't be leaving town, of course, but we wanted to see you in person. Especially after—"

"Mom," I warned.

"The lawyers have been telling us all sorts of strange things, but we—"

"Mom," I fumed through gritted teeth. "Enough."

"Eleanor, your mother and I are worried about you," my father admonished, joining in. His blustering voice had lowered to a rumbling reprimand; even now, they were conscious of appearances. "We haven't seen you in weeks. The FBI is investigating our child—I'm sure you can find it in your heart to give us some understanding."

"Give you understanding?" I repeated. The words were foul on my tongue. "You want me to give you understanding for what you've been going through?"

If my mother wasn't so proper, she would've rolled her eyes. Even my proud father withdrew, already waving me off as overdramatic, or self-victimizing, or whatever else he liked to label his oldest.

What are those words you've always called me, dad? Opinionated? Argumentative? Stubborn?

"Not here, Eleanor," my mother instructed. She paired it with a delicate sigh, and shared a look with her husband. I wanted to scream she was the one who'd started it, but I knew even bellowing at the top of my lungs wouldn't be loud enough for them to hear me.

"We'll call you tomorrow to discuss things," she said. "We'd like to see you outside of a fundraiser, or some public event. Do you hear me, fleur?"

"If you're looking for understanding, I have none to give," I cautioned. I felt sharp and decisive. "You'll have to look somewhere else."

"Eleanor, I mean it, stop being—"

"I'm the one being investigated, not you!"

I hated how my voice shook. I hated how my mother's sympathy and concern was too sticky sweet in her tone. I hated how I recognized that molasses, because I'd drowned in it before. I hated that I remembered years of watching them fawn over my sister, like she was their second chance, like at the first sign of failure they could throw me away and try again. Years of being afraid to ask, because I was so sure my sister needed more than I did; being so sure I'd be able to do it on my own.

But maybe I'd needed my parents, too.

Maybe I always had.

"Honey, we're worried about you," my mom repeated, switching tactics again. It was too late. There was no point offering a hand when the Achilles-slicing blade was still held in the other.

"You're worried what I could do or say," I corrected. "The FBI's investigation into me isn't officially over yet, nor have people stopped talking about it. This is about you. It's never really about me."

My eyes were so dry, the sockets themselves throbbed. My throat was tight, feeling locked in the grip of the reaper herself, as she crooned her familiar excuses of decay in my ear. I was too close with ruin, too intimate with this deceiving hurt; so fooled by its appeal, that once upon a time, I used to call it home.

"Eleanor—"

"I have to go," I said, shaking my head. I took a step back from my mother's reaching arms. Something had broken, left to rust and disintegrate. They couldn't spare the grease of an apology, let alone nurture me to shine, so they'd learn just how loud this once-silent wheel could squeak. "August is waiting for me."

My parents shared a look. "August?"

"Yes, August. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have people to see. Goodnight. Love you."

I slipped through a crack in the crowd and disappeared, too fast for Simon to follow. I found a waiter bearing a tray of unknown drinks, downed one, and took another to-go. Every trigger I had was hairpin when it came to my parents, and they'd not only loaded the gun, they'd aimed my own barrel at me.

And yet, despite everything, I still hadn't been able to walk away without admitting I was theirs.