A Lasting Impression

had painted, but with someone else’s name on it. At the age of eleven, she thought someone had made a mistake. Or that the man—whoever he was—had forged her mother’s work.
    Shortly thereafter came a series of boarding schools. But by the age of seventeen, she knew the truth. And when her maman had grown too ill to hold the paintbrush herself, Claire had forged her first painting—and the name François-Narcisse Brissaud at the bottom—with her father standing close behind her.
    The weighty mantle her mother had worn for so many years had been bequeathed to her. And the responsibility, as her father called it, hung heavy and rough on her shoulders.
    With every step closer to home, she felt herself tensing.
    When she was away from the gallery, away from her father, she almost felt like a different person, living a different life. When, for the rest of the time, she only wished that were true. She had to find a way to make him listen, to make him understand.
    Surprisingly, she didn’t have to think long about what she wanted to say. “Papa, I’ve decided I’m going to keep this painting of Versailles. I’ll pay you for it, if you insist.” Though she didn’t know how she would manage that. He handled the finances, and earnings from the gallery had been slow in past months, he’d told her repeatedly, even though paintings were selling. “But I’m keeping it. And what’s more, I won’t be party to this any longer. I’ll paint whatever you want me to paint, as long as it’s my name I sign on the canvas.” There. She exhaled. The words flowed so easily when she wasn’t standing in front of him, when he wasn’t staring her down.
    She entered through the kitchen. The building was quiet, and she felt a stab of disappointment. Had Uncle Antoine already left? Had she missed him entirely?
    She plunked her reticule down on the kitchen table, along with the bag of beignets. Dinner needed to be started, but she wasn’t hungry. Yet she knew Papa would be. She opened the door to the gallery and peered inside. A single candelabra flickered on a bureau against the wall, leaving the bulk of the room to shadows and dusk. “Papa?”
    She noticed that The Duchess of Orléans— a reproduction of Alexandre-François Caminade’s original that she’d painted two months ago, signed with her initials—was absent from its easel. The pedestal beside it displaying Nydia, the Blind Flower Girl of Pompeii, a small-scale original statue by Randolph Rogers, renowned sculptor and her personal favorite, was also empty.
    Apparently, it had been a very profitable afternoon.
    She’d scolded Papa when he’d bought the Rogers statuary. It was much too expensive a piece for them to purchase without a confirmed buyer, yet he’d done it anyway, saying that it was wise to have a true original on hand every now and then. And it would appear he’d made a sound decision for once, selling it in only a week’s time.
    She shook her head, turning to go find him. How smug he would be about it all too, reminding her how he’d—
    Something crunched beneath her boot. She looked down. Shards of glass, everywhere.
    Then she heard a low moan coming from somewhere behind the door.
    Slowly, she gave the door a push, the creak of hinges sounding overloud in the silence. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then she spotted him across the room, lying facedown on the floor.
    “Papa!” She ran to him, broken glass splintering beneath each step. “Papa, are you all right?” She bent close and gave his shoulder a shake. No response. “It’s me, Papa. Claire . . . Can you hear me?”
    His breathing was labored, as though he were in pain.
    With effort, she turned him onto his back, as gently as she could. He groaned, and she flinched, afraid she was hurting him. She shoved her hair back to keep it out of her face, and felt a dampness on her hands, something sticky.
    She looked down, and felt the room tilt.
    A dark stain soaked the front of her father’s shirt, the same stain slicking the palms of her hands. Her head swam. Dreading what she would find, she tugged the hem of his shirt from his trousers to reveal a gash in his abdomen. Judging from the loss of blood, the wound was deep. Oh, Papa . . .
    “Open your eyes,” she whispered, heart in her throat. “ Please, open your eyes.”
    He didn’t.
    She raced to the bureau and grabbed a stack of fresh polishing cloths from a lower drawer, and then the candelabra. She