A Lasting Impression

needed to apply pressure to the wound—she knew that much. The arc of candlelight followed her movements, flickering and sweeping across the burgundy-papered walls. Wherever the light fell, the room took on a pinkish glow.
    Something caught her eye, and Claire stilled.
    She squinted and raised the candelabra higher, wanting to make sure that what she was seeing—or wasn’t seeing—was real. But it was.
    Every piece of art in the gallery was gone.

2

    C laire shivered, feeling as though she and her father weren’t alone. Yet clearly, no one else was in the room. She worked to stanch the blood flow, questions pressing. Who had robbed the gallery, assaulted her father? Who would chance such a bold undertaking on so busy a street? And where was Uncle Antoine?
    But the most disturbing question, the one she couldn’t silence—like the pounding at the back of her head—was what had her father done? What kind of deal had gone wrong that someone would do this to him?
    Based on experience, she knew better than to think him innocent.
    Wetness slicked her hands, and she knew she needed to get help. To get a doctor. But she couldn’t leave her father alone.
    “Claire . . .” Her father’s eyelids fluttered open.
    “Yes, Papa.” She slipped her hand into his. “I’m here.”
    He blinked as though having trouble focusing.
    “What happened, Papa? Who did this to you?”
    His grip tightened with more strength than she would have thought possible. Uncertainty furrowed his brow. “You’re not . . . hurt?”
    She shook her head. “No, Papa. I’m not hurt.”
    The briefest trace of a smile . . . then he tried to sit up.
    “No, you need to lie still,” she urged. “Don’t move. You’re bleeding. You need a physician.”
    “What I need”—he winced, each breath hard-earned—“is for you to leave here. Now! It’s not safe for—”
    “I’m not going anywhere, Papa. Except to get you a doctor.”
    Despite her efforts otherwise, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Sweat poured from his face. “Men . . . were here, Claire. Men”—he grimaced and huffed a humorless laugh—“who were less than satisfied with their purchase of one of the Brissaud paintings.”
    Claire tried to read the look in his eyes. “Do you mean . . . they know ? About . . . the forgeries?” She could barely say it aloud.
    “They suspect.” He stared hard, his jaw rigid. “They asked who painted them.”
    The air left her lungs. “W-what did you tell them?”
    “No one knows about you—yet.” He exhaled. “Which is why you must leave. If they come back and find you here—”
    A floorboard creaked above them, in her bedroom, and Claire went cold inside. “Papa, what should we—”
    “ Shhhh! ” he whispered, his expression fierce. “I told you it’s not—”
    Footsteps pounded the staircase. Coming down. Fast. Fear widened her father’s eyes. She’d never get him out by herself, and she couldn’t leave him behind. She wouldn’t. Not like this. No matter what he’d done. She stood and looked for something to brandish as a weapon and reached for the candelabra.
    The door leading from the kitchen to the gallery flew open.
    “Uncle Antoine!” Claire released her breath in a rush. “Where have you been? Papa’s hurt. He’s bleeding and needs—”
    “I know. The physician’s on his way.” Three long strides brought Uncle Antoine beside them. His clothes, always pressed and stylish, were rumpled and stained. A gash marred his upper left cheek. The skin around the cut was swollen and purpling.
    Claire rose, her legs none too steady beneath her. “What happened? Who did this?”
    Uncle Antoine shot a look down at her father, who looked away.
    Claire scoffed. “One of you needs to tell me. I deserve to know what—”
    Uncle Antoine grabbed her wrist, hard enough to make her wince. “You must listen to me, ma chère. Very carefully. We have little time, and none for your foolish questions.” An unfamiliar edge razored his voice. He let go of her and pulled a leather pouch from his coat pocket. “Everything you need is in here.”
    She stared at the pouch, then back at him, realizing what it contained. What it meant. Her mother always carried a similar pouch whenever the two of them left on “surprise adventures,” as her mother had called them when Claire was younger.
    “No,” Claire heard herself whisper, the word out before she could think better of it.
    Surprise sharpened Uncle Antoine’s