Read Chapter 33: The Father's Legacy

The letter arrived on cream-colored stationery, embossed with a seal Evie didn't recognize. She turned it over in her hands, standing in the foyer of the small apartment she and Lily now shared near the Luxembourg Gardens. Morning light slanted through the tall windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air.

Lily appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, still in her dressing gown, hair loose around her shoulders. "Who's it from?"

"I don't know." Evie broke the seal. The script inside was precise, old-fashioned, each letter formed with deliberate care. As she read, her hand drifted to her throat, where the locket—the one thing her mother had left her—rested against her collarbone.

*Dear Mademoiselle Hart,*

*I write to you regarding the estate of the late Comte Henri Valcourt. It is my duty as executor to inform you that certain provisions were made for you and your sister. I would be honored to arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience.*

*Additionally, there is a matter regarding a portrait that bears a striking resemblance to an item in your possession. Please contact me when you are able.*

*— Maître Alexandre Roussel*

"A portrait." Evie's voice came out thin. "He says there's a portrait."

Lily crossed the room and took the letter from her shaking hands, scanning it quickly. Her face closed off, the way it always did when their father was mentioned. "You're not thinking of going."

"I am thinking about it, yes."

"Evelyn." Lily's voice carried an edge. "He abandoned us. His family pretended we didn't exist for twenty-five years. Why should we dance now because he left us something in a will?"

"Because he left something for *us*." Evie tugged the locket free from her collar, holding it up so the light caught the engraved surface. "Don't you want to know what it is? What he left behind?"

Lily's jaw tightened. "I don't want anything from him."

Evie studied her sister's face—the hurt that lived beneath the anger, the same hurt she carried herself. She understood it. For years, she'd pushed down any thought of the man who'd been absent her entire life. But now that his name was real, flesh and blood and legacy, she couldn't look away.

"Come with me," Evie said softly. "To see the lawyer. To see the painting. If it's too much, we'll leave. But I need to know."

A long silence stretched between them. Lily looked out the window, toward the rooftops of Paris, her reflection ghosted in the glass.

"Fine," she said at last. "But I'm not making any promises about how I'll feel."

---

The Valcourt mansion was in the Marais, a tall house of pale stone behind iron gates. Maître Roussel met them in the courtyard—a thin man in his sixties with a silver mustache and kind eyes that crinkled when he saw them.

"Mademoiselles." He bowed. "On behalf of the Valcourt family, I welcome you."

"Is the family here?" Evie asked, glancing toward the windows.

"They are in the countryside for the season. The house is being prepared for sale, but I have been granted access to show you the relevant items." He paused. "I must tell you—some of the household staff were quite surprised to learn of your existence. But for those of us who served the Comte in his final years, it came as no surprise at all."

Evie's heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"

Maître Roussel led them inside, through a marble foyer and up a sweeping staircase. "Your father was a man of deep regrets. He spoke of a love he'd lost, a woman he could not marry. It was only in his later years, when he knew his time was short, that he began to make arrangements." He stopped before a set of double doors. "This was his study. I think you'll find it illuminating."

The doors swung open into a room frozen in time. A massive oak desk dominated the center, its surface covered in yellowed papers and ink wells. Bookshelves lined the walls, overstuffed with leather volumes. But it was the far wall that held Evie's attention.

A portrait hung there, lit by a shaft of golden afternoon light. The woman in it was young—no older than twenty—with dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon and a hint of mischief in her gray eyes. She wore a deep blue gown and a silver necklace.

A necklace Evie knew intimately.

She walked toward the painting, her legs unsteady. Her hand rose to her throat, to the locket that had belonged to her mother. In the portrait, her mother's fingers touched the same locket at the same spot.

"Oh," Evie breathed. The air left her lungs.

"Your mother," Maître Roussel said quietly. "The Comte commissioned this portrait the year before she died. He never remarried. Never had other children." He paused. "He kept her letters in his desk. I believe he read them every night."

Lily stood frozen at the doorway, her face unreadable. Evie reached back, found her sister's hand, and pulled her forward.

"He loved her," Evie whispered. "Look at her eyes, Lily. That's how someone looks when they're loved."

Lily stared at the painting, her throat working. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. "Then why didn't he come for her? Why didn't he come for us?"

Maître Roussel cleared his throat gently. "I cannot speak to his choices, mademoiselle. But I can tell you what he did in his final months. He wrote letters—daily, sometimes twice daily—to attorneys in America, trying to locate you." He gestured to a stack of folders on the desk. "He knew you existed. He wanted to find you. Time ran out before he could."

Evie pressed her palm to the surface of the portrait, feeling the cool paint beneath her fingers. Her mother's face stared back at her, frozen in that moment of happiness, unaware of the tragedy to come. And somewhere behind her eyes, Evie felt something shift—a wall cracking, letting in light she hadn't known she'd been missing.

She'd come to Paris to escape New York, to chase a dream of music and freedom. She'd found a sister, a love, a purpose. And now, in this quiet study that smelled of dust and old paper, she was finding something else: a father who had loved her from afar, who had carried her mother's memory until the day he died.

Her French was halting, accented, still a work in progress. But when she spoke, the words felt less like translation and more like return.

"Il m'aimait." *He loved me.*

Maître Roussel nodded. "He did, mademoiselle. Very much."

Lily turned away sharply, but Evie caught her elbow before she could flee. "Lily. He left us something. Don't you want to see it?"

"I don't deserve—" Lily's voice broke. "I hated him. All my life, I hated him for not being there. And now you're telling me he loved us? That he tried?" She pressed her fist to her mouth. "I don't know what to do with that."

Evie pulled her sister into her arms, feeling Lily's body shake with silent sobs. Over her shoulder, she met Maître Roussel's gaze.

"The legacy," she said. "What does he want us to have?"

The lawyer moved to the desk, unlocked a drawer with a small brass key, and withdrew a leather portfolio. "The Comte arranged for a trust to be established in each of your names. Sums meant to give you independence." He handed the portfolio to Evie. "But he also left this—a collection of letters, from him to your mother. He wanted you to have them, to know the truth of their story."

Evie took the portfolio, feeling its weight in her hands. A lifetime of words, hidden away, waiting for her.

"And the estate?" she asked.

"The estate itself is entailed to the male line. It will pass to Étienne Valcourt upon the resolution of the ongoing legal proceedings. However." The lawyer's eyes glinted. "The Comte was a careful man. He knew the law would not allow him to leave the title or properties to his daughters. But he was determined that you would not leave empty-handed. The trust is substantial."

Lily pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "How substantial?"

Maître Roussel named a figure that made Evie's breath catch. Enough to live on for years. Enough to never sing for money she didn't want to earn, to never be beholden to anyone again. Enough for freedom.

"I don't want his money," Lily said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Then put it to work," Evie said. "Start that foundation you always talked about. The one to help young performers escape the Le Fantôme of the world." She looked back at the portrait, at her mother's calm gray eyes, at the locket at her throat. "He wanted to give us a life. Let him."

Lily was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Maître Roussel cleared his throat. "There is one more matter. The locket you wear, mademoiselle." He gestured. "The Comte left instructions that its match should be given to you personally. It was his hope that together, they would complete the set."

He crossed to a display cabinet, unlocked it, and retrieved a small velvet box. When he opened it, Evie gasped. A twin locket lay on the silk—same silver, same engraving, but where hers was worn with age, this one gleamed as if new.

"Inside, you will find a photograph," Maître Roussel said. "Of the Comte and your mother, taken on the day they met."

Evie lifted the locket from its box. Her fingers trembled as she opened the clasp. Inside was a tiny photograph, faded but clear: her mother, young and laughing, arm in arm with a tall man with kind eyes and a warm smile.

Her father.

For the first time, she saw his face. And in it, she saw her own reflection staring back.