Read Chapter 10: FAMILY NAMES

Lucien’s father came to Saint-Aurelie for the winter patron dinner.

Étienne Valcourt was handsome in the polished, expensive way of men whose photographs were professionally selected before publication. He shook the director’s hand beneath the main staircase while a photographer documented the moment. Behind him walked museum trustees, foundation directors, two deputy mayors, and a former minister whose scandal had apparently become old enough to count as experience.

Students had been instructed to display works in the corridors.

Élise’s After the Bread hung opposite the donor wall.

She was adjusting the label when Étienne stopped in front of it.

Lucien stood two steps behind him.

“Yours?” Étienne asked Élise.

“Yes.”

He read the title, then looked at the black ovens. “My grandfather worked in a steel mill.”

Élise had learned by then that wealthy people often introduced a working-class ancestor as proof of moral solvency.

“Did he like it?” she asked.

Lucien coughed into his hand.

Étienne’s gaze sharpened, then he laughed.

“I don’t know. He died before I thought to ask.” He turned to Lucien. “She’s the one.”

Élise looked between them. “The one what?”

“The scholarship painter you keep arguing about.”

Lucien’s face went still.

Étienne smiled as if he had offered a compliment. “He says you are difficult.”

“He is observant.”

“I like difficult artists. They become easier after their first invoice.”

Then he moved on.

Élise waited until he was out of earshot.

“You talk about me with your father?”

“No.”

“He literally just said—”

“He asked about Delaroche candidates. I said your work was strong.”

“Why?”

“Because it is.”

“Does he know Kessler?”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Did you tell him I refused the meeting?”

“No.”

“Did Solène?”

“Probably.”

Élise looked down the corridor where Étienne Valcourt was now talking to Professor Maret.

“This place is impossible.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because it took you two months to say something we agree on.”

The patron dinner continued in the glass-roofed refectory. Scholarship students had been “encouraged” to attend because, as the development office explained, donors appreciated seeing the impact of their generosity.

Élise sat between a Belgian collector and a retired banker who asked whether her parents were “artistic people.”

“They make croissants,” she said.

“How charming.”

“They start at three in the morning.”

“Remarkable work ethic.”

The banker turned to ask Solène about Art Basel.

At dessert, the director announced a new fund for “social mobility in the arts,” underwritten by the Valcourt Fondation.

Applause filled the room.

Élise glanced at Lucien.

He was not clapping.

Later she found him alone in the plaster court behind the sculpture studios.

“You hate your father,” she said.

“No.”

“That sounded convincing.”

Lucien sat on the edge of a stone pedestal. “I hate being used as evidence that his philanthropy is intimate.”

“Your family funds scholarships.”

“Yes.”

“Mine pays taxes.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“Do you?”

He rubbed his hands over his face. For the first time since she had met him, he looked young.

“My mother left when I was twelve,” he said. “After that my father turned every relationship into a structure. Schools, tutors, summer programs, internships. He doesn’t control people by ordering them. He builds rooms where the only sensible choice is the one he prefers.”

Élise sat beside him.

“That explains a lot about you.”

“Cruel again.”

“Accurate.”

He looked at her. “Did you ever want something your parents could not understand?”

“All the time.”

“What did they do?”

“Asked me to explain it until they could.”

Lucien laughed softly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It was.”

Their shoulders nearly touched.

He said, “I’m sorry about the corridor.”

“The kiss?”

“Yes.”

“You already apologized by not doing it again.”

“I said I wouldn’t unless you wanted me to.”

“That is not what you said.”

“It was implied.”

“You’re inventing consent retroactively now?”

“No.” He smiled. “I am failing elegantly.”

Élise looked at his mouth.

This time she kissed him.

Slowly.

There was no anger to hide behind. That made it more dangerous.

When she pulled away, Lucien did not move closer.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“Nothing useful.”

His smile disappeared.

“Good,” he said.

But she knew neither of them believed it.