Read Chapter 8: THE INTERVIEW ROOM

Nora won the Necker grant.

The announcement was made at noon on a Monday and spread through Saint-Aurelie before the official email reached half the applicants. Nora found Élise in the cafeteria and hugged her hard enough to spill coffee.

“I thought I ruined the interview,” she said. “I told them Rome was oversaturated and I wanted to spend half the grant in Marseille.”

“That sounds like why you won.”

“Maybe.” Nora stepped back. “Or maybe someone moved a piece.”

Élise said nothing.

Nora studied her face.

“You know.”

“I know the withdrawal created the slot.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“I don’t know how the withdrawal happened.”

This was technically true.

Nora’s smile faded. “Careful, Élise. Technical truth is their native language.”

At the next Orphée meeting, Élise demanded an explanation.

“The student who withdrew had a family emergency,” Maxime said.

“Convenient.”

“Not every event is engineered.”

“Did you know Nora was first alternate?”

“Yes.”

“Did Lucien know?”

Everyone looked at him.

Lucien remained expressionless. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw the provisional ranking.”

“Before applicants did?”

“Yes.”

Élise laughed without humor. “And you still call this information.”

“What would you call it?” Solène asked.

“Corruption with good stationery.”

Hugo swore under his breath.

Maxime stood. “Enough. You are not a prosecutor. You accepted access when it benefited you. You sat at this table. You used Roussel’s invitation. Do not perform innocence now.”

The words hit because they were true.

Élise looked around the anatomy studio—the lyre, the envelopes, the elegant faces made ugly by fluorescent light.

“I’m not innocent,” she said. “That’s why I’m paying attention.”

She left before they dismissed her.

Lucien followed.

In the corridor, he caught her wrist.

She jerked free. “Don’t.”

“Maxime is scared of you.”

“Good.”

“No. Scared people with leverage are dangerous.”

“You keep warning me as if I’m supposed to be grateful.”

“I’m warning you because you walk into rooms believing exposure equals victory.”

“And you stay in rooms believing control equals reform.”

His jaw tightened.

For several seconds neither moved.

The corridor smelled of dust and linseed oil. Somewhere below, a night guard pushed a cart across stone.

“You changed the withdrawal?” Élise asked.

“No.”

“Did you know it would happen?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“The student told me. Her mother is ill.”

“And you knew Nora was alternate.”

“Yes.”

“So you gave me hope because the outcome cost you nothing.”

Lucien flinched almost imperceptibly.

“That’s unfair.”

“Is it?”

“No.” He stepped closer. “I told you because you looked at me like I was incapable of choosing anything decent.”

“Were you trying to prove me wrong?”

“Maybe.”

“That is not decency. That is vanity.”

Something flashed in his face.

“Do you ever let anyone have a motive that isn’t contaminated?”

“Do you?”

The question stayed between them.

Then Lucien kissed her.

It was not gentle. It was not planned. His hand caught the back of her neck and her palms hit his chest. For one impossible second she kissed him back with equal anger, tasting coffee and smoke and the metallic cold of the corridor.

Then she pushed him away.

They stared at each other, breathing hard.

“That,” Élise said, “was a terrible argument.”

“I know.”

“Never do it again.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth. “All right.”

She hated that she was disappointed.

The next morning, a notice appeared in every studio: applications for the Prix Delaroche would open in November. The prize included twenty thousand euros, a solo exhibition, and a one-year studio funded by a private foundation.

It was the award that had made Lucien famous.

This year, final-year and selected second-year students were eligible.

Scholarship fellows with faculty nomination could also apply.

At eleven, Professor Vautrin called Élise into his office.

“I am nominating you,” he said.

She stared at him.

“For Delaroche?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are irritating, inconsistent, undertrained in composition, and one of the few students here who has made three paintings this term that I remember at breakfast.”

Élise almost smiled.

Then Vautrin’s expression changed.

“If you apply, understand what you are entering. Delaroche is not a school prize. It is a market event wearing academic clothing.”

“I know.”

“No.” He leaned back. “You know rumors. I am telling you there will be people who decide what your work is worth before they stand in front of it.”

“Then I’ll make something they can’t decide in advance.”

Vautrin looked tired and impressed at once.

“That,” he said, “is exactly the kind of sentence that gets young artists hurt.”

Élise signed the application form anyway.