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Tristan stepped up beside me, frowning. “You think he had Osric do this?”

“Fabian assumed we were staying with the Conclave.” I turned to look at him. “He gave you a burner phone. I don't think he expected us to come back here. Why bother with this? No, I don't think he asked Osric to do this. I think Osric is trying to assert himself. I'll bet you Fabian has tried to keep him away from us, maybe he even got mad about Osric coming to my work. He did make a point of telling me Osric regretted it, and it sounded odd. I think this is Osric's rebellion.”

“Does it matter which of them did this?” Tristan's jaw clenched. “Either way, you are in their crosshairs because of me.”

“It matters because Fabian loves you, while Osric sees us an experiment.” I grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and went to the bedroom, continuing our conversation as I packed. “Fabian wouldn't hurt me, if for no other reason than he wants me whole for Heartbreak. Osric, however, may feel differently.”

I shoved clothes, shoes, and a few items too precious to leave behind into my bag. As I wrapped my grandmother's jewelry box in a sweater, I realized what my subconscious already knew—I may not be coming back. In the art corner, I took down the photograph, wiped a smear of paint from the corner of the frame, and put it aside. I set the canvas into a homemade carrier with cork spacers at top and bottom to keep wet paintings from smearing. The photo could be reprinted, it was in the cloud, but we couldn't leave Tristan's face behind, and I didn't have the heart to destroy the painting. Tristan nodded when I looked up at him.

We didn't linger. Five minutes after entering, we were leaving, and I locked the door behind us. Tristan carried my bag, and I carried the painting. At the building's main door, Tristan went out first and did another scan before waving me out. We hurried into the car. It felt as if I were in witness protection.

We drove out of the District in silence, crossing the Potomac and heading into the dense woodlands of Great Falls. The Conclave compound appeared through the mist like a manor in a Gothic novel, bringing gooseflesh to my skin. I wondered when I'd leave it next. We parked and went into the main building.

Inside, the estate was quietly active. Staff members bustled about on silent feet, and Tristan asked one of them convey his request to the Conclave for a casual meeting. Another member of the staff offered us dinner, and we went into a parlor to wait for both the food and the Conclave.

Dinner came first—two trays, each with a glass of water, another of red wine, and a plate of roast beef, buttered potatoes, and green beans. Trays on our laps, we ate, seated together on one of the two couches in the room. As we finished, the Conclave members trickled in. With them came another member of the staff with a tray of coffee and petite fours.

When they were all present and sipping coffee, our dinner trays taken, and tiny plates of petite fours in our hands, Tristan gave them a summary of our day. Bart rubbed his tired eyes and cursed quietly into his coffee, while Tanvi texted their security staff to strengthen the outer perimeter wards and add another round to their patrols.

“Stay inside the main house tonight,” Cassian said. “The grounds should be safe, but the house is safer.”

Instead of retreating immediately to our guest suite when the meeting was done, Tristan led me into the library on the second floor. It was a vast, warm room with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, a gas fireplace, and deep leather armchairs. He set my bag down by the door, and I did the same with the painting.

We had brought fresh cups of coffee with us and took them to the only loveseat in the room, across from the fireplace. Tristan turned on the flames, and they whooshed up, over the fake logs. The tension in his shoulders hadn't vanished, but the fortified walls of the estate allowed it to mellow, and he sighed as he settled beside me.

I curled my feet beneath me on the cushions, wrapping both hands around the warm mug. “You're still thinking about that photograph.”

“Which one?” Tristan made a huffing sound as he flung out a hand.

“The one in my apartment.”

“No, I'm not thinking about it, though it was a lovely picture of you. I'm focused on the fact that your home was violated.” His gaze fixed on the dancing flames. “You have built a clean, disciplined life dedicated to saving beautiful things. Now your home is marked by men who view people as instruments.”

“Tristan, it's an apartment, not a museum. Relax. I brought most of my treasures with me. And I doubt they're going back. They're not interested in my personal belongings.”

“No, they're interested in you.”

I was about to tell him to let it go, there was no sense in belaboring the point now, but he did without prodding.

Tristan looked at me, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “Why did you choose restoration? You're so talented. You could have sold your own art.” He nodded at the painting in its carry box.

“First of all, it's harder to make a living as a traditional artist. You have to be more than talented, you have to be creative, marketable, and lucky.” I took a slow sip of the coffee, letting the heat settle in my chest. “But besides that, I was drawn to restoration at a young age.”

“Go on.” His shoulders settled more and the lines between his eyebrows smoothed.

“When I was twelve, my parents had an argument. Not a terrible one, but bad enough that my father slammed a door. It knocked a brass coat rack off balance. The coat rack fell, hitting my mother's favorite painting on the way down. It was a small oil landscape of the Japanese countryside, painted by an unknown artist in the Meiji era. My grandmother had given it to her when Dad announced their engagement. Beyond being valuable, it meant a lot to Grandma because Grandpa had bought it for her as their first anniversary present. Giving it to my mother was her way of blessing their union. So, it meant more to my mother than a piece of valuable art. It was acceptance, love, and family.”

Tristan watched me intently, listening with a deep, unbroken stillness that reminded me of his age.

“A brass hook tore straight through the canvas,” I continued. “A jagged, six-inch L-shaped rip right across the center of the mountain. My mother didn't scream or cry. She just knelt on the floor, picked up the painting, and held it. She looked as if something inside her had been torn with it. And when Dad saw what had happened, he knelt with her, took her into his arms, and they held the painting between them. Later, they put in a drawer, too hurt to look at it, but unwilling to part with it.”

“What did you do?”

“I was twelve, so my first instinct was to fix it with Elmer's glue and tape,” I said with a faint smile. “Thank God I realized what a mistake it would have been. Instead, I went to the public library. I checked out every book they had on art restoration, canvas repair, and oil painting. I saved my allowance for six months to buy rabbit-skin glue, fine linen threads, and conservation-grade mastic varnish. I secretly worked on the painting in my room after school for four weeks. I aligned the threads under a magnifying glass, backed the tear with an invisible patch, and filled the loss with gesso.”

“And?”

“It was immaculate. I was so proud of my work and astonished at what could be done with patience and the right tools. It was the start of my love of restoration.”