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“There’s a young Black man,” said Myrna, joining them. The revulsion apparent in her voice. “Barely more than a boy. Just part of a collection.”

She looked at her niece. The young man in the painting could be their ancestor.

“Yes.” Reine-Marie sighed, shaking her head.

“Says here that there were at least two hundred items in the Paston collection,” said Fiona, continuing to read the page. “Brought back from around the world by explorers.”

“And slave traders,” said Myrna.

She wanted to look away in disgust, but found herself drawn back to the painting. There was something about it. The young man, yes. But something else.

“It’s incredible,” said Clara. “I’d heard about the painting, but have never seen it.”

“Even if it is a copy or an early study,” said Harriet, “what’s it doing here in your loft, Auntie Myrna?”

“More to the point,” said Ruth, “why was it walled up?”

“May I see that letter again?” Armand asked. When Billy handed it over, Armand reread it, examining it more closely. “There’s Monsieur Stone’s return address on the envelope—”

“It’s my family home, though we no longer live there,” said Billy.

“—but we can’t see who he sent it to. Someplace in Québec City, but the address itself is smudged. All we have is the salutation. My dear Clémence. But no last name.”

“Does it matter?” Olivier asked.

“It would be interesting to know if Monsieur Stone wrote any more letters to this Clémence,” said Reine-Marie, the archivist kicking in. “Maybe with more explanation.”

“But he never spoke to his employer or looked into the room,” said Gabri. “So there’s not much more he could say.”

“We don’t know that,” said Armand. “We know the instructions Pierre was given, but not what he actually did.”

“He might’ve peeked,” said Clara. “Wouldn’t most people?”

“I always do,” agreed Gabri.

“But all he’d see is what we see,” said Olivier. “So any letter wouldn’t really tell us anything we don’t already know.”

“Not true,” said Armand. “It might tell us why those things had to be walled up and hidden. You say you received this a few weeks ago,” he said to Billy. “How?”

“Through the mail.”

“Yes, but how did it find you? Monsieur Stone’s return address is on his letter, not yours.”

“The new owners of the family home found it and forwarded it to me.”

He’d said “new” owners, but Myrna knew they’d lived there now for more than ten years. But they would always, in Billy’s mind, be new.

It was the home Pierre Stone himself built. It had been in the family for generations. Billy’s parents had sold the place when it got beyond them.

Times change. You had to roll with it. But it was impossible to roll without getting bruised.

Armand, now standing by the hole in the wall, looked up from the letter and at the painting. It seemed stuck in time. But it actually was a testament to a changing world. A larger, more wonderous, in many ways more wicked world. One where lobsters existed. And so did the slave trade.

“I guess someone found the letter and decided to send it back,” said Billy. “All they had was the old address.”

“It’s curious. I wonder why,” said Armand.

“Why what?” asked Myrna.