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The rest of the day was uneventful. At three fifty-nine, I called the elevator and made my way down to the lobby.

Alexander was already waiting there. There were moments when simply seeing him was enough to disrupt my concentration, and this was one of them. He was wearing a black cashmere turtleneck and olive trousers. I had to remind myself not to stare.

“Hi, Emilia. Thank you for meeting with me.”

“It’s my pleasure. I am curious where we are headed.”

“Not too far, and not much of a detour from your way home.”

We started walking. “I noticed some new card readers. And a security officer near the Fellows’ Dining Room that I’ve never seen before.”

“After the fire, it seemed sensible.”

That surprised me. “Is there something specific about the fire that is suspicious?”

He looked ahead. “The investigation is ongoing. Additional access controls seemed prudent.”

It was a reasonable answer, though it did not sit well with me. We made it into the historic Blackwood building and took the stairs up one floor, stopping in front of heavy wooden double doors with engraved markings. Alexander opened the door and we walked inside.

The portrait gallery occupied a quiet room on the north side of the building, tucked beyond a corridor I might have missed if Alexander hadn’t led me there. Portraits lined the walls, their stories spanning several centuries. Not all of them were Blackwoods.

Several were artists who had maintained residence here. Others came from Alexander’s family collection. I noticed several of their names. A conductor whose name I recognized from one of the committee’s historical references. A late-eighteenth-century philosopher regarded me with the expression of someone who had been severely underestimated.

“She challenged three separate philosophical societies,” Alexander said. “In writing. Over a period of eleven years. The correspondence has survived.”

“Did she win?”

“Two out of three.” He smiled faintly. “The third society declined to reply after 1793.”

I laughed. We continued along the room. He never sounded like someone reciting history. He spoke with passion and genuine interest. The painter who had a habit of hiding a single brushstroke beneath a sleeve. The commission for an early nineteenth-century portrait that had taken nearly three years to complete. The way the afternoon light reached the western walls first. The protective measures taken to ensure that same light did not damage the portraits.

I looked at the building differently because he did. So much of its design was intentional. Near the end of the gallery, I stopped.

The portrait was smaller than the others, tucked between two much larger paintings, but she was impossible to overlook. Her face was open in a way that the more formal ones were not. Her eyes were dark and she carried an expression caught somewhere between happiness and memory. I looked for the plaque. Only the small brass mounting remained.

“Who is she?”

Alexander came to stand beside me. “Katarina Petrova.”

“Why has it not been replaced?”

“The plaque disappeared during the restoration. When the restoration manager discovered it was gone, a handwritten note had been left in its place.”

I glanced up at him. “What did it say?”

He held my gaze. “Her story matters more than her name. There was no signature, no explanation. Just a single sentence. I decided not to replace the plaque, at least not yet. In its place, I established an archival fellowship to learn who Katarina Petrova was and why someone believed her story mattered more than her name.”

I looked back at Katarina Petrova’s face, wondering what kind of life she had led that inspired someone to preserve her portrait and, generations later, someone else to remove only her name.

“I hope someone finds her,” I said.

“So do I.”

We had come to the end of the gallery. I promised myself I would come back to explore, and to visit Katarina. Alexander turned toward the doorway. I followed him out into the corridor. Somehow, knowing there were still stories Blackwood Hall hadn’t finished telling made me love it even more.

Before we reached the stairs, Alexander stopped. He drew me gently into a small alcove tucked between two windows. His hand settled at my waist as though it belonged there, pulling me closer until I forgot entirely what I had been about to say. He kissed me. I slipped my arms around his neck, and I felt him smile against my lips before the kiss deepened, releasing some of the restraint we had been exercising since last night. His hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me against him until there was no space left between us at all.