“That is Monet’s,” she said.

He was waiting, leaning against the gate, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his long white beard brushing against his chest. Alice, next to him, stepped into the narrow road and waved as our carriage approached. From here, there seemed nothing extraordinary about their home. We rushed through introductions and Colin nodded at Sebastian, who presented both himself and the painting, which Monet took from him at once.

“How did you get this?” he asked.

“Trade secret, I’m afraid,” Sebastian said. “But I can assure you it wasn’t simple, so you may rest easy. It’s unlikely anyone with less artistic fervor than I would even attempt such a thing.”

“This is meant to endear him to me?” Monet said, looking at me. “To persuade me to forgive him and not set the police on him?”

“Mr. Capet has more charm than sense, it would seem,” I said, scowling in Sebastian’s general direction.

“Forgive me, good sir. I’m a great admirer of your work,” Sebastian said. “I object strenuously to the reaction you’ve had from certain critics and can assure you that all I wanted was to ensure the painting was in the collection of someone who would appreciate it.”

Monet raised an eyebrow. “Is this your best strategy? To remind me of negative reviews and suggest that only a common criminal could find a person to like my work?”

“Mon dieu, non!” Sebastian’s eyes went wide with horror. “I’m far from a common criminal, my good man. Let me assure you I have the finest taste. I offer Madame du Lac as a character reference.”

“Cécile?” Monet’s lip twitched and he tugged at his beard.

“His taste is excellent,” Cécile said. “And though his methods are questionable, I do think he should be given credit for ingenuity and an admirable boldness.”

“We will finish this discussion inside,” Monet said. We followed a pavement perpendicular to the house and stepped into a garden magnificent beyond anything my imagination could have conjured. Perfect paths ran from the front of the building, dividing flower beds bursting with daisies, phlox, larkspurs, delphiniums, and asters. Benches placed at intervals were painted the same cheery green as both the house’s shutters and the metal trellises straddling the paths. Above all of this, the sky, a crisp and clear blue, set off the bright colors on the ground.

With difficulty, I forced myself away from this vision of floral perfection and followed Monet and Alice up green, wooden steps into the house. We passed through a small corridor that opened into a modest-sized salon decorated entirely in shades of blue. The longcase clock standing in a corner and a cupboard holding gardening books on its upper shelves matched the walls perfectly, as did the upholstery on a charming settee. None of the artist’s work hung in the room. Instead, he displayed exotic Japanese prints done, he explained, by well-known artists Hiroshige, Utamaro, and Hokusai. Their variety was spectacular: elegant women at their toilettes, scenes from nature—I particularly liked the crashing waves of the seascapes—animals, rain falling on a bridge, chrysanthemums and bees, peonies and butterflies.

Once we were all seated, Monet scowled at Sebastian. “I cannot have works disappearing from my studio. Your behavior is outrageous, regardless of whatever noble spin you may try to put on your motive.”

Had I never before met Sebastian, I would have been taken in by the perfectly poignant look of remorse on his face. His eyes, half-closed and heavy-lidded, drooped. His lips pressed together. He wrung his hands. “Any amends I attempt to make would not be enough. Not even a decent beginning.”

“You’re right on that count,” Colin said.

With a beautifully elegant and dramatic flair, Sebastian whisked a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his brow. “Motive may be irrelevant, but I assure you, Monsieur Monet, my heart, my soul, want nothing more than to see your work in the hands of those who appreciate it.”

“Then perhaps you should change your line of work, Monsieur Capet,” Monet said. “Become an art dealer instead of a thief.”

“An excellent suggestion, in theory,” Sebastian said. “And I’ve taken the first step towards following your advice.”

Colin coughed and I rolled my eyes.

“Yes. Well.” Sebastian waved us off with a flutter of his handkerchief.

“I have a note from Mr. Markham, the gentleman who received the painting,” I said, handing a sealed letter to the artist, who opened it at once, read, and then laughed.

“The recipient of your so-called generosity is offering more than a fair price for the work,” Monet said. Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but the artist stopped him. “No, monsieur. Do not debase yourself by trying to convince me you negotiated the deal. It’s obvious Kallista is behind this. I see her hand in it bright as the sun.”

“Any admirer of Kallista’s sees her hand in all good things.” Sebastian stood and crossed the room to Monet. “Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”

Alice wrinkled her nose. “You, Monsieur Capet, want to reach a resolution with far too much ease.”

“Quite right, my dear,” Monet said. “But I’m in a conciliatory sort of mood and inclined to accept his disingenuous apology. What man wouldn’t do the same in the face of such happiness? Alice, you see, has at last agreed to be my wife.”

“Champagne!” Cécile cried. “There must be champagne at once!”

“This is the best sort of news,” Colin said. “When can we expect the wedding?”

“We were married three days ago,” Monet said. “I couldn’t risk giving her time to change her mind.” We all erupted, cheering and embracing them.

“I could not be happier for you both, mes amis,” Cécile said, kissing him on both cheeks.

“Merci,” Monet said, moving close to Sebastian. “One more misstep, sir, and you will live to regret it. None of my paintings shall disappear from any location because of a scheme of yours.”

“Bien sûr,” Sebastian said. “I give you my word. If I could just—”

“I think you should not push your luck,” I said.

“Some clarification, if I may,” Sebastian continued. “I swear on whatever power, being, person, etcetera, means the most to you that I shall never again extract one of your works from its proper home.”

“Proper home as defined by me, not you.” Monet’s voice was stern, but not without a hint of humor.

“Agreed,” Sebastian said. “But I cannot tell you that I shall curtail all my…industry.”

“You will not take any painting done by my fellow Impressionists.”

Sebastian sighed. “Do you not want me to own anything pretty?”

“You might try buying as a manner of acquisition,” I said.

“How pedestrian,” Sebastian said. “Really, Kallista, you disappoint me.”

Alice disappeared and then returned, carrying a tray laden with two bottles of champagne and six flutes. “Finish this negotiation, my darling husband, and let us turn our attention to celebration.” She then opened the bottle and poured glasses for Cécile, herself, and me, leaving the other glasses empty. “You’ll get none until you’re done with this ridiculous haggling,” she said.

I accepted a glass from her. “I wish you years of happiness,” I said. We toasted, then left the men to a discussion of whether or not Manet, whose use of black deviated from the technique of the other Impressionists, should be included in Sebastian’s forbidden group. Making our way through a bright yellow dining room, we stepped into the kitchen whose walls were lined with stunning blue and white Limoges tiles. Copper pans shone, hanging from their racks, and tall windows thrust open over the garden, a sweet, floral fragrance wafting in through them. Alice gave a series of instructions to the servants, then grabbed a platter laden with cheeses—Camembert and Neufchatel amongst others, along with a crusty baguette—and stepped through a door back outside.

“You have found heaven here, I think,” Cécile said, taking a seat at a rough but welcoming table in a pleasantly shaded grove. The day could not have been more beautiful, a handful of puffy clouds dotting the cerulean sky. “Although I do not think I myself could be so far from Paris.”

“Not you, Cécile,” Alice said, breaking off a piece of the bread and cutting into the soft cheese. “But my dear Claude is miserable when he’s not here. I do hope you can stay with us a few days, at least. There’s so much on which we need to catch up.”

“If I can convince Kallista and her dashing husband to remove poor Monsieur Capet without me, I could be persuaded,” she said.

“That could be arranged.” I grinned. “I can’t thank you enough, Alice, for being so generous in your forgiveness of him.”

“It is nothing,” Alice said, waving her hand. “The painting is returned—and purchased—and all can be forgot. But I am interested in this friend of yours. He reminds me very much of a gentleman my husband painted years ago. Monsieur…. Vasseur, I believe was his name.”

“Vasseur?” I asked, springing to attention.

“It’s his eyes,” Alice said, smiling at the serving girl who’d followed us outside with the rest of the champagne and was now refilling our glasses. “I’ve never seen any that color. Is it possible your intrepid acquaintance goes by more than one name? Perhaps to disguise his nefarious activities?”

“Surely Monet would have recognized him?” Cécile asked.

“Not necessarily,” Alice said. “The portrait was done ages ago. Even before we’d come to Giverny. But we can ask him.”

When the men joined us sometime later, I raised the issue at once.

“Him?” Monet was incredulous. “Absolutely not.”