Behind her, a velvet curtain fell away, revealing L’Ultime .

“No,” she said, loud enough for the room to hear. “It’s not for sale. Tomorrow, it goes to the Musée d’Orsay. It belongs to the girls who are hiding in oversized coats right now, afraid of their own shadows.”

“I was an object,” she corrected gently. “A beautiful, celebrated object. But an object nonetheless.”