Chapter 5: Morning Light
The morning sun filtered through the white blinds of the kitchen, casting long, sharp stripes across the butcher-block island. The house was unnaturally quiet. Julian had spent the entire night in his second-floor study, the murmur of hushed phone calls leaking down through the heating vents until the early hours of dawn.
I stood by the sink, filling a kettle with water while Maya sat at the kitchen table, spreading out the cream envelope's contents once again. The original sketches looked stark and vulnerable under the harsh daylight, far removed from the glittering glamour of the hotel ballroom.
A sharp knock at the front door broke the morning silence.
Maya looked up, her eyes widening slightly. "Are we expecting someone?"
"No," I said, setting the kettle down.
The knock came again, firmer this time. Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, I walked down the short hallway toward the entryway, my bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. Through the frosted glass panel of the front door, I could make out the silhouette of a tall figure holding a leather portfolio case.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Standing on the porch was Arthur Vance, the senior curator of the regional design foundation and one of Julian’s closest professional allies. He wore a tailored gray wool overcoat, his silver hair neatly brushed, but his expression was entirely devoid of its usual warm charm.
"Clara," Arthur said, his voice measured and professional. He didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped past me into the foyer, his sharp eyes taking in the quiet interior of the house. "I'm sorry to drop by unannounced, but my phone has been ringing since six o'clock this morning from journalists who were at the gala last night."
I closed the door slowly, turning to face him in the narrow hallway. "I assumed they would call someone, Arthur. Did Julian send you?"
"Julian isn't answering his phone," Arthur replied, setting his leather briefcase down on the mahogany side table. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded section of a digital news blog printout, holding it out toward me. The headline blazed in bold black letters: Family Feud on the Runway: Questions Arise Over Anniversary Masterpiece Origins.
"He's trying to manage the press rollout from his office," I said, looking down at the paper without touching it. "He'll call it a family misunderstanding by noon."
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"It won't work this time, Clara," Arthur said quietly, stepping closer. His eyes softened, carrying a hint of genuine fatigue. "I saw the dress up close last night before the lights went down. The embroidery technique on that bluebird... I haven't seen that specific stitch since your mother’s retrospective back in the nineties. Everyone in the council assumed she passed away leaving no active portfolio."
"She didn't leave no portfolio, Arthur," I said, my voice steady as I met his gaze. "Julian just made sure nobody ever looked inside it."
