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Angela and Corin arrived at the museum right on time for the exhibition’s seven o’clock opening, taking an elevator to the third-floor gallery. It was a large room with spotless plaster walls, hardwood floors, and decorative trim molding. The reception had just started, but there was already a sizeable crowd.

The gallery walls were lined with thirty large portraits rendered in mid-relief wood carvings, each painted with tempera. Angela and Corin perused the gallery at a leisurely tempo, stopping to admire each piece. The figures in the relief carvings were depicted with such elegant realism, evoking a classical aesthetic from the Renaissance era, but Angela was unfamiliar with the subjects of these portraits. In her college studies, she’d learned to identify the various motifs and icons in Renaissance art, such as Mary Magdalene’s alabastron or the dove representing the Holy Spirit. But there were no identifiable icons in these images.

“Who are you?” Angela whispered, scrutinizing the portrait of a woman with dark-brown eyes, curly blond hair, and a solemn expression. She wore a black dress with a white turned-down collar, reminiscent of early 17^th-century fashion.

Corin pointed to the plaque below the image. “It says here that her name is Lydia Gold.”

“Doesn’t tell us a lot, does it?”

“Regardless, it’s a welcome respite from those modern artists,” Corin harrumphed. “Everything has to be a statement with them. No one appreciates simple artistic skill or visual narrative anymore. No, now it’s all about spectacle and ostentatious declarations.” He noticed Angela covering her mouth, trying to hide her grin. “I know, I’m an old fuddy-duddy.”

Angela hugged Corin’s arm. “You’re the salt of the earth, Uncle Corin.”

“Corin Lacroix?” someone behind them called out. “I thought that was you.” They turned to the voice and found a handsome fellow in a brown business suit approaching. Angela didn’t recognize him at first—he’d grown taller and more robust since she last saw him—but then she observed the familiar smugness in Stephen’s callous gray eyes. Angela suppressed a groan.

“Oh, Stephen Briar.” Corin shook the man’s hand. “What a pleasure this is. How are your parents? It feels like it’s been ages since I last saw them.”

“They’re doing well,” Stephen said with a toothy grin—Angela somehow found Corin’s fangs less intimidating. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? I think the last time we were all together was Thanksgiving dinner a few years back?”

Corin gestured to Angela. “You remember my niece, don’t you?”

“I do.” Stephen held his hand out to Angela. “It’s good to see you again, Angie.”

Angela was not fond of that nickname, but she forced a smile. “It’s nice to see you too, Stephen.” She couldn’t think of a polite way to decline his handshake and accepted it with teeth clenched. She winced, her senses engulfed by Stephen’s nature. His desire burned through Angela’s limbs, and she locked her knees against the arousal Stephen was unknowingly projecting and manifesting within Angela. His sense of entitlement saturated her flesh, and Angela couldn’t stop herself from yanking her hand away.

Corin watched the exchange with bewilderment. “Angela, is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Angela replied, blushing. “Sorry Stephen, I … um, hurt my wrist.”

“Guess I don’t know my own strength,” Stephen laughed.

“So what have you been up to?” Angela asked, trying to distract from the awkward moment.

Corin regarded Angela with concern. “Eh … yes, Stephen. Tell us what you’ve been doing lately. If memory serves, you were pursuing a master’s degree in museum education.”

Stephen nodded. “I finished my degree last spring, and I’m working with the historical society now.”

“Well now, congratulations.”

Stephen bowed his head in false modesty. “Thanks. Oh, did either of you meet the artist?” Corin and Angela shook their heads. “I’ve been keeping my eye out, but I don’t think he’s here yet.” He glanced at a nearby portrait. “To be honest, I find his work too conventional.”

Corin frowned. “Conventional?”

Stephen waved a dismissive hand at the relief carvings. “Don’t get me wrong, they are pretty and all, but real art should be about fresh concepts or challenging mainstream ideas. I mean, what statement is this Blair fellow trying to make?”

Angela caught her uncle rolling his eyes and gave him a playful nudge.

“Steve,” a woman across the room called, gesturing for Stephen to join her group. She had a bronze complexion, short dark-brown hair, and wore a maroon pantsuit. She appeared distressed but gave her companions an unconvincing smile when one of them spoke to her.

“It appears you’re being summoned,” Corin noted.

Stephen grinned sheepishly. “That would be my date, Violette.”

“Is she okay?” Angela asked.

“Oh, she’s fine. I just introduced her to some friends of mine, and she gets nervous around new people.”

“Steve,” Violette repeated a little louder, giving him an imploring look.

Stephen rolled his eyes. “I better get back over there, but the three of us should catch up sometime.” He turned on his heel and returned to his group.

Corin leaned in closer to Angela. “I assume he didn’t really hurt your hand. What did you channel?”

“It’s nothing.” Angela rubbed her fingers, which still prickled from Stephen’s touch.

“Nothing? You pulled your hand away like something bit you.”

“I overreacted. Stephen’s just a hard person to empathize with. You remember what he was like when we were younger?”

“I suppose.” Corin cast Stephen a dubious look. “I recall he used to pick on you and Honorato when you were all children, but I had hoped he’d become more agreeable since then.”

Angela squeezed his arm. “It’s not a big deal. I know you like Stephen’s parents, and I don’t want to stop you from reconnecting with them just because some old school bully has a crush on me.”

Corin tapped his cane in an assertive gesture. “Nonsense, I won’t have you around anyone who makes you uncomfortable.” He then blinked in surprise. “He has a crush on you?”

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