Chapter 15 The Master and the Student
The Master and the Student
The heavy entrance door to Francesca’s villa swung open—dark wood, iron-studded, like something out of a forgotten century. Had it always creaked like it was catching you mid-crime?
Lucia shifted on her feet. The late-afternoon sun pressed on her back like a warning. Next to her, Penelope stood tall and still, her expression an impassive mask.
“Good afternoon, Lucy,” Francesca addressed her, though her gaze immediately zeroed in on Penelope. “Dr. Blackwell. It’s good to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Ms. Greco.”
“Please, call me Francesca.”
“Only if you call me Penelope.”
Lucia’s gaze darted between them. The tension crackled, cool and sharp, dropping the temperature around them. Neither Francesca nor Penelope seemed fazed by the other, and their silent standoff had the air of a meeting between equals—both standing straight, neither flinching, neither yielding.
“Uh, could we maybe come inside?” Lucia asked. “I assume this meeting isn’t meant to happen on the front step?”
Francesca stepped back and gestured for them to enter.
They stepped into a hallway cool with marble and quiet as a museum. Francesca’s heels clicked across the floor as she led them to the living room—wide, vaulted, and sparse but unmistakably expensive.
Skye lounged on a leather couch, scrolling through her phone. She didn’t look up, but her smirk made clear she knew they were there.
Lucia stifled the urge to grab Penelope’s arm and drag her back outside.
“Hiya, Gracie,” Skye drawled.
Lucia turned to Francesca. “Was it necessary for her to be here, too?”
“What we have to discuss impacts Skye as well. Jules was supposed to be here, too, but she couldn’t make it. Sit down.”
Lucky Jules.
They took their seats—Lucia beside Penelope, Francesca opposite, Skye to the side, watching like a cat about to pounce.
The leather creaked under Lucia’s tense posture.
“I heard you have questions?”
Penelope held Francesca’s gaze, sitting so straight, it made Lucia’s own back ache. “What is your plan for the Meridian?”
“Why do you assume there is a plan?”
“You didn’t test me with your forgeries for fun.”
Francesca leaned forward. “Maybe we just wanted to learn more about the players in town.”
“I’ve worked at the Meridian for a little over a year, so you’ve had plenty of time to test me. And when you consider the changes to our procedures, the upcoming ball?” Penelope’s tone turned cool. “The timing is a little too convenient.”
“Why would we trust you with anything?” Skye asked. “We’re not lovesick fools like Gracie.”
Lucia stiffened, her hands curling into fists against her knees.
Penelope didn’t even glance at Skye. “Then why did you ask me to come here?”
“Did we?” Francesca asked, her tone soft, benign, yet Lucia’s heart thudded against her ribs.
“Not in so many words, but given your need for me, I’m sure I was merely faster,” Penelope said, still holding Francesca’s steely gaze.
“What do you envision we need from you?” Francesca asked.
“That’s what I want to know. You don’t need me to sign off on the Bellini; our tests confirmed Lucia’s painting as genuine, and after visiting Lucia’s art studio, I see that the Alessi was only caught because you wanted it to be. So, again, what do you want from me?”
“You care about art, don’t you?”
“Is that a real question?” Penelope asked.
“And you care about your father, about what happened to him?”
Penelope visibly clenched her jaw. Lucia felt the tension roll off her like heat—sharp, bitter.
“We believe that…we might be in a position to help each other reach our goals.” Francesca folded one leg over the other.
“How convenient. What is my goal?”
“Revenge? Justice? I’m not particularly invested in the difference in this case, but we have a common enemy.”
“Varnelli. How is she your enemy?” Penelope asked.
“The Madonna in Red—”
“Don’t tell me that’s a fake, too!” Penelope looked at Lucia. “If so, you didn’t paint it. But no. I’ve seen it a hundred times. It’s real.”
“It is. However, we have reason to believe that Varnelli plans to steal it.”
“She loaned it to the Meridian. She has no reason to steal her own property.”
“Yes, but haven’t you found some…inconsistencies with its records?”
“How do you know that?”
Francesca held Penelope’s gaze. “We heard noise about Varnelli trying to end the loan contract with the Meridian early. Now why would she do that?”
“Because she gets off on power?”
Francesca cringed. “Varnelli is a bit more complex than that. She stole the painting from me—along with the original provenance papers. She might’ve destroyed them to erase the link to me or kept them as leverage.
Either way, I don’t have them anymore.” She sighed.
“Questionable paperwork never mattered while the Madonna stayed hidden. But now that it’s on public display, those cracks could show.
Wanting to end the loan early? That’s her trying to contain the damage. ”
“What happens now?” Penelope asked.
“Now she wants it back before anyone can notice—and she can’t have it!”
Penelope startled. “You sound like a kindergartner who got their favorite toy stolen.”
“Something like that.” Francesca pressed her lips into a tight line.
“The Madonna in Red belonged to my family for over four generations. My great-great-grandfather acquired it in 1871. Valentina took it over twenty-five years ago, hid it for most of that time, and only loaned it to the Meridian to taunt me.”
Penelope’s eyebrows rose. “How convenient.”
“It’s true.” Francesca’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I’m assuming going to the police is not part of your natural instinct.”
“No.”
“So how do you plan on preventing Valentina from stealing the painting?”
“We steal it first,” Lucia blurted out, wincing, wishing she could drag the words back.
Francesca shot her a long-suffering look, while Penelope’s gaze snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
Lucia rubbed the back of her neck.
“What Gracie here is saying—”
“Her name is Lucia,” Penelope snapped.
Skye’s pale skin turned beet red. “Right. Anyway, what Lucia’s saying is: is it really stealing if we’re only getting Francesca’s property back? Isn’t that righting an injustice or something like that?”
“That assumes I believe your story. Maybe you’re telling me what you think I need to hear to cooperate. Either way, you still haven’t told me what role you expect me to play.” Penelope’s gaze turned flinty. “I’m not breaking any laws for you.”
“To be honest, we never considered a role for you, not until Lucia…let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.”
“She could hardly know about my unique way of perceiving art,” Penelope said.
Francesca waved her off. “Yes, yes. No need to defend her. We won’t throw her to the wolves.”
“Yet,” Skye added.
“Oh, give it a rest,” Lucia said. “Should we show her?” she addressed Francesca, who nodded after a short moment.
“Come with me?” Lucia glanced at Penelope, who rose.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t accompany the lovebirds?” Skye fake whispered.
Francesca ignored her.
“Grow up,” Lucia hissed before leading Penelope to the gallery room.
The room was hushed and cool, its cream walls lined with a few select paintings—some real, some not so much. Soft spotlights bathed the space in a quiet reverence. A single easel stood against the far wall, shrouded in drape like a secret waiting to be exposed.
Lucia hesitated with her hand on the cloth, as if unveiling it would commit her to something irreversible.
“We’re not planning just to steal it, given we’re not interested in a manhunt or a news story.
Francesca wants her painting back, quietly, but if Varnelli gets her greedy hands on it first, she fears it’ll be lost forever. ”
She removed the cover. “We’ll take the original and leave my version behind. So to the world, nothing happened.”
Penelope gasped, drawing closer to the forged Madonna in Red. She shook her head. “I expected this, but not like that.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Penelope closed her eyes, opened them again. She stepped to the side, tilted her head, and kept closing and opening her eyes.
“Pen?”
Penelope’s gaze snapped toward her. Her lips parted.
“What?”
“This is almost perfect.”
Lucia’s eyebrows furrowed. “Uh…thanks?”
“No, you don’t get it. With all your other pieces, it was easy to see your signature, well, the painter’s signature, as I didn’t know it was you at first. Despite your Bellini being skillfully done, it was still apparent to me that it wasn’t a true Bellini. Even more so with your Alessi.
“But this here?” She pointed at the painting. “I have to really look to see it. Your channeling of Varotti is impressive. It’s interesting—you handle the master better than the pupil.”
“Oh.” Lucia’s shoulders fell. “Thanks,” she muttered, then grimaced. It came out like she’d failed a test she didn’t know she was taking.
“That wasn’t an insult. Bellini might be more famous than his mentor, but I’ve always found Varotti’s few surviving pieces more complex.”
“It’s fine. Forget it.”
“No, tell me. What is it?”
Lucia sighed. She was being silly. What did it even matter? The painting was good—apparently good enough. But somehow, that felt hollow. She didn’t reply, still caught between finding the right words and wondering if she should say anything at all.
“Lucia? Did I hurt your feelings somehow?”
“No, of course not. I just…You said the best forgers make the worst artists, and…for a forgery to succeed, it has to lack a soul.” She drew a foot along the hardwood floor. “It’s silly. Let’s head back to the others.”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps what I said is true for ordinary artists or forgers.”
“You think it’s an artistic expression now?”
Penelope shrugged. “Who knows? Not like I’m the arbiter on what constitutes art.”
Lucia gave a shaky laugh.
“Either way, my point is, you… You are anything but ordinary.”
Lucia’s breath hitched and her mind reeled. How she’d longed to hear such words, to have someone say them. And while it filled her with lightness, with warmth, it scared her more than anything else.
It wasn’t validation she feared; it was what came after.
If someone saw her like this, did that mean they put her on a pedestal? What happened if she fell down? Given everything standing between them, Lucia feared there might not be another outcome. And with Penelope looking at her like that, a fall seemed inevitable.