Olivia’s words struck like a blade of ice, straight into the softest part of my chest.
The air in the studio thickened. The judges’ gazes shifted between me, Olivia, and Larson—probing, skeptical.
I gripped the edge of my board so hard my nails dug into the wood.
In another life, that unfinished attic sketch I had hidden away did resemble Larson’s Attic in Evening Breeze from thirty years ago. But it was only a half-done study I had secretly copied from outside his window when I was eighteen. No one had ever seen it. How could Olivia know?
Larson stepped forward, the fountain pen at his shirt pocket flashing cold light.
I looked up at him, the way I had countless times by his hospital bed in another life, waiting for him to speak a word of truth.
But his eyes dropped to my painting instead. His voice was calm, flat.
“Thirty years ago, Attic in Evening Breeze was exhibited. The original now rests in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Its composition does bear similarities to this one.”
“Professor!” The cry ripped from my throat. “You know…”
You know it was my work, you know I never copied.
But before I could finish, Olivia cut me off:
“Emily, even Professor Larson admits it. Don’t be so stubborn. Maybe you did peek at his work years ago and now you’re recycling it under a new name.”
She lifted her hand to fix her hair. The silver bracelet caught the light, stabbing my eyes. In another life, she had worn that same bracelet when she swapped my pigments, laughing, “Mrs. Teacher is old, her eyes must be failing.”
The judges whispered among themselves. Someone had already pulled up a photo of Attic in Evening Breeze on their phone.
I stared at Larson’s profile. His jaw was tight, yet he never looked at me.
And suddenly, I saw him again—eighty-nine, frail on his deathbed, whispering, “Susan’s paintings are so good.” The image overlapped with this silent man before me.
Something clogged in my chest, choking me. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes.
“I did not plagiarize,” I said firmly, though my voice trembled. “The attic in Morning Light in Ink is my grandmother’s old house in Vermont. I grew up there. The crack in the pot, the exact positions of the windows, even the corn husks under the eaves—I painted them from memory. If you don’t believe me, I can paint her courtyard right now, and it will be nothing like Attic in Evening Breeze.”
One of the older judges with glasses nodded.
“Very well. We’ll give you two hours. Show us.”
Olivia’s expression flickered, but she forced a smile.
“Perfect. That way no one can say we wronged her.”
Larson turned and left the studio. Just before he stepped out, his eyes met mine—laden with guilt, struggle, and something I had never seen before: pain.
“Emily, you’ll do great!” Sophia squeezed my hand.
I managed a weak smile and spread fresh paper across the board. But my hand shook around the charcoal pencil.
Why wouldn’t Larson help me? He knew the truth. Why admit the similarity?
For two hours I drew on instinct alone.
The stone walls of my grandmother’s house, the oak tree in the corner of the yard, the blue dress drying on the windowsill—all emerged line by line.
By the time the sun shifted from the studio window and dusk fell, I finally put down the pencil.
The judges gathered. The elder one pointed at the small stone table beneath the oak.
“These carvings are unusual. That’s the character ‘A,’ isn’t it? For Amy?”
