Page 18 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

Paul frowned. “Strange phrase. I can’t recall. Blanc kept ample records but much of the correspondence withLýhad been burned after his death. Part of his will, it seems.”

“Just the correspondence withLý?”

“Yes.”

The aberration hummed inside of Vivi like a struck tuning fork. She pressed her fists onto her knees, energized. “Even so, there might be something in Blanc’s archives. Even the smallest mention ofLýmight help me.”

“Inwhat? You’re only telling me half the story.”

“Let me look at Blanc’s letters.”

He laughed uproariously, nearly upsetting his coffee. “You’re an audacious one, aren’t you, ViviNguy?n? Would you also like to examine the contents of my underwear drawer?”

“I—no.”

“Why should I share my life’s work with you?”

She waited until his amusement abated, then lifted the envelope. For a moment, she held it against her chest. Inside was the letter from 1945, along with the sketch. Calla would not want her to share either with a stranger. She would say that these artifacts belonged to the family, heirlooms that no one could take away from them. But Calla wasn’t there.

Vivi handed the envelope to Paul and watched his eyes widen as he retrieved the letter. Studied the handwriting. Then the sketch. His hands trembled as he held each.

“I think both are by K. P.Lý,” she said. “Actually, I’m sure of it.”

“Why?”

“The letter is in Vietnamese. From what I can tell, the handwriting matches his signature. I’d need a larger sample to be certain. And look at the date. Two years after he disappeared.”

Paul scanned the page, mumbling to himself as he translated from Vietnamese to English. “‘The art is all that is left’…”

Doggedly, Vivi continued. “Plus, look at the sketch, really look at it—the linework isLý’s. You must agree.”

“I mustn’t agree to anything, especially not some half-baked theory. Anyone could doodle anything on a piece of paper. Scrawl some cryptic pronouncements and call it a long-lost letter.”

“No,” Vivi said, stubborn. “These are both authentic. I’d bet my career on it.”

He huffed out a noise of derision. “You might have done just that. How did you get them?”

“My father had them. This was why he was contacting you.”

“He thought thatLýpainted your ancestor or something?”

“I don’t know. He died before he shared any of this with us. I was hoping you could help.”

Paul bit a nail as he pondered. Then, with a leap from his chair, he ran to his computer and pulled up a scan from his files. He swiveled the screen to face her and placedLý’s letter next to it.

In an instant, she recognized the same letterforms between the two documents. Squat bowls, long descenders, and gestural accent marks. If a script could have a sense of expansiveness, of languor and musicality, this did. The ink waltzed on the page. While the letter Calla had found was written in Vietnamese, Paul’s scanned document had been composed in French. But both were written by the same hand.

Was it possible to experience déjà vu with someone you’d never met, an artist long dead? Or was déjà vu nothing more than a metaphysical extension of a wish? The desire for connection creates inevitability, maybe. It is a way of scumbling the past with the intentions of the present. She was afraid to break the spell in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked, indicating the screen.

“This is copy of a note thatLýsent to Blanc. One of the few that missed the fire.”

She read it aloud, translating as she went:

Emil—you’ll think me a fool. I’ve gone and left something at the Château des Miroirs, buried under the endless sun. I know we promised never to return to that cursed spot, but I’m allowed the indulgence of sentimentality now, aren’t I?

If you ever want to find me, know that I’m off to—