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“When this one was barely five we took the children to Firenze, and she could not get enough of Medusa’s head at the Uffizi. And Judith and Holofernes! Children love such gruesome tales.” Everyone laughed. I was invisible again. Birch caught my eye for the briefest of seconds and winked. I felt myself flush gratefully.
    After the president’s welcome toast, and the passed hors d’oeuvres, and the birthday cupcakes frosted with buttercream that matched my dress, after Ev made a little speech about how the college had made her feel so at home, and that she hoped the Degas would live happily at the museum for many years to come, Birch raised a glass, garnering the room’s attention.
    “It has been the Winslow tradition,” he began, as though we were all part of his family, “for each of the children, upon reaching eighteen, to donate a painting to an institution of his or her choice. My sons chose the Metropolitan Museum. My daughter chose a former women’s college.” This was met with boisterous laughter. Birch tipped his glass toward the president in rhetorical apology. He cleared his throat as a wry smile faded from his lips. “Perhaps the tradition sprang from wanting to give each child a healthy deduction on their first tax return”—again, he was met with laughter—“but its true spirit lies in a desire to teach, through practice, that we can never truly own what matters. Land, art, even, heartbreaking as it is to let go, a great work of art. The Winslows embody philanthropy.
Phila
, love.
Anthro
, man. Love of man, love of others.” With that, he turned to Ev and raised his champagne. “We love you, Ev. Remember: we give not because we can, but because we must.”

CHAPTER THREE
The Invitation
    O ne too many glasses of champagne, one too few canapés, and an hour later, the overheated room was swimming. I needed air, water, something, or I felt sure that my ankles—bowing under my body’s pressure upon the thin, pointed pair of heels Ev had insisted I borrow—would blow. “I’ll be back,” I whispered as she nodded numbly at a trustee’s story about a failed trip to Cancún. I teetered down the long, glass-covered walkway leading into the gothic wing of the museum. In the bathroom, I splashed tepid water on my face. Only then did I remember I had makeup on. But it was too late; the wetness had already wreaked havoc—smeared lips, raccoon eyes. I pumped down paper towels and scrubbed at my face until I looked like I’d slept on a park bench, but not actively insane. It didn’t matter anyway—we were just going back to the dorm. Perhaps we’d order pizza.
    I traipsed back up the hallway, a woman made new with the promise of pajamas and pepperoni. I was surprised to discover the great room already empty—save the violinist packing up her instrument and the waiters breaking down the naked banquet tables. Ev, the president, Birch, Tilde—all of them were gone.
    “Excuse me,” I said to one of the waiters, “did you see where they went?”
    His eyebrow ring caught in the light as he raised his brows in a “why should I care” I recognized from my own nights working late at the cleaner’s. I went to the ladies’ room and peeked under the bathroom stalls. Tears began to sting my eyes, but I fought against them. Ridiculous. Ev was probably headed home to find me.
    “Goodness, dear,” the curator tsked when she caught me in there. “The museum is closed.” Had Ev been by my side, she wouldn’t have said it, and I wouldn’t have quickened my departure. I plucked my lonely coat from the metal rack in the foyer, and plunged out into the cold.
    There, in sight of the double doors, were Ev and her mother, their backs to me. “Ev!” I called. She did not turn my way. The wind, surely, had carried off my voice. So I approached, concentrating on my steps so as not to twist an ankle. “Ev,” I said when I was close. “There you are. I was looking for you.”
    Tilde snapped her head up at