Mira's Way

by Amy Maroney

  23

  Summer, 1505

  Abbey of Camon, France

  Mira

  The days blurred together into one long, nauseating ordeal. Arnaud walked alongside the mule from dawn to dusk while Mira slumped in the saddle, staring blankly ahead. The clop of the mule’s hooves blended with the sound of crickets chorusing on the roadside. She felt hot, then cold, then hot again. A searing pain throbbed in her head. The thought of food made her gag. And the tears came without warning, roiling up in her chest and spilling out.

  Mostly she closed her eyes, shutting out the bright sunlight, wishing for a mantle of fog to descend, to hide her from the world, to cocoon her in layers of soft gray oblivion.

  Arnaud said it was a sickness brought on by sorrow, and only time would mend it.

  They plodded past the jutting branches of pine trees and the tall spires of junipers, past rolling fields of lavender, flax, barley, and millet. Past winding rivers, market towns on hillsides, the occasional manor house or farm. They saw grain merchants driving oxcarts; they fell in with mule trains bound for points west and north; they lodged in farmhouses and inns along the roadside.

  Mira caught herself straining for the sound of Rose’s laughter, the sudden infectious joy of it rippling in her ears. Her sweet round face, her little mouth curved in an ‘o’ of surprise or pulled wide in a radiant grin. The life, the promise, the energy contained in that sturdy body, had all vanished.

  She was simply gone.

  One night Arnaud paid a farmer’s wife to let them sleep in a cottage on the edge of a field that was marked with deep furrows from the plow but had never been planted. Arnaud fell asleep immediately on the thin woolen pallet lent to them by the farmer’s wife. Mira could not get comfortable.

  She went to the small window overlooking the field and pushed open the shutter, breathing in cool evening air that smelled of earth and straw. A three-quarter moon sent a wash of silvery light over the field, illuminating a lone oak that stood at its center. Under the oak was a tall stone reminiscent of the granite markers the mountain people erected in summer grazing meadows.

  Mira stared at the furrows of soil radiating from the tree, wondering why the field had never been planted. Perhaps the seed stock had been plundered by rodents. Perhaps a disease had taken root in the soil. She glanced at the stone again. Perhaps the farmer met with some disaster after he carved those long gashes in the soil—and that was his tombstone.

  She shuddered, imagining Deedit in her unmarked grave outside the walls of Toulouse. Cagots did not merit coffins or tombstones. No, Deedit was just one of a jumble of bodies in an earthen hole, a reeking scar that was dug up and filled in without end. At least Rose, poor sweet Rose, rested in a box of solid wood.

  Mira backed away from the window, sank to her knees, curled up on the pallet next to Arnaud. He reached out sleepily and held her in silence. Tears slid down her cheeks. Desperately she tried to regulate her breathing, to regain control. She wondered if she would ever recover from her grief. Was she now doomed to twist the sight of every good thing in this world into something grim?

  The woman she used to be was apparently gone, lost in the lavender fields, still watching over Rose. This shell of a person was some other Mira. She felt sorry for Arnaud. He was mourning the loss of Rose, too, and now he was saddled with a weeping, useless wife who could no longer sleep or eat, whose sound mind had deserted her somewhere between the curving shores of the Mediterranean Sea and the lavender fields of the Valley of Maury.

  One morning after a few hours on the road, they came upon a little rise. A long, narrow valley opened up before them. A high-walled structure of dun-colored rock built atop a small hill was visible at the far end of the valley.

  “This is the place. Camon. We’ll stay until you’re recovered,” Arnaud promised. “And when you’re ready, we’ll follow the pilgrim’s way west.”

  She said nothing, just watched the shimmering green fields waver in the sunlight and listened to the call of songbirds in shrubs alongside the lane. At the base of the hill where the abbey stood, the road forked. The more northerly route was marked with a stone bearing the scallop shell symbol of the pilgrim’s way.

  “See, Mira?” Arnaud pointed at the marker. “That’s how we’ll go to Bayonne. We’ll follow the shells and stars all the way to the sea.”

  Mira looked absently for a moment in the direction he indicated, then bowed her head.

  When they reached the abbey’s tall iron gates, she slumped in the saddle while Arnaud talked in low tones with the gatekeeper, her eyes fixed on a tiny yellow and black bird that busied itself building a nest in the stone wall.

  In the convent’s infirmary, several elderly women lay on straw-filled pallets. Only one, whose breath was labored and who periodically unleashed an ominous gurgling cough, seemed gravely ill.

  Mira lay with her eyes closed while a young woman in a novice’s habit and veil washed her body tenderly with lavender water, then dressed her in a rough, clean flax shift and tucked a wool blanket over her.

  “When was the last time you bled?” the woman asked quietly.

  Mira thought. It had been in Perpignan, soon after they arrived.

  The woman laid a hand on Mira’s belly and smiled.

  “I think it is no illness you suffer from,” she said.

  The realization came over Mira like a thunderclap. Why her ill feeling never left, why she had no appetite, why she felt such bone-crushing fatigue—all the symptoms pointed to one obvious explanation. Another life grew within her.

  The image of Rose’s face came to her then. She took a long breath. Her exhalation came out with a raw, ragged sob. The woman’s eyes grew round and she withdrew her hand.

  Mira turned her head to the wall. This was what she had yearned for since she wed Arnaud. But all she could think of was little Rose. No baby could replace her. The grief she carried was like a stone slung around her neck. It would dangle there, pressing against her heart, for the rest of her days.

  The woman scraped back her stool.

  “Please.” Mira gathered herself, wiped the tears from her eyes. “Do not inform my husband. I wish to tell him myself. We only lately lost a child, you see. It is a shock. It is all of it a shock.”

  A look of understanding passed between them.

  “As you wish. Sleep now, and in the morning I will have you taken to a room of your own in the convent dormitory. There is no point having you stay on amongst the ill if your condition is a happy one, but a rest from the attentions of your husband will also do you good. He will be comfortable in the guesthouse. We shall tell him you are recovering well and simply in need of quiet.”

  When she had gone, Mira regarded a faded fresco that adorned the opposite wall. The paint had peeled away in spots and soot had darkened much of it, but the overall composition was still intact. She went through a mental list of the materials one would need to restore it. Vermillion, charcoal dust, yellow ochre, iris flower, moss, white lead, lapis lazuli.

  Her eyelids fluttered. Linseed oil, she thought. Gold dust. Brushes made of marten hair. A sudden memory of Elena and their days spent gathering herbs and plants rushed back to her. She caught hold of it, forcing her grief aside, recalling tiny details like the twitch of Elena’s long black braid as she strode through meadow grasses in search of asters and lilies, the scent of woodsmoke from the fires she built under Elena’s watchful eyes, the digging stick Elena carried to prod roots and tubers from the soil.

  The dull leaden feeling that had pinned her to the earth for days eased. A curious sensation of lightness overcame her. Hands cupping her belly, her mind transfixed by the memory of pouring and mixing and scraping and brushing, by the mingling scents of oil and oak and minerals and plants, Mira drifted out of consciousness.

  24

  May, 2016

  Bordeaux, France

  Zar
i

  Zari and Laurence stood together in the dim light just offstage, waiting for Zari’s turn at the podium. The academic who was speaking, an Italian whose expertise on early Renaissance Florentine painters was unparalleled, gave his closing remarks. Zari took a deep breath, fighting off the butterflies that batted against her rib cage, desperate for air. She had not slept at all after speaking to Hana and Wil. A sick feeling had taken root in her belly. The thought of facing an audience normally inspired her, but right now it filled her with dread.

  “You need some color.” Laurence pulled a burnt-orange silk scarf from her handbag and, stepping forward, knotted it expertly around Zari’s throat. She smiled. “Good. You are wearing my necklace.”

  Since Toulouse, Zari had not removed the scallop shell necklace that Laurence had gifted her last summer. This morning, after some hesitation, she also slipped on the matching shell earrings Wil gave her at Christmas.

  Zari forced a smile. “I’m afraid to take it off now. I need all the luck I can get.”

  Laurence reached out and took her hands. “You will get through this,” she said in a fierce low voice. “There is nothing you can do about Filip or Wil at this moment. You are here for Mira.”

  Zari squeezed Laurence’s hands, smiling her gratitude. Then her mobile began buzzing in her pocket. She fished for it, hoping it was Wil. But it was Gus. She pressed ‘decline.’ Gus’s latest report on the antics of her niece and nephew could wait.

  The Italian professor finished his presentation. A few questions were posed and answered. Polite applause filled the auditorium.

  It was time.

  Zari gathered her things and headed to the stage. Though she normally enjoyed giving presentations, today she was stricken with exhaustion, heartache, and worry. She wondered how she would ever stumble through this.

  Behind the podium, Zari ran her eyes over the assembled crowd, quailing for a moment. A tremor began to flicker in her left knee. Then she took a long breath, drew herself up, felt energy coiling in the muscles along her spine. She could almost hear her mother’s voice: Channel your courage, Zari.

  She introduced herself, injecting each word with as much power as she could muster. The atmosphere in the room grew charged with anticipation. Reassured by the confidence she was projecting, Zari began to relax.

  One by one she pulled up the slides showing all the evidence of Mira’s existence: the portraits, the mortuary roll, the prayer books, the underdrawings, the carvings from the cave in Aragón. The Oto trademark that was identical to the medallion around the waist of the woman in the Fontbroke College portrait; the ornate design that appeared on Carlo Sacazar’s ring and also on the floor of his stone courtyard. And finally, the pages from the Toulouse notary’s books. When the slide showing the translation of the second agreement appeared on the screen, Zari read it aloud, her voice clear and strong.

  “‘I, Miramonde de Oto, at the wish and consent of the two of us together, bestow myself in labor and in my works to you, Lord Esteven de Vernier, merchant and lord of Toulouse, to produce portraits of you and your family painted in oil, with fine colors and with blue. Said portraits will be painted on panels of dry, good quality Pyreneen oak constructed by my husband, Arnaud de Luz....’”

  The room was hushed as she finished reading the words.

  The next slide showed the signatures of Miramonde de Oto, Arnaud de Luz, Lord and Lady de Vernier, and the notary Jean Aubrey.

  Excited whispering rose up around the auditorium.

  Zari smiled and pressed her clicker again. She had saved the best for last.

  A sixteenth-century illustration appeared on the screen. It showed a noble couple, both dark-haired and dressed in various shades of blue.

  “These are Lord and Lady de Vernier, who contracted with Mira de Oto to paint their portraits. The archives of Toulouse contains an illustrated book showing the images of leading merchant families of the time.”

  Next, she clicked to the portrait of the woman in the blue dress.

  “This painting was recently sold at auction in London. I believe the subject is also Lady de Vernier. On the back of this painting appears the mark of Arnaud de Luz. His mark is on the back of Fontbroke College’s portrait of an unknown woman—and on the portrait of the merchant family owned by my colleague Laurence Ceravet.”

  Zari clicked to the last slide, which showed all three of the portraits side by side.

  “As you just learned, Arnaud de Luz was married to Mira de Oto. He made the panels for all of these portraits. The stylistic similarities between the works are obvious.”

  She turned to the audience, took a deep breath, and let it out. “The findings I have shared with you today all point to one conclusion: Mira de Oto was a masterful portrait painter of the early Renaissance who worked in what is now Southern France and northern Spain.”

  Zari fell silent.

  There was a pause, and then hands shot into the air all over the room.

  The questions flew at her in quick succession, and she answered them with the assurance of one who knows her subject intimately. The stress she had felt before the presentation melted away. She felt completely at ease. Until a familiar voice rang out.

  “Miss Durrell, you neglected to mention the one factor that not only complicates your conclusion but likely renders it impossible.”

  The crowd quieted again.

  Dotie Butterfield-Swinton. The feeling of joyful relief that had overcome Zari as soon as her presentation ended was replaced by dread. Her exhaustion flooded back. She put a hand on the podium for support.

  “The much more likely possibility,” he went on, “is that the paintings you refer to were made by Bartolomé Bermejo. At my side is the foremost European expert on Bermejo himself, and while his English is not up to the level of this discussion, let me say that he vehemently disagrees with Ms. Durrell’s theory.”

  The rotund, dark-haired man at Dotie’s left glowered at Zari.

  She felt her confidence waver. Then she caught sight of Laurence standing at the back of the room. Gratitude pricked her heart. Laurence had been right: this moment was for Mira, and Zari would be damned if anyone stole the spotlight from her.

  “Are you truly not going to address the issue of Bermejo?” Dotie needled her. “His hallmarks are all over the paintings you discuss.”

  A buzz of chatter broke out around the room.

  “Professor Butterfield-Swinton, you are welcome to explain the details of your own theory on your own time,” Zari shot back, “but I would never dream of doing it for you. The topic at hand is Mira de Oto, a Renaissance-era artist who has not yet claimed her rightful place in history.”

  She stared back at him, the words reverberating in the air between them.

  “My colleague’s presentation on Spanish Renaissance artists is tomorrow, and I urge everyone in the room to attend,” he said finally, in a clipped tone that indicated his tolerance had been sorely tested. “We have the results from tests done on the painting of the merchant family that will prove most interesting to you all, especially in light of Ms. Durrell’s claims about the origins of the work. In addition, you might be intrigued to learn that I am the owner of that new find Ms. Durrell mentioned. The portrait of a woman in a blue dress.”

  Zari stared at him, flabbergasted. The overhead lights suddenly felt hot on her face. One of her knees buckled. She reached for the glass of water on the podium in front of her and drained it.

  “Furthermore,” Dotie went on, “the painting is in the process of analysis as we speak. Like the other portraits Ms. Durrell discussed, this one bears several hallmarks of the master Bermejo’s work. Particularly the detailed backgrounds. So if you are seeking the truth about what Ms. Durrell claims, you might do well to attend my talk tomorrow. A translator will be on hand, I assure you, so that you get the full benefit of my Spanish colleague’s expertise.”<
br />
  The Spanish scholar gave one sharp nod at that, his dark eyes fixed on Zari in a disapproving glare. Dotie sat down and crossed his arms over his chest.

  The audience turned to look at Zari. She felt her lips begin to quiver.

  “Are there any other questions about what I presented today?”

  Her voice sounded thin and high, like a little girl’s.

  There were none.

  25

  May, 2016

  Bordeaux, France

  Zari

  Zari walked unsteadily offstage, completely shattered. She leaned against a wall, closed her eyes, and tried to gather the shreds of her courage. It could have been worse, she told herself. After all, she hadn’t thrown up or passed out in front of all those people.

  But now she would have to face them for the duration of the conference, enduring their stares and silent judgement while she watched Dotie and his Bermejo guru trot out their theory to anyone who would listen.

  Her mobile buzzed again. Gus.

  Zari’s temper flared suddenly. Gus knew nothing of the stress she dealt with in her professional life. He was a stay-at-home dad whose biggest challenges were coordinating carpools and making lunches. He could call her whenever he wanted, but she wasn’t always available, especially if she was busy being publicly humiliated by a man whose smoothly modulated voice sounded like that of a crumpet-eating member of the British royal family.

  She snatched up her mobile and took the call.

  “Yes, Gus, what is it?”

  “Mom’s had an accident.”

  Her irritation evaporated. “What?”

  “She and Obsidian were driving back from their diving lesson in Monterey and got in a car accident on the coast highway.”

  Zari’s bones turned to rubber. She slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor, staring dumbly at her splayed legs, a hundred questions crowding her mind.