‘The other me?’
‘The one that Diocletian cast into the painting.’
‘That was me!’
Eudora chuckled. ‘No, you were already in here. I mean the one who was cast in while I was there!’
Spiridon sighed. ‘I thought you understood, Theodora, that there is but one of me. I am able to travel within the bonds of this painting, but there will only ever be one of me in here… otherwise there would be an infinite number of me, one for every moment of the painting’s existence.’
Eudora shook her head. ‘It’s all too much for me. I can’t get my head around it all, but it doesn’t really matter anyway, because I’ve fulfilled my destiny and retrieved the Power Jewels, so you can return me to my own time, defeat Diocletian, and we can all get on with our lives.’
‘That is not possible, Theodora. Your task is not yet complete.’
Eudora was aghast that there should be more for her to do before returning to her old life. ‘I don’t understand.’
Spiridon sighed again. ‘For me to be able to pull you into the painting, you had to have about your person three of the Power Jewels.’
‘Yes, I had the ring, the amulet and the pendant.’
‘The very three items that you have just retrieved from Constantinople. You said yourself that the pendant at least was the same one.’
Eudora nodded. ‘Without a doubt.’
‘So for them to be discovered, and for them to eventually come into your possession, the three Power Jewels that enabled you to come into the painting must be placed at a certain point in history.’
‘Oh I see. So I have one final task to do before returning to my own time.’
Spiridon shook his head sadly. ‘You have not fully understood what I have said. In this place, everything is relative. There can be only one of anything here at any one time. There can be only one of me. There can be only one of you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There can be only one of each set of Power Jewels, one of which must be taken from this prison to be left outside. I cannot leave the painting, so it falls to you. You need the Power Jewels to leave the painting.’ His voice softened to a sad whisper. ‘And to get back in.’
Finally, Eudora understood what he meant. ‘No!’ she cried in anguish. ‘That’s not fair. You can’t expect me to live my life in another period of time.’
‘It is your destiny, Theodora, but it will not be too far in the past, and you and I will meet again. And then, when that lifetime is over and Diocletian has finally been defeated, will come the time of restitution, our reunion!’
Eudora sighed dejectedly. ‘Well then I guess I have no choice, Diocletian must be defeated, after all.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I want to be able to say goodbye to my sister first,’ she mumbled. ‘I never had the chance to tell her how much I loved her before she was killed.’
Spiridon shook his head. ‘That might be very dangerous, Theodora. You might contaminate the timeline.’
‘But Gaia had a vision. She saw Izzy and me in Paris together, moments before her murder. You cannot stop me, because it has already happened.’
They argued back and forth for what seemed like hours, until Spiridon reluctantly capitulated.
* * *
Isadora stands in the darkened hotel room, staring at the large, ornately framed painting, which is propped against the end of the bed. Squatting, she gently touches the frame, tracing its finely etched contours, marvelling at the intricate craftsmanship; somebody has clearly taken great painstaking care in carving the frame by hand.
She sniffs; the dark rosewood has retained its delicate scent, almost as though the frame – and so the painting – has been shut away from the air and the ravages of time for a great many years. She stands back slightly to admire the artistry. Another fact that signifies that the painting has been hidden away for too long – or maybe not long enough – is that the paint, though cracked with great age, has not faded in the slightest. The vivid colours are as clear and bright as the day the artist applied them to the canvas.
Though there is no immediate indication as to the painting’s age, she instinctively knows it to be older than merely old, and quite probably priceless. It is almost certainly worth far more than the ten million French francs she has paid; an amount she knows she cannot really afford, but which she paid without hesitation… she had been unable to restrain herself. Something within the painting bewitched her; it caught her eye the instant she entered the grand dining hall of the Château Clétiàn, and no matter the cost, there had been no way she was going to be outbid!
There had been only one other person interested in the painting; a man she had never seen before, and whose image has now long since vanished from her mind. All she can focus on is the portrait; all she wants to look at is the portrait.
Folding her legs beneath her, she sits on the floor, staring deep into the eyes of the man standing in the centre. His eyes are vibrant blue, his flesh most lifelike, his blond hair almost hidden beneath the murky shadows cast by his monk’s hood, which almost seems to ripple in a slight breeze. The man, certainly more handsome and friendly than the other two, slightly to the foreground on either side of him, seems almost alive; the amethyst pendant hanging around his neck sparkles.
It is a trick of the light, but he seems to blink.
She stands, stepping back from the painting in bemused alarm. She turns to look at the door for a moment as she hears movement in the corridor. The footsteps pass by and she returns her attention to the painting.
She gasps aloud as she sees her sister standing in front of the portrait.
‘Dora? How the devil did you get in here?’
Eudora rushes forward and hugs her sister tightly. ‘Oh Izzy, it’s so good to see you.’
Isadora pushes her away, laughing with slight embarrassment. ‘Get off! What’s got into you? Why are you in Paris?’
‘I have come because of the portrait.’
‘Isn’t it exquisite? It’s by Dion Taine, I’m certain of it. It’s so lifelike.’
‘You have no idea,’ Eudora whispers softly. She fingers the pendant around her neck surreptitiously. Her part in this is over. It doesn’t matter if she dies now. This is her chance to save Izzy!
She begins to remove the amethyst pendant from around her neck, but changes her mind and replaces it. No! History cannot be changed. That is not how it happens!
‘You and Gaia are in danger!’ she cries in a crystal clear voice.
Isadora indignantly demands an explanation, but none is forthcoming. There is another noise outside the room. Someone is trying to open the door. Isadora turns fearfully. ‘Who is it?’ she calls. She turns to warn her sister that someone has been following her, but suddenly Eudora is gone. Isadora blinks incredulously, as the door to her room is kicked roughly open.
Two burly men are attacking her: two brawny men against one small woman is not fair; she is losing the fight. Suddenly, her saviour is beside her and he dispatches the two men with surprising ease. She mutters her thanks to the beautiful blond haired man, and he asks if she is all right. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ The man seems relieved. He warns her that she is in danger and that she must send the painting to the gallery in London immediately. She is about to ask him how he knows about the gallery, but she blinks and he is suddenly gone. She is alone once more.
* * *
Eudora was in tears, thankful that she would not witness Isadora’s murder, which occurred after she had sent the painting to England. She wanted to do something, anything, to help her sister, but knew she could not. It was not fair.
Spiridon comforted her for several long, drawn out minutes, maintaining a stoic silence, but when her tears ceased and Eudora looked up into his face, she saw only a sad loneliness etched into his features.
Before she could ask what was wrong, he pushed her and she fell from the painting with a scream.
Chapter Nineteen
Such was their startling resemblance in looks and demeanour, Reynard Clayton
and Benjamin Delamare were frequently mistaken for brothers. Of course, neither Reynard nor Benjamin believed they looked alike, even though they both had blond hair, cut short at the back and slicked back off the forehead, and even though wire-rimmed spectacles framed their eyes, perched upon similar aquiline noses.
There were, though, distinct differences: Reynard was slightly more than six feet tall and around eleven stone in weight, whilst Benjamin was a good foot shorter and about two stone heavier; Reynard’s mouth was full, almost feminine, eyes like emeralds, whilst Benjamin’s mouth was more a thin, near-cruel line, his eyes a curious amber colour.
Although Reynard favoured dull greys and blacks as though in perpetual mourning, being extroverted, Benjamin adored bright colours that clashed dreadfully yet suited his personality – they somehow looked good on him, where they would have looked ridiculous and offensive on anyone else.
Benjamin had always felt a fashion victim at home in England, but here on the outskirts of Paris, away from the disapproving scrutiny of his stern parents, he had given free reign to his outstanding artistic talents where couture was concerned.
His newfound confidence was due, in no small part, to Reynard, his one true friend from school, though he would also be eternally grateful to Reynard’s hate-filled stepsisters. Had the spiteful identical twins not tormented him with such persistent vindictiveness, Reynard would not have fled England to stay with his paternal grandparents, Henri and Angelique Clétiàn, at their magnificent château, and he would not have begged Benjamin to accompany him. Not that Benjamin had needed much persuasion to flee his own life.
Still, being grateful to Eleanor and Leonora did not necessarily mean Benjamin was predisposed to liking them. He loathed them as much as Reynard did, and neither had mentioned their names in the years since they fled.
They had arrived at the château just outside Paris in July 1937, in time to say their final farewell to Henri, whose health had been deteriorating for some months. After the funeral, which Reynard’s father, Raymond, had not attended, the pair settled into an idyllic life with Angelique, until she passed away six weeks ago.
At the reading of the will, Reynard had been shocked but delighted to learn that he – and he alone – had inherited the Château Clétiàn and all the surrounding land. He had telephoned his father to gloat, but the operator had been unable to connect the call, and then some days later he learned that his father and stepmother had been killed in a fire at their home – a fire that had miraculously spared Eleanor and Leonora.
The twins did such a spectacular job of public grieving that nobody questioned them too harshly about the fire. Reynard sensed their culpability, but could do nothing to prove it. He did not return to England for the funeral.
Now it was the first day of July. Two more days and it would be the second anniversary of his arrival in France with Benjamin. It often seemed like it had all happened yesterday; at other times, it felt like a lifetime had passed. The pair had no regrets though. They were both very happy with their lives.
Benjamin had fallen in love with a nineteen-year-old dusky haired local girl who had worked for Henri and Angelique as a maid. Her name was Summer Lassalle, and she was the most beautiful girl Benjamin had ever set eyes on. They were to be married in four weeks.
Even though he had yet to meet anyone with whom he could possibly fall in love, Reynard was blissfully happy. In spite of recent sad events, two years away from the twins was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face.
They decided to raid one of the cellars for some vintage wine for the approaching wedding, but the fuse blew as soon as they switched the light on. As Benjamin disappeared to fetch a torch, Summer and Reynard waited for him at the top of the steps.
* * *
The air tasted stale as Eudora stood in the still silence of the pitch-blackness, inhaling the peculiar musty odour of age. The room in which she found herself had clearly not seen frequent use for many years. ‘Spiridon, can you hear me?’ she whispered. The absolute silence magnified the noise she made, and in the darkness, it unnerved her.
At first, when Spiridon had almost roughly shoved her from the painting, she believed she had been transported back to the catacombs of Old Byzantium, but as she breathed the air, she knew this was an altogether different time and place. She had stumbled as she exited the painting, instantly losing her bearings in the blackness. She was furious with Spiridon for forcing her departure in such a manner, but she guessed he must have his reasons.
‘Spiridon, where are you?’ she hissed. ‘Where am I, for that matter?’
Was this really where Spiridon intended her to spend the rest of her days, this all-encompassing darkness that filled her with claustrophobic dread? She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes as she pitifully called his name once more.
‘No, I will not give in to my fears! I must face them head on. That’s the only way to conquer them!’ She might not understand Spiridon’s motives, but she had grown to trust him. It was clear he was not going to rescue her from this place, so she decided he had thrust her out here for a reason. It must be relatively safe, so whatever demons lay in wait for her beyond the shroud of darkness she would face them bravely.
Moving with consummate caution, waving her hands before her, blinded further in the darkness by her fear, she took very small faltering steps, feeling her way carefully. She avoided most obstacles, shuffling carefully around those she encountered, until her outstretched hands encountered a wall, and as she inched her way to her left, groping tentatively, feeling each crumbling brick, she suddenly encountered a sticky cobweb. Something scuttled across her hand before she had the chance to snatch it away, and she let out an involuntary scream that echoed all around.
Her fearful tears flowed freely this time as she backed away and stood still, her racing heartbeat throbbing in her chest. She hugged herself, trembling and sobbing as each second passed like an eternity. She had completely lost all sense of time in the blackness. Had she been here minutes… or was it hours? She neither knew nor cared.
All she wanted was to get away from this dreadful place.
She knew as an immutable certainty that she could not return to her own time. Wherever she was – whenever she was – this was to be her home for the rest of her life.
She squinted. Suddenly, where there had been only total blackness, there was now a thin strip of faint light at ground level. Guided by the light, she inched her way forward and realised a door was ahead of her.
The light grew faint, before disappearing completely. Eudora froze on the spot. Had she imagined the light? No! The light had definitely been there, which could only mean there was someone on the other side of the door.
Rooted to the floor, Eudora held her breath and listened.
* * *
‘I tell you I heard a woman scream,’ whispered Summer as she and Reynard stood at the top of the flight of stone steps which led down into the cobwebbed depths of the wine cellar. ‘Surely you heard it too, Reynard?’
Reynard shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I heard nothing, Summer. You must be mistaken.’ His voice echoed down the steps, reverberating loudly and sounding distinctly hollow. ‘There’s nobody down there.’
Benjamin reappeared, carrying the torch, which he shone down into the murky depths, illuminating row upon row of dusty wine bottles, neatly stored in racks. With all the cobwebs and dust, it was clear this cellar had not seen any visitation of the human type for some considerable time. Only the telltale signs of rats and mice disturbed the dusty ground.
All three looked down, hardly daring to breathe, listening for any further sounds of intrusion. There were plenty of places for someone to hide within the wine cellar – in the shadows beyond the reach of the torch beam, or in the aisles between the wine racks, although if there were indeed someone down there, they would surely have disturbed the dust on the floor.
‘I’m telling you, I heard someone scream,’ whispered Summer irritably. Much as she liked Reyna
rd, and much as she still enjoyed working within the huge, cold echoing château, she wished he would not constantly treat her as an errant child. She was nineteen, with a woman’s body and a woman’s mind, and she was about to be married: that qualified her for more mature respect than Reynard granted her, surely?
However, even though she knew she had not imagined the scream, she had to concede there was no evidence that anyone had been in the cellar recently.
‘Come on,’ Benjamin mumbled, ‘there’s no one down there. Let’s get the wine.’
A sudden sneeze from somewhere below froze them all where they stood.
‘See, I told you,’ whispered Summer.
‘Who’s there?’ shouted Reynard, suddenly furious that someone should be trespassing in his home. ‘Come on, show yourself!’
‘I can’t,’ called back a woman’s voice, muffled by the peculiar acoustics of the bottle-filled cellar. ‘It’s pitch black, I can’t see anything. There’s a door here, but I can’t seem to open it.’
‘Evil spirits!’ Summer gasped, hugging herself close to the protective warmth of Benjamin’s robust form. She laid a restraining hand on Reynard’s shoulder as he started down the steps. ‘No, Reynard, don’t go down there. The evil spirits might kill you, or worse, possess your soul!’
In spite of his anger at whoever was trespassing, Reynard could not help but smile at the girl’s fears. He touched her cheek, amused by her superstitious beliefs in evil spirits. ‘Evil spirits would dare not attack while you are near,’ he chortled, not unkindly, as he took the torch from Benjamin and descended the steps into the shadowy realm, trying to act nonchalant and unconcerned without betraying his own unease.
‘All right,’ he called, ‘talk to me so I might follow your voice.’
Feminine laughter echoed back self-consciously. ‘I feel pretty silly talking to myself like this. What shall I talk about?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Reynard, hurrying in between wine racks, looking for a doorway. ‘Anything. Tell me who you most hate in the world.’ He listened to the woman’s dulcet tones, trying desperately to ascertain from which direction it came.
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