by Amy Maroney
“I’ll race you to the stream, Jasper,” Eva called over her shoulder, already running ahead.
He sprinted away, his dark mood gone.
“I reached out to Lena Mendieta,” Portia told Zari as they followed the children’s footsteps across the sand. “She enjoyed your visit.”
“It would have been easier if she could have just mailed us the paperwork,” Zari groused. “That was an epic road trip. Though I fell in love with Wallowa Lake. I’ve never seen so many stars in my life. Not even in the Pyrenees.”
“It was good for you to meet another member of the family, Zari,” Portia said. “You never know when those connections will be helpful.”
“Trying to unravel the mystery of Mira’s origins has made me care about my own more than I ever imagined.”
Portia smiled. “Your voice gets an electric charge every time you bring her up.”
“I feel responsible for Mira,” Zari said. “As if I’m her protector as well as her advocate. Being so involved probably detracts from my professionalism. At least in the eyes of Dotie Butterfield-Swinton and his colleagues in the art world.”
Portia shook her head. “I disagree. Don’t squash your feelings. Use them as fuel for your fire. Your passion is the difference between you and people like him. As long as you don’t forget that, you’ll be fine.”
For a moment they were silent, watching the children splash in the stream that drained into the sea from the wetlands near the beach. Jasper expertly tossed a stone so it skipped several times off the water’s surface before sinking out of sight. Then he selected one for Eva and bent down, showing her how to cradle it just so in her palm.
“As for me,” Portia said, turning to face Zari, “I’m fine. It’s time for you to go back. To keep digging for Mira. Besides, how much longer is Wil going to wait for you?”
“Have you been talking to Gus?” Zari asked her mother suspiciously.
“I know it’s complicated. He’s far away. You’re not sure if you want to set up a life in Europe. But we’ll visit you, Zari. You’ll visit us.” Portia took Zari’s hand in hers. “We’ll make it work. No matter where you are in the world, you’ll always have our love.”
A wave crashed on the beach with a thunderous roar, sending an arc of spray into the air. Water drops glittered like shards of glass against the cobalt sky. Zari felt a rush of anticipation, a powerful urge to pick up the threads of her search for Mira again.
To break five hundred years of silence once and for all.
10
Autumn, 1505
Bruges, Flanders
Sebastian
Sebastian always insisted upon walking to church, though the cobblestones were slick this time of year and he was prone to slipping. He had fallen twice since the autumn rains began.
Shrouded in a long cape with a deep hood that hid his face from the world, he set out every Sunday morning with an assortment of apprentices on his heels. Today he had corralled three young fellows who trudged along in the drizzle, bleary-eyed. It did them good, he thought with satisfaction. They might pray silently during the service, they might pledge to atone for their sins.
Then again, they might sleep. He had nudged a few apprentices awake in his day. Well, no matter. If nothing else, they would have an outing, rub shoulders with the rich. Some of these lads hoped to find wives among the merchant class, and entering their fine homes to paint portraits was not a bad way to do it.
For his part, Sebastian spent the hours in church paying rapt attention to the priests, following each ritual with loving devotion, taking comfort from the familiar words, the wavering candlelight, the magnificent stained glass windows.
Today he would pray for his dear friend Brother Johan Arros, whose illness had been reported in a letter Sebastian received from the monastery of San Juan de la Peña not long ago. As he walked, he composed a reply in his head.
When his little group reached the church, they stood politely aside while a merchant and his family trooped through the tall doors. As was the custom, the merchant family drew back the hoods of their cloaks and removed their hats before entering the church.
Sebastian kept his own hood in place until he slid into his burled walnut pew. He was not held to the same standards as the other members of the congregation, but whether that was due to his patronage of the church or to the fact that his face resembled a gruesome mask, he was never entirely certain.
The next afternoon, Sebastian spent some time at his desk crafting the letter to Brother Arros on a fine piece of linen paper. He usually wrote fluently, but today he was plagued by a state of uncommon dreaminess.
First, he composed some words of sympathy for his friend’s illness. Next he laid out what he hoped was an entertaining description of life in the atelier. The last section was the part that took longest to write. He kept dipping his quill in the ink pot and pausing, his mind caught on memories.
He had been so young the first time he met Johan Arros on the pilgrim’s trail—as naive and trusting as a child. That Sebastian survived his pilgrimages at all never failed to astonish him. Even now his scars pulsed with pain day and night, reminding him how close he came to death in the wild Pyrenees during his final journey home from Compostela.
He dipped the quill again, drew in a long breath, and wrote the closing words in one determined burst of energy.
Johan, I must tell you my thoughts are often with our young friend Mira. If my apprentices showed even a fraction of her talent, I would be the luckiest master in all of Flanders, perhaps all of Europe! Did you know she and her husband intend to settle in Bayonne? Perhaps they already have. I received word last year informing me of this, along with the most extraordinary package. Suffice it to say, the contents of said package assured me that the time I spent teaching Mira to paint was not wasted.
It is my intention to journey to Bayonne one day and meet Mira again. In the meantime, I shall pray for her as well as for you, my friend, and I shall comfort myself with the fine memories I treasure of my time with both of you.
With great devotion and love,
Sebastian de Scolna
Satisfied, Sebastian got up and went to his easel. It was a sunny afternoon and light spilled through the windows of his studio, fully illuminating the portrait.
He frowned, surveying his repair job with a critical gaze. He had smoothed out the splintered edges, plugged the hole with wool, and applied layers of glue, gesso, and pigment mixed with linseed oil. Then he painted the lady’s bodice again, taking great care to match the colors, to mimic the hand of the original artist. It was not difficult to do, since he himself taught her everything she knew about painting.
He stepped back a few paces and regarded the portrait again. From this distance, it was nearly impossible to see the damage. Of course, his vision was not as sharp as it once was. And he only had one good eye. The creature he had encountered on a mountain road all those years ago made sure of that.
“You called for me, sir?” One of his apprentices approached, wiping his hands on his stained leather apron.
Sebastian turned to the young man. “Yes. Look at that portrait and tell me what you see.”
“I see a noblewoman with gray-green eyes and hair the color of aged copper,” the apprentice began. “I see oaks and beeches and pines in the background, and some sort of mountain goat—”
“Those are ibex, my boy,” Sebastian interrupted.
The apprentice nodded. “Ibex,” he repeated. “Yes. And chalky cliffs, and mountain peaks iced with snow. The background is quite detailed, as you’ve taught us.”
“Do you recall who taught me to do backgrounds in this way?”
The young man frowned, staring up at the wooden beams on the ceiling. “A Spaniard, I believe. Yes, a man named Bermejo, someone you apprenticed alongside...”
Sebastian smiled. “So you were listening
when I told you about my youth. Yes, Bartolomé and I apprenticed together, and we had many adventures afterward.”
“Where is he now?”
“He no longer walks this earth. When we parted, he returned to Aragón and found a good number of patrons there. God save him, he was quite a talent. He died before his time, I’m afraid.”
“Who is this woman?” the apprentice asked, nodding at the portrait. “I don’t recall you receiving a commission from a noblewoman of late.”
Sebastian shook his head. “It is no commission. Nor is it my work. I simply repaired it at the request of a man who once was a patron of this artist.”
The apprentice looked doubtful. “But—”
“I speak the truth,” Sebastian insisted. “The artist apprenticed with me many years ago now, in a convent where I was nursed back to health after a grave injury.”
“Why would an artist apprentice in a convent?” The young man sounded truly baffled now.
“She lived there.”
“She? You taught a nun to paint?”
“No.” Sebastian half-smiled. “She was never a nun. She left the convent. And she painted this portrait of her mother not long after that.”
“Where is she now?”
“In Bayonne. One day I will bring this painting to her there.”
“But that is such a journey! Why would you go all that way, at your age, and with your impediments?” The apprentice dropped his eyes, obviously afraid he had insulted Sebastian.
“I may be old, and I may look a fright, but I can still travel. I made a promise to someone who knows the artist. I told him I would repair this painting and bring it to her one day. There are not many days left to me, as you’ve so kindly pointed out.”
Before the young man could stammer an apology, Sebastian cut him off with a laugh.
“Fear not,” he said. “Nothing offends me anymore. Other than bad wine and bland meals. If meat is not well-salted, what is the point of it?”
The apprentice stared at him, tongue-tied.
“Now tell me truly,” Sebastian went on. “Does the area of damage look fine, to your eyes? Did my repair work do the job?”
The young man looked at the painting again. “From this distance, it looks nearly perfect. There is one area that looks distorted at the center of her bodice, where the surface is not quite smooth.”
Sebastian sighed. “Yes, I know. I cannot get it entirely flat. But what of the paint, the colors? Does it all blend together well? Did I match the old and the new?”
“Yes,” the apprentice said firmly. “The colors are right. The brushstrokes are right. You succeeded on both counts.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” Sebastian declared. “I hope Mira will be too.”
“Mira?”
“The artist. I believe she would be about your age now. She was barely more than a child when I knew her.”
“A painting this fine is something to be treasured,” the apprentice said wistfully. “I hope one day to produce works of this quality.”
“You may,” Sebastian said, his tone turning serious. “But only if you put more time into the practice of drawing. Mira drew constantly as a child. By the time I met her, she needed only instruction in the art of mixing paints and wielding a brush. It was because of her years of practice that I was able to impart my lessons in the brief time we had together. I was, truth be told, only a guide. The talent was born to her, and the skill had taken root within her long before we met.”
“I’ll endeavor to spend more time in the drawing studio, master,” the apprentice promised.
“I believe it,” Sebastian said. “And I shall make a point to visit you there each morning, shortly after dawn, as soon as there is enough light to draw.”
The young man’s face fell. “If that is your pleasure,” he muttered.
“Run along now,” Sebastian said. “Take my brushes and clean them, then make an inventory of our pigments and write a list of materials we need.”
Alone again, he approached the portrait.
“What was your reunion like, mother and daughter?” he said softly, leaning forward until his face nearly touched the wooden panel. “Was it a happy one? I hope so, for Mira’s sake. Though if I took your somber expression as a clue, I would be wiser to guess that it was not.”
He eased himself down on a stool and sat very still, staring into Marguerite de Oto’s eyes, until the call came for supper.
11
Autumn, 1505
Pau, Béarn
Mira
Dusk was falling as their mules crossed the stone bridge spanning the River Pau. Mira stared glassily at the silt-gray water rushing under the bridge on its long journey from the highest peaks of the Pyrenees to the wild Atlantic. Her legs throbbed with a dull, relentless ache. Each time the mule stumbled, a stabbing pain flared up at the base of her spine.
She stifled a groan. The thought of riding for one more day, let alone a month, was abominable. But what other choice was there? They had just enough money to pay for cheap lodging and meals. There was nothing left over for the purchase of a wagon.
Through a haze of exhaustion, she heard Arnaud ask the gate guards for directions to a convent. He took the reins from her and dismounted, leading the mules through the gate into a maze of torchlit streets.
She eyed the citizens and the shops, trying to ignore the odors of urine, rotten straw, and rancid wool that assailed her. Pau was a wealthy city by Béarnaise standards, with a palace on a hill that housed the principality’s ruling nobles. But it stank just as much as Nay or Toulouse or Perpignan—as much as any place she had visited where people and animals were crowded together in close quarters.
They finally pulled up short in a twisting lane flanked by cracked stone walls. In the descending gloom, Mira spied a scallop shell carved over a doorway.
“We’ll find comfort here,” Arnaud said. He dismounted and lifted the iron knocker, glancing at Mira with an encouraging smile. “You can sleep as long as you like tomorrow, my love.”
Mira regarded him in silence. She was so weary she could not muster a smile in return. Closing her eyes, she listened to the hollow thump of the knocker striking the door.
In the morning, Arnaud went directly to the river harbor to inquire about shipping oak to the Atlantic. Mira had an errand of her own to run, but she did not tell Arnaud. She lay abed until he left the convent’s guesthouse, then forced herself up, dressed, and retraced their steps through the streets until she found a shop that had caught her eye the evening before.
When she slipped through the door, a jangling bell heralded her arrival to the shopkeeper. He bustled out from some dim ante-chamber.
“What is your business here, madame?” He was a middle-aged man with wildly overgrown black eyebrows and a luxuriant beard. “Are you wishing to purchase something?”
She hesitated. “No. I would rather sell you an item of value.”
“What would that be?”
Mira unlaced the tie of her cloak and put a hand to her throat. “This necklace.”
The shopkeeper reached behind him for a candle and used it to light an oil lamp. He lay a square of black velvet on the countertop.
“Put it here.” He tapped the center of the cloth.
Mira fumbled with the clasp of the necklace, then slipped it off and laid it tenderly on the square of velvet. She smoothed the thin gold chain into two straight lines and adjusted the position of the ivory shell.
There was a long silence while the man examined it. Finally he looked at Mira. His expression was stern, but she thought she detected a hint of sympathy in his eyes.
“The shell is worth nothing to me,” he said. “I’ve no use for ivory. A keepsake, is it? Something you’ve had for a long time, I warrant. You’re not happy to let it go, that much is clear.”
She sh
rugged, not wanting to reveal anything. If there was one thing she had learned in the past year, it was the importance of discretion.
He slid the shell off the chain and handed it to her. “I’ll buy the chain. It’s well made, and quality gold.”
“How much?” she asked.
When he told her, she stood silent, doing mental calculations. Was that enough for a wagon?
It would have to be.
Mira crawled back into bed as soon as she returned to the guesthouse. She was still curled up there when Arnaud returned from the river harbor that afternoon. He burst through the door grinning.
“Such news, Mira!” he said, coming to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. “I’ve not only found a bargeman willing to transport Ronzal’s oak to the coast, but he’s offered us a place on his barge that leaves tomorrow. The river runs high and the journey should go smoothly, he says. He’s going all the way to Bayonne. If it suits you, we’ll ride with him to the coast.”
Mira sat up. She had not seen Arnaud exhibit such enthusiasm since Rose died. Sweet little Rose, taken from them in one night by a merciless fever. That moment had changed everything. It seemed their lives had ended, too. The people they used to be were buried alongside Rose now, turning to dust in a sun-scorched lavender field.
Seeing her husband lit up from within by excitement made Mira tingle with a long-dormant sensation. She was fairly certain it was joy. The realization made her eyes sting with tears.
Arnaud took Mira in his arms. “You’ll spend no more time on muddy, rutted roads,” he promised her. “We’ll tie up at towns along the way, find lodging each evening. His fee takes most of our supply of coins, but we can sell the mules. We’ve no need of them now.”
Mira’s breath caught in her throat. She pressed her face into his shoulder, flooded with remorse.