by Amy Maroney
Pelegrín smiled. “You are full of stories, little brother. But now it is time to eat, and then bathe, and then rest. After that, you may tell me all the stories you like.”
Alejandro’s face split into an enormous grin.
As Pelegrín walked past Elena into the great hall, his eye caught on a golden object strung on a chain around her neck. It looked for all the world like the Oto medallion his mother used to wear at her waist. Why would Elena be wearing his mother’s jewelry? He shook his head, overcome by a wave of fatigue.
No more questions, he admonished himself. Just recover from the journey, take time to rest.
Once he was thinking clearly again, he could sort out the matter of Elena.
17
October, 2016
Herstal, Belgium
Zari
An industrial town shrouded with drizzle on the wind-scoured plains of Belgium wouldn’t have been Zari’s first choice as a travel destination. But she was in Europe to work, not sightsee. Her first project involved an elderly woman whose roots in Herstal were centuries-deep. The woman had died a few months earlier, leaving her art collection to a twenty-five-year-old granddaughter who had no interest in portraits of sixteenth-century merchants. The estate’s lawyer had followed the news about the recent sale of a Cornelia van der Zee painting at auction, and the family’s collection included several Flemish works which dated from Cornelia’s time. At his suggestion, the granddaughter contacted Darius Eberly to have the artworks investigated.
Zari’s meeting with the young woman this morning was short. Her enthusiasm at the prospect of investigating mysterious portraits quickly dissipated as she examined the art collection. The paintings were dull with age, their once-bright colors dimmed over the centuries. Or perhaps the pigments had never been bright. The subjects were unsmiling ancestors clad in high-necked black clothing, their shadowy eyes holding no light or promise.
She left with an assortment of file folders documenting the provenance of each painting, weighed down by a sense of growing discontent about what she had signed on for. The leaden sky opened up and deluged her taxi on the way to the modest hotel she had booked in the town center.
In her clean, plainly furnished room, she turned on the floor lamp by the desk and kicked off her shoes, settling in the lone armchair with her files and laptop. A faint hum from the mini-fridge whirred at the edges of her consciousness. Hours ticked by as she methodically worked her way through each file and wrote up her report about the young Belgian woman’s inherited artworks.
Two of the portraits, though unsigned, were attributed to a minor figure of the sixteenth century Flemish art scene. The backs of the panels were stamped with the mark of the painters’ guild of Mechelen, a Belgian city once renowned as an artistic center. The provenance showed they had been originally purchased from an artist who emulated the style of Mechelen-born painter Michiel Coxie.
Zari remembered Andreas’s words about the importance of something unique to catch the eye of a potential collector. There was nothing that made either work unusual. They were bleak little portraits, if well-executed. Their subjects were devoid of expression. If these people were happy to enjoy the trappings of merchant life, there was no evidence of it on their faces.
Zari yawned, her mind turning to thoughts of Toulouse, Perpignan, Zaragoza—all places where she had found traces of Mira de Oto’s life and work. More evidence awaited her in Bayonne, if she could ever get there. She found herself longing to toss aside the folders and embark anew on her hunt for Mira. It was excruciating to be back on European soil yet unable to devote her time to the woman whose story both tantalized and obsessed her—whose very existence had been swallowed up by history until Zari stumbled upon her traces two years ago.
This is your new reality, she told herself firmly. Deal with it.
With reluctance, she picked up the next file.
When her mobile buzzed an hour later, Zari jumped.
Wil was downstairs.
Counting the seconds until his knock came, she flung open the door and pulled him inside. She laughed at the sight of his wild golden curls, made even more springy and disheveled than usual by the rain.
Wil dropped his things and swept her into his arms.
They stood breathing in the scent of each other for a moment. Then Wil nudged the door shut with his toe.
“Time for some privacy,” he said softly.
“Amen to that,” she replied.
Lacing her fingers through his, Zari led him to the bed.
When they roused themselves a few hours later neither of them wanted to venture outside in search of dinner. Zari rummaged through the mini fridge and came up with two tiny bottles of wine, a bag of potato chips, a candy bar, and a packet of nuts.
“We won’t starve,” she said, tossing the nuts at Wil.
He caught the packet with one hand. She poured wine into two glass tumblers and carried them to the bedside table, then crawled back under the covers. Wil fitted his body to hers and nuzzled her throat.
“I missed you,” he whispered against her skin. “So much.”
“I always miss you,” she said, luxuriating in his touch. “The only good thing about seeing you so rarely is our reunions. They’re so...epic.”
“Every day would be like this if we lived together,” he said with assurance. “Epic all the time.”
“Really? You think we could keep this up?” She rested her cheek against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was reassuring. “Maybe we’d get tired of each other.”
“We’re just getting started,” he said, reaching for a glass of wine. “I can’t imagine getting tired of you.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I feel the same way.”
They lay in comfortable silence for a while. Zari’s eyes wandered to the desk, to the pile of file folders she’d abandoned.
“I’m so glad I’m nearly done with those,” she remarked. “This is definitely not a labor of love, not like Mira. But it does pay well.”
He sipped from his glass, following her gaze. “So when do you get more time with Mira?”
“I’m working on that,” she replied. “Since I’m officially here to study Cornelia van der Zee again, I’ll be shoehorning Mira in on the sly.”
“Say it again?”
Every once in a while Zari’s English-language expressions baffled Wil.
“You know,” Zari explained, “just fitting her in around the other work. After midnight and on weekends.”
“Mmm.” He breathed in the fragrance of her hair. “Do I smell eucalyptus?” he asked.
She heard the smile in his voice. “Yes,” she admitted. “I thought if I could smell like you I wouldn’t miss you quite as much.”
During their first days together, one of the things Zari found intoxicating about Wil was the scent of eucalyptus that clung to his skin and hair.
“Did it work?” he asked.
“Not really. There’s no replacement for the real thing—the real you.” She kissed him.
“I’d better keep using that eucalyptus soap forever,” he said solemnly. “So how was Switzerland? How was your meeting with your boss’s boss?”
“It was fine, mostly.” Zari sighed. “Darius is a bit intimidating. I’ll be on the road the entire six months and the threat of being sacked if I don’t meet his expectations is already looming.”
Wil raised an eyebrow. “Getting back to Mira’s trail in the Pyrenees won’t be easy.”
Zari nodded. “I’m dying to see the evidence of Arnaud de Luz that’s supposedly in Bayonne. Laurence has been in touch with an archivist there. But I won’t be able to go until I have a better sense of my schedule.”
Laurence, Zari’s French colleague—who had also become a dear friend over the past year—had continued searching for evidence of Mira during the summer. She li
ved in Pau, near Bayonne, and owned one of three paintings that Zari believed had been made by Mira: a portrait of Renaissance-era wool merchant Carlo Sacazar and his family.
“Does your schedule allow Christmas in Amsterdam?” Wil asked her.
“I’d love it,” she said. “The more time in Amsterdam with you, the better.”
“In that case, how would you feel about a wedding there?”
Zari blinked, startled by his question. She wasn’t ready for marriage. She had already told Wil that. Unbidden, Gus’s words came back to her in a rush. She didn’t have all the time in the world, after all. She had to show Wil she wanted a commitment.
But marriage?
She took a hasty sip of wine, stalling.
“Not our wedding.” Wil added, noticing her consternation.
Relief and, oddly, disappointment coursed through her.
“My cousin’s wedding,” he went on. “It’s in December. I want you to be my guest.”
“That sounds fun,” Zari said carefully. “Is everyone in your family going?”
“My grandmother, so you’ll have another chance to impress her. My parents and siblings will be there. And Filip’s family.”
“Oh.”
Wil’s best friend Filip, who had been disabled during an Arctic skiing expedition several years ago, had gone on an adaptive sailing trip last spring at Zari’s suggestion. He ended up hospitalized with a serious infection. His sister Hana (Wil’s former girlfriend) had blamed Zari for the crisis during a brief and excruciating phone conversation. Wil, immersed in his friend’s care for weeks, had been so cryptic in his communications that Zari assumed he shared Hana’s anger toward her. It turned out this was not the case, but the ordeal had strained their relationship.
“And yes, Hana will be there too,” Wil said, answering the question he knew was coming next.
“I don’t know, Wil.” Zari hesitated. “I’ll be under a microscope.”
The fact that Hana had been with Wil for seven years was intimidating in itself. And the two families were deeply connected. Stepping into that tightly knit circle was daunting.
“The things she said to you—it was because Filip was in crisis,” Wil said. “Imagine if your brother Gus was in the hospital, not responding to treatment. Would you behave normally?”
Zari pulled the duvet up to her neck, suddenly cold. “No.”
“Filip is fine now. And so is Hana.” The thread of irritation in Wil’s voice was clear. “She’s over it. Why aren’t you?”
He ripped open the bag of chips.
Zari contemplated the glowing circle of light cast by the lamp in the otherwise dark room. At some point, she had to meet Hana in person. Maybe once she did, the woman wouldn’t loom so large in her imagination.
“Okay. I’d love to be your guest.” The words sounded falsely upbeat. She silently recited a series of her mother’s sayings. Have an open mind. Don’t hold grudges. Do the thing you’re afraid to do.
Wil’s slate-blue eyes shone at her.
“It will be a great time, Zari,” he promised, taking her hand in his large, square one and interlacing her fingers with his own. “You’ll see.”
18
Autumn, 1505
Nay, Béarn
Amadina
The notary’s register book lay open on Carlo’s gleaming oak desk. Amadina had called the man here to oversee the sale of dyestuffs for her family’s fabric-finishing business, but she had another reason for inviting him to her brother’s home. She watched the notary salt and blot the page she had just signed. He sat back, waiting for the ink to dry.
Amadina smiled her most coquettish smile.
“My cooks have just baked a fruit tart and frothed some cream to go with it,” she said. “And I have some excellent wine from our own lands in Aragón. I would be honored if you would take a spot of refreshment with me in the sitting room.”
The man smiled slightly, but his eyes were cool. She knew he did not like her. Nobody in this shabby little town did. Not that Amadina gave two figs about what any of them thought of her. The only people whose opinions mattered were her superiors, and no one in Nay qualified as such.
“I care not for sweets,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps a cup of wine, though.”
“I know Carlo would have wanted me to offer you our best wine,” she cajoled him. “After all, you were so loyal to him. He trusted you, respected you above all other notaries.”
Silence. But his expression softened a bit.
“Salted anchovies?” she suggested. “Olives? Dried ham?”
He brightened. “Yes, that sounds more appealing.”
“Come this way,” she beckoned, opening the door into the corridor and snapping her fingers at a servant. “My man will show you to the sitting room. I will arrange with cook to bring our finest savory treats.”
Amadina watched the notary disappear down the hall. Quickly she returned to Carlo’s desk. She flipped back through the pages of the record book, searching for her brother’s showy signature. There were many instances of Carlo’s name, scrawled upon records of sale for wool, wood, notions, and the like. She chewed her lip and kept turning the pages, back and back and back.
Then she stumbled upon an entry that was nothing like the others. For a moment, Amadina stood frozen. She slipped one hand into her pocket, found the silver vial she carried everywhere now. With one finger she stroked it, her heart fluttering rapidly behind her ribs.
Amadina could hardly believe her good fortune. All she had wanted was to see the extent of her brother’s business dealings, to discover any sources of gold she might have overlooked since his death. But this! She bent closer to the page, reading every word with care.
A year ago, Carlo had written a letter recommending Arnaud de Luz to the Bayonne cabinetmakers’ guild, vouching for his skills and serving as guarantor should Arnaud’s work not live up to expectations. Both he and Arnaud had inked their signatures alongside the notary’s to formalize the agreement.
When Amadina’s spies returned from following Mira and Arnaud out of Nay, what they told her made no sense. For the couple had not gone to the Abbey of Belarac as she expected. They traveled instead to Pau.
In Pau, her spies followed Mira to a goldsmith’s shop, where she had likely sold something of value in exchange for coins. They had also gleaned from eavesdropping at Pau’s river harbor that the couple meant to travel west on a barge—and that Arnaud planned to return to Pau the following spring to conduct some sort of transaction involving oak.
But the couple’s final destination had remained a mystery. Until now.
Amadina’s mind started churning. A sudden, vicious urge overcame her to write another letter to the guild in Bayonne retracting her brother’s recommendation. Then she shook her head, banishing the impulsive thought. The wiser route, she knew, was to bide her time.
She bustled to the kitchens, dispensing orders as she went, then hurried to the sitting room and joined the notary.
As they took their refreshment, Amadina peppered him with questions about various matters of trade, but her mind trundled obsessively over the new scrap of information she possessed. She sipped her wine, pretending to listen to the notary prattle on, while a plan took root in her brain.
Amadina’s first priority was to deal with the Abbey of Belarac. Last summer she had dispatched some men to meddle with the abbey’s shipment of fabric to Lord Esteven de Vernier in Toulouse. They had failed miserably, allowing the Aragónese shepherds who accompanied the shipment to fight them off.
This summer she would choose her henchmen more wisely—and she would ensure the next shipment of fabric from Belarac to Toulouse was entirely destroyed. Then Lord de Vernier would have no choice but to crawl back to Amadina, tail between his legs, and beg her to take up the contract he had so wrongfully severed in favor of Belarac se
veral years ago. For Amadina offered the only other source in Béarn of high quality wool fabric at a reasonable price.
She suppressed a grin, fighting to maintain a sober expression. The notary did not notice, as he was reaching for another slice of dried ham at the moment.
Once Belarac was dealt with, Amadina would turn her sights to the matter of Mira de Oto. It would be difficult now that the woman lived leagues and leagues away, in Bayonne.
A heartening thought struck her. Perhaps Mira’s connection to Belarac had ended. The woman did not stop at the abbey after leaving Nay, after all. It was possible that the problem of Mira de Oto had resolved itself—for without her, Belarac’s wool business would disintegrate.
Amadina rolled an oil-slicked anchovy around on her tongue. The murmur of the notary’s voice was soothing. She swallowed, picked up the plate of anchovies, and offered them to him.
There was a certain headiness to concocting her plans without the meddling influence of her brother. No longer did she have to engage in wearying deceptions or weave falsehoods into ever more tenuous webs. Now she, Amadina, was the most powerful Sacazar in Béarn. She put a hand over her pocket, pressed the silver vial against her palm.
Nothing stood in her way. She had made certain of that.
With unaccustomed grace, she raised herself from her seat and poured the notary more wine.
19
Autumn, 1505
Oto, Aragón
Pelegrín
In his father’s chambers in the Tower of Blood, Pelegrín flung open the shutters, struck as usual by the beauty of the Broto Valley unfurling to the south. Cowbells jangled in some unseen pasture. He fixed his eyes on the silvery path of the river. It was the scene of countless childhood adventures, where he stalked fish and hunted dragonflies, where he learned to swim under the watchful eye of the steward Beltrán. Before he made the choice that turned Beltrán against him forever.