by Amy Maroney
We’ll pass on it, then, he responded.
Wait, Zari typed.
She felt a zing of nervous energy. Her curiosity was piqued by the golden pin, by the fact that Perpignan—where Mira had lived and worked in the early sixteenth century—was somehow connected to this painting, and by the strange discordance between the appearance of the woman and the man.
This was not enough to convince Andreas to purchase the work, however. Zari had to sell him on it, but how?
It was going to have to be bluster, she decided. Overconfidence. Something she had once possessed in abundance.
The painting’s not typical of Cornelia, but aspects of it looks very much like her work, she wrote. And I found her mark on the panel, a ‘CZ’. She had a habit of hiding her name or initials in unlikely places.
There was no immediate response.
The footsteps grew closer.
Provenance shows the original transaction occurred in Perpignan, Zari went on. Cornelia spent time in the south of France during the last years of her career. I think it’s worth investigating.
Zari hit send and held her breath.
The click of the woman’s boots on the wooden floor behind her was startling.
“So?” the woman asked.
“My colleague hasn’t decided yet,” Zari said.
The woman gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. A fleeting look of impatience passed over her face. She turned to look at the portrait leaning against the wall.
“You pulled it out so you must think it’s worth something,” she observed.
Damn, Zari thought.
“Not exactly.” With effort, Zari kept her tone neutral. “It’s so dirty that I found it difficult to see the details in the other room. I needed more natural light.”
The woman waited, arms folded, her gaze flicking from Zari to the painting.
“There is one big problem.” Zari showed the woman the provenance, the words ‘après Cornelia van der Zee.’ This unfortunately means it is a copy made by another, unknown artist, in the style of Van der Zee.”
The woman looked offended. “That cannot be true,” she objected.
“I’m sorry, but it is.”
“So what is it worth?” the woman asked.
Zari glanced at her mobile, where Andreas’s latest text glowed.
If you can get it for under 1k Euros, take it.
She swallowed. Haggling had not been in her job description.
“It’s unsigned, it’s quite dirty, and it needs a major restoration,” she said. “We might pay a few hundred Euros for it.”
Her words hung in the air, dazzlingly outrageous.
“What?” The woman narrowed her eyes to slits. “C’est ridicule! I won’t consider taking any less than two thousand Euros.”
“I’ll see what he thinks,” Zari said doubtfully.
She pretended to type another text, her breath coming fast and shallow.
The woman stared at Zari without speaking. Her face could have been carved in stone.
When Andreas’s ‘reply’ appeared, Zari affected a pained look.
“He’s not pleased,” she said in a strained voice, “but he agrees to six hundred Euros for the painting.”
The woman pushed out her lower lip. “One thousand five hundred Euros,” she said.
Zari staged another flurry of texting.
After a beat she looked up, frowning. “Nine hundred Euros is his final offer.”
The woman considered this. Then she said coldly, “That is acceptable.”
24
November, 2016
Paris, France
Zari
The next morning, Zari walked across the River Seine to Paris’s Left Bank, where she happily lost herself for a few hours in the Musée de Cluny, a museum devoted to medieval art and relics. On the way back, mindful of her reunion with Wil later that afternoon, she popped into the BHV department store. Within minutes she was rifling through racks of sweaters with dozens of determined Parisian shoppers, none of whom had apparently ever heard of personal space. Zari stood her ground, examining the goods with a critical eye.
Finally she spotted something that looked made for her: a soft, cowl-necked navy sweater. As she reached for it, a sinewy woman with brown hair swept up in a loose bun leaned over and snatched the sweater off the rack.
Zari stared at her, peeved. What was going on? The woman clutched the sweater, triumph on her perfectly made-up face, looking sensational in a red wool coat that was belted at the waist.
Zari turned to the rack again, examining the sweaters with renewed determination. Her mobile buzzed with an incoming call and she pulled it from her pocket.
Andreas.
She slipped in her earbuds.
“Andreas,” she said, “everyone keeps talking about ‘faire le pont’—what does that mean?”
He chuckled. “It’s when people take a long weekend. The eleventh of November is Armistice Day, to celebrate the end of World War I. It falls on a Thursday this year, so people take advantage of that and leave town for the weekend.”
“I see,” she said. “I’d like to faire le pont this weekend, then. Back to Basque country.”
“Looking for Mira?” he asked.
Zari hesitated, reminding herself that Andreas supported her devotion to Mira, even if Darius Eberly did not.
“Yes. My friend Laurence wants me to visit Bayonne with her, where Mira’s husband Arnaud lived, and this seems like a good time.”
“It’s actually perfect timing,” he said. “As long as you don’t mind adding some work for us to the mix.”
“How do you mean?”
“That’s why I called, actually. We got an inquiry yesterday from a woman in San Sebastián, just south of the border from Bayonne in Spain. Your Spanish—is it as good as your French?”
It had been a long time since Zari’s Spanish was called into action. Six months, to be exact. During her aborted mission to root out details about the Barons of Oto in Zaragoza. A horrendous bout of food poisoning had cut the trip short.
“Of course,” she said. “Send me her contact information and I’ll set up a meeting. And can you share the images she sent you of the painting?”
“Already done,” he assured her. “Check your inbox.”
They said their goodbyes just as the shopper in the red coat closed in again, reaching for a pale green cashmere sweater with bat-wing sleeves. With one deft motion, Zari body-blocked her and yanked the sweater off the rack. The woman gave her a sweeping glare of incredulity, shaking her head in disgust.
Returning her gaze, Zari smiled.
Adrenalin ricocheted through her body, accompanied by a cackle that welled up inside her chest and threatened to burst forth like a geyser from her throat. She stood clenching the sweater, stifling her laughter. From this moment on, she would unleash her smile like a firehose on unsuspecting Parisians at choice moments. Obviously not on the Metro, and not at men.
Perhaps, instead of making her feel even more like the outsider she was, her smile would prove to be one of her greatest assets.
Despite herself, she laughed aloud. A dozen pairs of eyes flickered in her direction.
Zari didn’t care. She was back on Mira’s trail. And in a few hours she would be with Wil, wearing a new moss-green sweater, telling him the story of how it came to be in her possession.
This was shaping up to be a beautiful day.
25
Winter, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Rain pelted the barge relentlessly, interspersed with hard pellets of hail. Mira huddled under her cloak, eyes screwed shut. Arnaud sat in silence with one arm over her shoulders.
After the barge was nearly rammed by a monstrous oak, the bargemaster had ordered a halt to t
he journey until the river’s high waters subsided. They spent a fortnight in a flea-ridden, shabby roadside inn, where they endured constant noise from the tavern below their room. Mira regretted ever longing for a respite from the barge during that interminable stay. When the bargemaster finally decreed it was safe to board the craft once again, she nearly wept with joy.
And now here they were, sliding through the waters of the River Pau again. Yet she was no happier aboard the barge. The tedium of endless bobbing and rocking made her want to scream. Her body was swollen beyond belief. The baby kicked and writhed constantly. Two days ago a curious sensation of tightening around her belly had commenced, a squeezing that struck without warning and left her breathless. It did not hurt, but it was unsettling.
The trees on the riverbanks were barren of leaves and the fields they passed were muddy, littered with ragged stubble from crops long harvested. A harsh wind carried winter’s bite down from the mountaintops. Mira spent the days staring at the western horizon, hoping for the sight of Bayonne to rear up, resplendent with its stone buildings and soaring cathedral spires.
But each day she was disappointed.
Until now.
“Mira!” Arnaud said, shaking her gently. “Look!”
Through the sheeting rain, the walls of a city appeared in the distance.
“Bayonne?” she asked, hopeful.
“Yes,” he replied. “We’ll reach the river harbor before nightfall, the bargemaster says.”
Mira prayed for the pole-men to put more muscle into their work. Now that they were within sight of the city, her desire to escape this craft was intolerable.
“As soon as we enter the city gates, we’ll find an inn for the night,” Arnaud said. “In the morning, I’ll go directly to the cabinetmakers’ guild. When I find work, we can look for more comfortable lodgings.” He glanced worriedly at her belly. “We need to be settled before the baby comes.”
The squeezing sensation struck Mira again, like a powerful vise tightening around her midsection. She gasped.
“What is it?” Arnaud looked at her in alarm.
Mira breathed in and out a few times, trying to stay relaxed.
“I think the baby wants to see the world.”
“But surely it’s not yet time?”
She looked at him wryly. “Perhaps you should ask the baby, not me.”
He grimaced. “As soon as you get off this barge and into a warm bed, the baby will settle itself.”
Mira peered at her distended belly. “Did you hear that?” she said. “Calm yourself, little one.”
Arnaud laughed despite himself. “If you can joke, you’re not ready to give birth to that baby.”
She glared at him. “A wise man recognizes that he knows nothing about carrying a child—or birthing one, for that matter.”
His face, normally the color of aged oak, paled. “A wise man does recognize the dangers of birthing, and wants only to find a safe place for his wife to labor,” he said, somber now.
The skies dropped a torrent of hail. The vise around Mira’s belly squeezed again.
“Bayonne,” she said.
But the word was silenced by a gust of wind.
When the barge arrived at the river harbor, the crew set about unloading their goods. Arnaud helped Mira disembark and guided her along the quay that led to the city walls. A queue of people was assembled there, awaiting entry through an arched door. She watched a young peasant ahead of them engage in conversation with the city guards. To her surprise, he was turned away. He plodded back along the quay, a heavy basket over his arm filled with goods he had likely hoped to sell, his face dripping with rain. Why had he been refused entry? Mira began to tremble, imagining the same fate for herself.
When it was their turn, she barely heard the men questioning Arnaud.
Then she became aware that Arnaud was saying her name. She raised her chin and looked at the guards.
“Are you ill?” asked the older of the two men. “You look it. We don’t allow the ill to enter the city.”
Instead of responding, she cried out in pain.
“Mira!” Arnaud put a hand on her back. “What is it?”
“The baby,” she said through gritted teeth. “It is coming. I cannot stop it, Arnaud, I cannot.” She flung aside her cloak, looking at the guards. “Do you see I am with child? This is no illness.”
“We must find shelter within these walls,” Arnaud pleaded.
The older guard heaved a great sigh, no sign of sympathy on his bearded, grizzled face. His partner, a young man with blue eyes, muttered something to him, glancing at Arnaud’s waist. Arnaud reached for his coin purse and pulled out a few pieces of silver.
Coins jangling in his palm, the older guard stepped aside.
“You may enter,” he said with a dismissive nod.
“We need a place to lodge,” Arnaud entreated him. “Can you direct us to a respectable inn?”
But the man had already lost interest in them, his eyes fixed on the next group of travelers in the queue.
“I’ll show you the way to a convent,” the younger man said, waving them through the gates. “That would be better than an inn for your wife, wouldn’t it? In her condition?”
Quickly he led them through the maze of narrow streets lined with half-timbered houses, their windows fitted with wood shutters. Whenever they encountered a knot of pedestrians or a heavily loaded mule, the young guard whistled and shouted until the way was cleared. Finally they halted outside a doorway marked with a carved stone scallop shell.
He banged on the door with his fist. “You’ll be all right, madame,” he assured Mira. “They know about babies here.”
When the doors swung open slightly, the guard had a whispered conversation with the servant who poked her head out. She scowled, then made to shut the door. He stuck his foot out to block it and handed her something shiny. A coin, Mira realized. The servant pulled the door completely open.
“What is your name so I may thank you properly?” she asked the guard.
“Tristan.”
“We will not forget your kindness, Tristan,” she said.
“Let me replace that coin.” Arnaud fumbled for his purse.
“No need, sir,” the guard said gruffly. “You paid more than enough to get through the city gates. You owe me nothing. My wife’s in the same state as yours. I know what it’s like, expecting a little one any day.” He ducked his head at them and moved back into the street.
Watching him walk away, Mira began to sob.
Arnaud looked at her, his face twisting with fear.
“Do not worry, my love,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand. “I—I lied to the guards, Arnaud. I saw that peasant turned away and I was terrified they would not let us through the gates either. The baby is not coming yet. Forgive me.”
His expression softened. The glimmer of a smile passed over his face. Without a word, he helped her through the convent door.
Each passing day brought more discomfort. Mira wished desperately for one of Elena’s concoctions to ease her fears and help her cope with the tightening sensations that gripped her abdomen more and more frequently.
When they grew fierce enough one morning to wrack her with pain, Arnaud was whisked away to the guesthouse and Mira was put to bed in a dormitory chamber with two nuns to assist her. They knew what to do. They were clearly practiced in the art of easing babies out of wombs. She was grateful for their care but missed Elena with savage longing.
After dark, the candle on the small table next to the bed guttering in the draft, Mira pushed her baby out into the cold night air. He howled mightily. She panted, her face slick with sweat and tears, overcome with relief. The nuns cleaned and swaddled the baby, washed Mira with rough hemp rags dipped in warm water, then propped her up on the bed and thrust the baby into her a
rms. He rooted blindly for a breast.
“He’s small,” one of the nuns observed. “He was born too early.”
“Perhaps we should call in the priest,” the other said. “He may not survive the night.”
Mira heard their words through a fog of pain and exhaustion. Her baby was not fully grown, it seemed. It should not have surprised her. The months of travel had taken their toll.
“No,” she said fiercely. “He will live. He is strong.”
As if to prove her right, the baby found her breast, latching on with vigor.
“He’s a good eater,” observed one of the nuns after a few moments. “Perhaps he’s not so weak after all. As long as your milk is plentiful, he should be all right.”
“What will you call him?” the other nun asked her.
Mira stared into her baby’s gray-green eyes. The name came to her in an instant. She knew Arnaud would approve.
“Tristan,” she said.
Book II
Audentes fortuna juvat.
Fortune favors the bold.
26
Winter, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Arnaud stared at Mira and the baby, worry in his eyes. He had moved them into these rooms yesterday, in a lodging house close to the cabinetmakers’ guild. The building was on a small square with a fountain at its center, much like the place where they had lodged in Toulouse last winter. Their rooms featured the twin luxuries of a hearth and glass-paned windows.
“I don’t feel right leaving the two of you,” he said. “What about the fire? Do you even have the strength to tend it?”
He strode to the hearth and threw another log on the flames.
“I am not an invalid,” Mira said firmly. “All will be well.”
“You’re just saying that so I’ll not worry,” he grumbled. “What if you need something? What if one of you falls ill? There are no nuns to help you here.”
“The couple downstairs said yesterday I could call upon them for aid.”