by Amy Maroney
Mira nodded. A sick feeling took hold of her stomach. Her impulsive nature could ruin more lives than her own, she had already seen proof of that. She must tread cautiously and remain humble in manner—even in the face of egregious injustice.
For all their sakes.
58
January, 2017
Geneva, Switzerland
Zari
Back at the same hotel Andreas had booked for her last time in Geneva, Zari was no less grateful for the elegance of her room. She spent an hour soaking in the deep tub, breathing in the humid aroma of lavender-scented bath salts, then went to bed early.
Since her meeting with Darius and Andreas was set for the late afternoon, she hadn’t set an alarm. She woke before eight, her mind immediately going into overdrive as she ruminated over the logistics of her next few research stops. First Luxembourg, to examine portraits in two private collections; then Brussels (more of the same); and finally—the highlight of the coming weeks—a trip to Bruges to meet with curators at the Groeninge Museum, where an exhibition of Cornelia van der Zee’s work would be shown in several months.
Best of all, Wil would join her there.
Resigned to wakefulness, Zari turned on the light, slipped on a robe, and went to the window. Peeking around the blackout drapes, she spied the pale lilac of a dawn sky. Across from her, bright lights flickered on in an empty conference room furnished with a table and a dozen or so chairs.
Her mobile began to skitter on the bedside table. Zari padded back to the bed and fumbled for it. Yawning, she raised the device above her head, squinting at the words on the tiny screen.
A scholar in Bruges saw your Twitter posts about the connection between Sebastian de Scolna and Mira, Laurence’s text read. He discovered Sebastian’s will in an archives. It identified Mira as an artist and listed items he willed to her (lapis lazuli, other art materials). He wants to continue his search for Mira and publish what he finds. See, Zari? Another helper for you.
Launching into a celebratory dance accompanied by a hip-hop song she made up on the spot entitled “Go Mira,” she flung aside the heavy drapes and looked straight into the glow of the conference room across the street. Four men in suits were now seated at the table. One of them stared directly at her and waved a hand in greeting. She drew in a sharp breath and yanked the drapes shut again.
Darius leaned back in his chair. The expression of hooded skepticism that she remembered from their first encounter was gone. This afternoon, it was replaced by an air of calm interest.
His skin was tanned from his vacation in Cambodia, and he somehow appeared a decade younger than he had when they met last fall. Perhaps he had availed himself of cheap plastic surgery during his trip, she mused. An eye lift, maybe. Or injections of fillers and Botox. His forehead certainly had the smooth, shiny appearance of recently Botoxed flesh.
“You have surprised me,” he began. “I was not sure about you. I hired you on Andreas’s recommendation, but I had my doubts. I should have trusted him.”
“I’m sorry?” Zari asked, confused.
“Your theory about that painting from Paris was correct,” he said. “It is the work of Cornelia van der Zee. The analysis revealed her signature under several layers of paint on the back of the panel.”
Zari’s throat went dry. Could this be true? The painting of the noble couple she had purchased in the elegant apartment in Neuilly—her intuition was correct. It had exhibited Cornelia’s touch.
“Yes, our conservator’s investigation was revealing,” he went on. “The initials ‘CZ’ on the man’s hat ornament—with a thorough cleaning and the proper chemicals, the letters are visible now. But how did you see that the day you first viewed the portrait?”
Zari smiled a bit sheepishly. “I carry a sort of toolkit when I look at these paintings.”
Darius raised an eyebrow. “A toolkit?”
She nodded. “A friend gave me a magnifying visor. And an art conservator colleague taught me some tricks. How to tease transparency out of old varnish with white spirit, how to use a—well, an enzyme bath to clean an old painting in a pinch.”
Andreas laughed. “Enzyme bath? Feel free to call it what it is—a spit and polish.”
“I have to admit I couldn’t shake the impression that Miramonde de Oto had a hand in the work, too,” Zari admitted. “There were elements of the brushwork, the details, that were dead ringers for her style. Maybe I’m just too immersed in my study of her. I see her everywhere.”
“No,” Darius said. “Your intuition was on the mark. Miramonde de Oto did have a hand in this. She even signed the work. It was a collaborative effort, apparently.”
He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. It was a photocopy of an image taken of the back of the panel. Below Cornelia van der Zee’s signature was another one: that of Miramonde de Oto.
Zari looked around wild-eyed for Andreas.
“It’s true, Zari,” he said, his expression conveying both amusement and pride.
“Sorry, I’m—I’m a bit overwhelmed,” she managed to squeak, a tornado of emotions catapulting through her body. With great effort, she struggled to tame them. “What’s going to happen to the portrait now?”
“It’s ready for sale,” Darius said.
She gasped. “Sale? To a private collector?”
“Probably. Unless a museum with deep pockets and an interest in Cornelia van der Zee decides to get in the game. Which is entirely possible. Cornelia’s star is rising, after all.”
“And now Mira’s star will rise alongside hers,” Zari said softly, as much to herself as to the men. “Can I see the rest of the analysis?”
Darius pushed another sheet of paper across the desk to her. “An abbreviated version of this summary will accompany the lot description in the auction catalog.”
She quickly read the text. “But it says nothing about Mira.”
“Cornelia van der Zee is marketable. Miramonde de Oto is not.” Darius drew his hands together, index fingers forming a steeple. “At this point, bringing her into the mix may reduce the value of the painting. Remember that scholarship builds credibility and interest, then it propels market demand for an artist. There’s not a scholarly foundation about Mira yet.”
Zari thought about the Bayonne archivist who was even now preparing to write an article about Mira and Arnaud, about the scholar in Bruges who found evidence of Mira in Sebastian de Scolna’s will.
“Mira is marketable,” she asserted. “There are other scholars on her trail. I know of two who are conducting research about her as we speak. They’ll both publish their findings soon. It’s a start.”
Darius eyed her over his fingertips. “But it’s not enough. Not yet. Surely you have amassed far more evidence of Mira’s life and work than any other scholar in Europe. What will you publish, and when?”
Zari pressed her lips together, wondering how much to share.
“Actually, I’ve applied for a position in Amsterdam to continue my research about her,” she said carefully.
Darius looked startled.
“The position wouldn’t start until fall.” She glanced from him to Andreas. “You told me my consultancy here was a six-month contract. It will be over by then.”
If not before, she thought. After all, you said I could be sacked at any moment.
The two men exchanged a look.
“That is...still under discussion,” Darius said. “I got a very interesting call from a Señora Beramendi in San Sebastián. She is setting up a trust to restore works by women that are currently archived in museum vaults. It seems her talk with you made quite an impression. She wants you to be a consultant on the project, and called to discuss my opinion on your suitability for the task.”
“What did you tell her?” Zari asked, her voice sounding thin and far away, as if she were floating up near the ceiling looking
down on the three of them.
“I said she would be lucky to have you. Frankly, I may explore the idea of continuing your consultancy with us, as well.”
Forcing herself to the present, Zari took in a breath, once again unable to utter a sound. Eventually, she managed to emit two raspy words.
“Thank you.”
Outside, Zari inserted her earbuds and phoned Wil.
He answered on the second ring. “Zari?”
“I’m going to be able to stay in Europe.” The words were garbled by an unexpected sob.
“Say it again?”
She wiped her eyes with a gloved hand. “I found out today that I might be able to extend my contract with Darius. And I might get another consulting job with Señora Beramendi in Spain. No matter what happens with that position in Amsterdam, I can still work in Europe. But I’m committed to Amsterdam being my base, okay? Because I’m moving in with you. This summer.”
Wil didn’t answer right away. Zari was stricken with remorse. Why had she done that? Maybe living together had always been just a fantasy in Wil’s mind, though he brought it up more than she did. Maybe he—
“I’m so happy,” he said, his voice low and tender, rough with emotion. “You’ve made me so happy, Zari.”
“There’s a lot to talk about, but the upshot is: I love you, Wil,” she told him. “I want to be with you. I want a future with you. And I also want—I need—to keep looking for Mira. I need you and I need her. As weird as that sounds, since she’s been dead for centuries.”
“You have an open invitation to live with me,” he said. “You’ve had it for a long time now. And I know how you feel about Mira. I can’t imagine your future without her.”
“Yes.” She whispered the word, shivering in the wind. Happiness rippled upward along her spine, set the back of her neck tingling.
“And if—when—you decide to move to the States, I want to go with you,” he added. “I’m serious. But it would be hard for me to work there unless we get married.”
“I know. I checked into the visa requirements,” she said. “After three months, you would need a company to hire you and sponsor your visa. Not exactly realistic for a freelance furniture designer.”
“We’ll work it out,” he promised her. “There are lots of details. We’ll get through them all.”
Zari could hear the smile in his voice. She imagined his face, the glint of tenderness in his slate-blue eyes, the way a fizz sparked in the very core of her every time she looked at him.
“So should I buy my own dresser, or are you going to give up a few more drawers?” she asked. “That’s detail number one.”
He laughed, triggering a charge of joy that surged through Zari’s body and came to roost in her heart.
Tucking her chin into her collar to ward off the icy air, she moved slowly down the sidewalk, threading her way through crowds of commuters on their way home from work, oblivious to everything but the sound of Wil’s voice.
59
Autumn, 1506
Basque country
Elena
Elena looked down at the mist-shrouded valley. From this vantage point on a ridge, she had a clear view of the white-washed house with its red tile roof. The kitchen garden, the livestock pens, the orchard—all was just as she had left it on that spring day so long ago.
The deep rumble of a dog’s bark sounded in the distance. As she watched, a woman came out the front door with a basket under her arm. One of Xabi’s sisters, no doubt. Elena’s excitement at seeing him again was instantly tempered with dread. Now she would reenter the world she had yearned so desperately to escape—the constant swirl of arguments, laughter, stories, disputes, all rendered in an avalanche of Basque. For someone who had spent much of her life in solitude, being crammed together with a boisterous family was a shock to the system.
Xabi had loved his nomadic ways, too. Yet when the call came for him to assume his role as master of the homestead, he heeded his family’s wishes and did his best to adapt. Elena had accompanied him gladly, but the reality of his family’s world was unbearable to her.
When she and Xabi decided to wed, the resulting squabbles over the minutiae of the wedding festivities were the last straw. A summons from the monastery of San Juan de la Peña to nurse Brother Arros through a grave illness gave her the excuse she craved to escape. And at first, her relief at getting away was so intense she questioned the depth of her feelings for Xabi.
But once she returned to Castle Oto, the loneliness she endured forced Elena to reconsider her view of the Mendieta homestead. Her longing for Xabi’s companionship—his quiet laugh and kind gaze, his way with a story, his body warming her bed—grew stronger with each passing day. Finally, she concluded that anything was tolerable if it meant having Xabi at her side again.
Staring at the bucolic scene in the valley below, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her wings were about to be clipped.
“Come on.” She waved at Alejandro and the knights, who waited on their horses just behind her on the trail. “We’ve arrived.”
Xabi’s cousin—the only one of the clan who spoke the mountain dialect fluently—came cautiously out the front door. Behind him clustered several of Xabi’s male relatives, their faces somber.
Elena raised a hand in greeting. “It’s good to see you again,” she said in hesitant Basque.
“And you as well,” he responded.
“Where is Xabi?” she asked.
Xabi’s cousin regarded Alejandro, who was encased in the suit of leather armor Elena had made for him. Then his gaze slid to each knight in turn, to their horses, their fine-tooled saddles and bridles.
“We thought you were dead,” he said to Elena in the mountain dialect, a hint of accusation in his tone. “That’s why Xabi left. He figured you must have died. Because you never came back, though you said you would.”
“But I have come back,” she pointed out coolly. “Where did Xabi go?”
“Across the sea, whale hunting.” The man fiddled with the buttons on his vest.
“What?” Elena stared at him in disbelief. She leapt from her saddle and handed her horse’s reins to one of the knights.
“Xabi’s no sailor,” she said, stalking forward.
Muttered conversations in rapid-fire Basque drifted from the open doorway. The family mark, carved into the wooden beam that supported the doorframe, glistened with oil. She remembered Xabi’s voice in her ear when they were entwined under warm blankets one cold night in this house. He vowed he’d replace that wooden beam, said a mason would carve the family’s mark into stone and preserve it forever.
“We have cousins on the coast who’ve hunted whales for generations,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling his gaze at her. “One of them has been living in Bayonne, helping a pair of merchants prepare to sail across the sea hunting for whales. They asked for more Basque men to join the hunt. Xabi answered the call.”
“But the sea is full of dangers!” Elena protested.
“Xabi’s exactly the kind of man a Basque chalupa needs,” he scoffed. “And he’ll be paid richly for his trouble. The whole family will benefit.”
“When will he return?”
Xabi’s cousin shrugged. “Before the winter solstice.”
“And where did the ship sail from?”
“Bayonne.”
Elena glanced at Alejandro. He sat slumped in the saddle, staring vacantly at the ground. A rest and some food would do him good. Normally the custom was to invite travelers inside for refreshment, and as Xabi’s companion and future wife, she was entitled to hospitality. Then she thought of the knights. Three of Xabi’s sisters peered at them from the doorway, their shawls pulled tight around their shoulders, watching the strange men with worried eyes.
Xabi’s family was already suspicious of her. A group of Aragóne
se knights lodging here would cause no end of turmoil in the household.
“We will be on our way, then.” She returned to her horse and swung into the saddle.
“You’re not staying?” Xabi’s cousin did not hide his relief.
“No. You already have enough mouths to feed. We have business in Bayonne ourselves, so we might as well continue west.”
“What business would you have there?” he asked.
“Family business. Regarding my nephew—” she inclined her head toward Alejandro. “And his sister.”
“He has the air of the noble-born, that one,” the cousin observed. “And you say he’s your kin?”
“I did say that, yes.” Elena offered no more explanation, though his curiosity was evident.
After it became obvious that Elena was not going to enlighten him further, he cleared his throat.
“Feel free to water your mounts,” Xabi’s cousin said gruffly. “And help yourselves to apples.” He gestured at the orchard that sat between the house and the stream. “Safe travels to you.”
Their mounts plodded along a narrow trail that led out of the valley. Elena munched on an apple and periodically glanced over her shoulder to see if Xabi’s family still stood huddled together, watching them. It was not until they were well under cover of the forest that she stopped turning back to look. The only evidence of the homestead in these woods was the faint scent of woodsmoke hanging in the air.