by Amy Maroney
Opening his mouth to speak, Arnaud was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of questions coursing through his brain.
“My boy!” he managed to spit out, focusing his gaze on Tristan. “You’ve found yourself a set of grandparents.”
A small face peered around the edge of the doorframe. “And a cousin,” a boy with enormous dark eyes informed him soberly in Aragónese.
Arnaud wobbled on his feet. Whether his sudden weakness was due to hunger, exhaustion, or sheer bafflement, he had no idea.
“Come in, come in,” Mira said, lacing her fingers in his. “We have much to discuss, but first you must eat and drink and rest. Then we will answer what I am sure will be every question under the sun.”
Mutely, Arnaud allowed himself to be led inside.
77
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Arnaud washed, changed into clean clothes, and took Tristan on his knee at the table. Mira fixed a bowl of cod stew and a mug of ale for him. She sat and gave him a long, assessing look. He was thinner than she remembered, his beard wild, his hair tumbling down his back. But he was whole. He was alive.
Reaching out, she lay her palm flat against his chest. His steady heartbeat throbbed under her touch. My husband lives, she reassured herself. We are a family again. Arnaud covered her hand with his, smiling.
“I came back to you,” he said, low. “Just as I promised.”
“There were days when I wondered if I would see you again,” she admitted. “I tried not to dwell on those worries.”
“Now let me see.” Arnaud trained his gaze on Alejandro, who sat across from him. “You are Tristan’s cousin, then?”
The boy nodded, his face serious.
“And you’ve traveled here from...?”
“Aragón,” said Alejandro.
“By yourself?” Arnaud picked up his mug and drank deeply of his ale.
The boy shook his head vigorously, looking at Elena. “With my aunt. And three of my brother’s best knights.”
“Ah!” Arnaud put down his mug with a thump. “It’s a relief to have the knights accounted for, at any rate.”
“Alejandro’s a bit shocked to meet so many relatives in one day,” Elena said.
“I’ve already met Mira,” the boy protested. “The summer she came to the castle and painted our mother’s portrait. But we are more like strangers than brother and sister, she and I.”
All four adults burst out laughing at his formal tone.
Alejandro’s eyes widened. “It’s the truth,” he said. “We do not know each other yet.”
Mira put a reassuring hand on his arm. “Soon we will know each other very well.”
Tristan grabbed at Arnaud’s spoon. “Would you like some stew, little man?” Arnaud asked.
“He will eat anything you give him,” said Mira.
“And then some,” Xabi added from his seat by the hearth, pulling Elena onto his lap. She began to fuss. He whispered something into her ear and she relaxed, smiling despite herself.
“Never dreamed I would come home to a scene like this.” Arnaud offered Tristan a bite of stew. “Not in my wildest imaginings.”
“Oh?” Elena retorted. “What were your wildest imaginings, then?”
“That’s my business.” Arnaud winked at Mira, who flushed.
“The only good thing about separations is the reunion afterward,” Xabi said, tightening his arms around Elena.
Tristan lunged toward his cousin.
“By all means, take him,” Arnaud said to the boy.
Alejandro settled Tristan on the fleece near the bed. Tristan reached for a carved wooden bear and began to mouth it.
“That’s not my work,” Arnaud said, nodding at the toy.
“I made it,” Xabi said.
“How long have you been in Bayonne?” Arnaud asked him.
“I sailed with the whalers across the sea, helped my cousin with the harpooning. When I returned here and learned Mira was waiting for you, I stayed on to watch over your family. Had no idea this surprise was in store for me.” He nuzzled Elena’s cheek.
“The moment I found Xabi gone from his homestead, I decided we would come to Bayonne, hoping we’d arrive before he did,” Elena explained. “I’d no idea where you all lived, of course. But Mira discovered me at the inn where we’re lodging and brought us back here.”
Arnaud scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. “Fortune smiles upon us all, it seems.”
Mira opened her mouth to protest, to tell the story of the poisoned sweets, her visit to the bookmaker, her reason for entering the inn today. Then she hesitated. Why ruin this moment with a story full of darkness? Also, what proof did she have, really, that some wealthy widow from the south had tried to poison her? Yes, the bookmaker said the woman had cleaned out his pigment supply. But the box of pigments and the bag of sweets could have originated with any number of individuals in Bayonne. She had met dozens of merchants at the bishop’s tribute feast, and all of them knew she was an artist. She glanced at Xabi, saw him holding back as well. In his expression there was a plea: Let us forget the troubles of the past for today.
Elena sprang up as if she, too, had read Xabi’s thoughts.
“We have much to celebrate,” she declared. “Xabi, Mira, come with me. We are fetching our things from that inn, this very moment. Alejandro, stay here and entertain your cousin while Arnaud naps.”
“We can do the marketing on our way back,” Mira said, warming to Elena’s theme. “We feast tonight!”
Alejandro’s eyes were round with amazement. “But where will we stay?”
“Here,” Elena said firmly. “We’ve found our family and we belong with them.”
He looked around, doubtful.
Mira remembered the boy had spent his young life in a castle, coddled and waited upon. He had likely never shared a bedchamber before.
“I will make a nest of fleeces and blankets for you cousins to sleep upon,” she told him. “Tristan will cling to you like a burr.”
Alejandro’s face lit up. “You have my mother’s eyes,” he said, tilting his head back to look at her. “And her smile.”
Mira knelt and embraced her brother.
“This day would have brought her much joy,” she told him.
78
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Mira, Elena, and Xabi hustled through the streets of Bayonne, fizzing with energy. At the inn, they hurried past the sniffing, superior innkeeper and bounded up the stairs. In Elena’s bedchamber, Mira saw Xabi cast an admiring glance at the four-poster bed.
“Why don’t I take Alejandro’s things and meet you in the sitting room downstairs?” she suggested. “I saw some portraits hanging there and I wish to ask the innkeeper about the artist.”
“A fine plan,” Elena agreed, casting a covert glance at Xabi.
He ran a hand along the surface of an oak chest, oblivious to the scheming of the two women.
As soon as Mira shut the door she heard muffled laughter from within the room and grinned. She resolved to take all the time in the world to examine the artwork.
In the corridor, she wrinkled her nose at the acrid scent of tallow that hung in the low-ceilinged space. Despite its veneer of elegance, the inn supplied tallow candles to its guests, rather than the more costly, sweet-smelling beeswax favored by the wealthy.
As she descended the staircase, the bell jingled over the front door.
A party of merchants clattered down the stairs behind her, their boots loud on the wooden treads.
Mira rounded the corner into the entry hall. A plump, veiled woman dressed all in black stood by the innkeeper, who was talking to her in a supplicating manner.
Was this the same widow who had
been seated at the opposite end of the long table the night of the bishop’s feast, the woman whose lonely demeanor inspired sympathy in her? Mira stood motionless, transfixed.
The woman was speaking now, her low tone marked by the unmistakeable lilt of an Aragónese accent.
Dread constricted Mira’s chest.
She knew that voice.
It belonged to Amadina Sacazar.
Quickly Mira pulled the hood of her cloak over her forehead. She stood in the shadows as the merchants trooped through the entry hall, filling the space with booming laughter and animated chatter. Their voices galvanized her into motion. She darted forward, hoping to blend with the group as they departed.
Then the innkeeper’s voice rang out.
“Madame,” he called. “A word.”
She pretended not to hear, willing the merchants to exit so she could make her escape. But the one in the lead stopped in his tracks.
“Blast,” he swore. “I’ve forgotten my coin purse. Won’t get far without it.”
“We shall wait,” one of his companions replied.
The delay gave the innkeeper time to reach Mira.
“Madame, the woman you inquired about earlier has returned,” he said, eyeing her with annoyance. “She is here now, and eager to speak to you.”
Mira froze, panicked.
Amadina stood several paces away, her head shrouded by a gauzy black veil. A burly man descended the stairs and came to stand at Amadina’s side. Mira registered the features of his face with sickening clarity. He was the blank-eyed servant who had tried to lure her into Carlo Sacazar’s home that autumn day in Nay.
Amadina spoke to him in rapid Aragónese. “Did you lock it up?”
“Yes, madame.” His meek voice belied his formidable appearance.
He handed a key to Amadina, which she slipped inside a pocket.
Panic seized Mira’s heart. She could not tear her eyes away from the man.
The merchant thudded down the stairs, jingling his purse. “I would have a look upstairs if I were you,” he advised the innkeeper, gesturing to the heavens. “I caught a whiff of smoke. Perhaps a candle has burned through a drape.”
The innkeeper snapped at a servant to go investigate the matter.
The merchant rejoined his companions and the group of men made ready to leave. Mira wanted to vault forward and beg them for protection. She pressed a hand against her thigh, felt the outline of her dagger in its sheath.
“Good sir,” she heard Amadina say to the innkeeper in a voice pitched high. “Please do not delay in your investigation. We will make our introductions. My man will watch over the entryway for you.”
The merchants filed out the door.
“Very well,” the innkeeper said, mashing his lips together. “I shall return directly.”
The sound of the innkeeper’s footsteps retreating up the stairs echoed in the sudden silence. Amadina’s eyes glinted behind the dusky veil. The manservant advanced slowly toward Mira, his face expressionless.
She backed into the sitting room, a scream rising in her throat.
79
February, 2017
Oxford, England
Zari
It had been nearly two years since Zari first visited John’s laboratory in Oxford.
The last time she saw him, they’d spent a glorious day surfing near St. Jean de Luz, followed by too much wine at dinner. At evening’s end, John had correctly read the desire in Zari’s eyes—longing powered by loneliness and the ache of missing Wil. She found herself in John’s arms, enthusiastically returning a lust-filled embrace, then abruptly pulled away, rebuffing him. The ease and trust forged during that day had vanished in an instant.
Now, after months of no contact, they approached each other with stilted formality.
“Zari,” John said, thrusting out a hand.
She took it. “I’m happy to see you again, John.”
His hand was cool in hers. He withdrew it quickly and led her to his office.
No one else was in his laboratory this afternoon. Strains of classical music emanated from hidden speakers. Large metal structures stood against one wall, centuries-old canvases stretched out on them, looking forlorn without their frames. The high white-painted ceilings made the space seem much larger than it was. Zari eyed the array of metal tables and rolling carts outfitted with tools and squeeze bottles of mysterious liquids.
If things were different between them, she might have laughed and told John his workspace looked like a mad scientist’s lair. Now she followed him in silence, feeling just as awkward and out of place as she had the first time she entered this building two years before.
“Have a seat, please.”
John ushered Zari into a chair facing his desk, then took his own seat. She noted he was dressed in his work ‘uniform’—black jeans, black work boots, and a well-worn black cable knit sweater.
“How was your sabbatical?” she asked politely, though she could tell he was in no mood for small talk.
“Excellent,” he said, his expression brightening.
He looked the same as ever, she thought. Maybe a bit leaner, a bit more weather-worn. Zari had a hard time reconciling the work John with the surfing John. He was controlled and contained in this environment. His work involved so many repetitive and fastidious tasks. Out on the water, she had seen someone entirely different: a thrill-seeking, gutsy, joyous man.
“I’ll just jump to the reason I phoned you yesterday,” he said. “A studio assistant who helped with the analysis for the painting of the woman in blue reached out to me. She had seen your efforts to publicize Mira de Oto on social media and developed an interest in your research. When she saw the findings of the analysis—what had been made public and what had not—she contacted me.”
“I knew it!” Zari said triumphantly. “There’s evidence of Mira that’s been withheld.”
He nodded. “Her name is on the underdrawings next to Bermejo’s.”
“Just like in the painting of Carlo Sacazar and his family,” Zari breathed.
“Yes,” John confirmed.
“What can we do?” she implored him.
“Nothing at the moment.”
“But the painting was sold as the work of Bermejo. That’s fraudulent,” Zari insisted. “The buyer needs to know. The art world needs to know.”
John’s expression tightened. “The conservators had to sign a nondisclosure agreement,” he said. “If you publicize what I’ve told you, my source will lose her job. And perhaps her future in art conservation.”
Something deep in Zari’s core constricted. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Would she torpedo a young woman’s career just to advance her own?
“I could not in good conscience keep this information from you,” he went on. “I know the backstory, after all. I’ve been along for the ride since the beginning of this adventure—when you first came to Oxford.”
Was Zari mistaken or did his tone sound sympathetic?
She looked at him in despair. “If this stands, soon all of the portraits stamped with Arnaud de Luz’s mark will be attributed to Bermejo. I don’t see how telling me this and then essentially gagging me is helpful.”
“Here’s why it’s helpful, Zari.” John leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I know who bought that painting. And I can assure you the owner is on your side.”
“What?”
“You recall that an anonymous party paid for my conservation efforts on the Fontbroke College portrait two years ago.”
“Yes.”
“The same person bought the painting of the woman in blue from Dotie Butterfield-Swinton,” he said. “The owner is interested in your research on Cornelia van der Zee and Miramonde de Oto, and is quite motivated to uncover the truth about these paintings.”
“So
the buyer intentionally overpaid for a falsely attributed painting yesterday?” Zari asked, incredulous. “Just to protect the truth?”
He shot her a wry look. “The rich do whatever they please with their money. In this case, mounting another conservation effort on the painting. Then a report will be issued with new findings that reveal what’s been suppressed.”
“From who, though? Who’s doing the analysis?”
John stood up, ran a hand through his short black hair. “Me.” He dipped his head toward the door. “I want to show you something.”
Zari matched his long strides back to the central laboratory. An empty metal stretcher stood apart from the others. John pointed at it.
“The painting of the woman in blue will be on that stretcher next week. My findings will contradict Dotie’s.” He gazed at the metal stretcher thoughtfully, as if the portrait were already there. “Now, this doesn’t mean the attribution to Bermejo will be stripped. But it will cast doubt on it. And that’s where you come in. You’ve only just begun to build a case for Miramonde de Oto.” He turned and looked into Zari’s eyes. “Don’t stop now.”
John’s words struck her like sparks.
“Keep polishing Mira’s star, you mean,” she said shakily, on the verge of tears.
“Any way you can, the faster the better.”
“I’ve been doing that, John,” she said, “for two years. But I’m just starting out in my career. I don’t have a professorship. I don’t have a posse of elite colleagues, a vast network of people I’ve been building social capital with for decades.”
He sucked in a breath and let the air out in an exasperated whoosh. “You have to stop looking over your shoulder at Dotie.”
“But what if he gets the dean position at Fontbroke College because of this? It’s not right!”
John glanced at her wearily. “This is all a game, Zari. He’s positioned himself well for the moment. So let him puff up his feathers and strut. It will be all the more embarrassing for him when the truth comes out. Don’t seek revenge. You’ll just get burned, and then you’ll sour on the academic world before you’ve really dug your feet in. Is that what you want?”