by Amy Maroney
Zari put a hand on the metal stretcher, imagining the portrait of Lady de Vernier suspended there, awaiting inspection by an infrared camera.
“All this time, I thought you were done with me,” she said slowly. “I’m truly sorry about how that day in St. Jean de Luz ended, John. I mourned the loss of you, my only ally in the art conservation world.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “St. Jean de Luz seems like a lifetime ago, to be honest. I don’t harbor any anger toward you, Zari. In fact, I hope we can surf together again sometime.”
She regarded him in surprise. “Really? But your long silence—I contacted you so many times, I felt like a stalker. And you never responded.”
“I did not communicate with anyone about work-related topics during my sabbatical, and I needed that. I wasn’t ignoring you specifically.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Then, more gently, he said, “I know Miramonde de Oto is your obsession, Zari, but she’s not mine. There’s more to life than chasing ghosts through history, you know.”
Zari softened, hearing the frankness in his voice. The sabbatical had been a chance to escape his daily life. Of course he would want to erect boundaries where he could during those precious months away.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “There’s much more to life.”
Her mind went to Wil then. A tingle of shame gathered at the nape of her neck and spread upward. As much as Mira consumed her, the fact remained that the woman was dead and had been for five hundred years. And Wil was walking the earth, very much alive. No matter what lay ahead with her search for Mira, Zari would walk alongside him during the time she had left in this world. Their life together, their future, would come first.
Zari took a ragged breath.
“I’ll be moving to Amsterdam soon,” she told John. “Can we stay in touch? I’d like to stay informed on your findings—if that suits you.”
“Absolutely.”
“John...” she hesitated, worried her next question might anger him. “I know you can’t tell me the identity of the buyer, but can you tell me if it’s a man or a woman? I know you wouldn’t betray the buyer’s trust, but I wish I knew his or her motivation—I’m burning up with curiosity.”
He frowned a little, working the muscles in his jaw. Then his expression loosened. He seemed to make a decision.
“She is the descendent of a female Old Master,” he said. “I can’t tell you more than that, I’m sorry to say.”
“I had a feeling she was a woman,” Zari crowed. “At least, I hoped so. Was Cornelia van der Zee her ancestor?”
John shook his head, mouth quirked in a half-smile. “You can be relentless, Zari Durrell. All I can tell you is you’re not alone in this. And neither is Mira.”
80
Autumn, 1506
Bayonne, Gascony
Mira
Amadina brushed past Mira and stood by the hearth, still shrouded in her veil.
Mira turned slowly, keeping the other woman in her sights. Her throat felt coated with sawdust. Behind her, Amadina’s manservant closed in.
“I am in mourning, so I cannot show my face,” Amadina said mildly in Aragónese. “But I do not feel at ease unless I can see a person’s eyes.”
She dipped her head at her manservant. He ripped Mira’s hood off, prodding her forward until she was an arm’s length from Amadina.
Mira caught a whiff of burning tallow mixed with smoke. Xabi and Elena must smell it too. Surely they would descend the stairs any moment. The thought gave her courage.
“When did you exchange your nun’s habit for the costume of a widow?” she asked Amadina in a voice that was far more confident than it had any right to be.
Amadina balled her hands into fists.
“Your poisoned sweets served only to kill a few mice,” Mira said, her heart battering her ribs. “And your deadly pigments float across the sea. I cannot fathom why you wish to end my life. You, an abbess and a Sacazar! What could I possibly have done to make you hate me so?”
“Béatrice de Belarac made you her apprentice in all her little industries—especially wool,” Amadina snarled. “She connived my brother into giving her all she needed to become my greatest rival. Equipment, silver, credit, advice. And how did she thank the Sacazar family? By robbing me of my best contract. I spent years traveling to Toulouse, cultivating a partnership with Lord de Vernier, building relationships with all of his merchant friends.” She stepped closer, the delicate material of her veil shuddering with each exhale. “Your Béatrice stole him from me, undercut all I had done, offered him a lower price and God knows what else, knowing all the time he was my partner.”
“That’s not true!” Mira burst out. “You lie. No one at the Abbey of Belarac knew Lord de Vernier had signed a contract with you.”
The servant pressed one meaty hand on Mira’s shoulder, forcing her to kneel. His fingers dug into her flesh with such power she feared he would snap her collarbone.
“No, you lie,” Amadina spat. “You are no better than Béatrice. Last summer, when Lord de Vernier was about to sign my contract anew, you stole him from under my nose just as she had done. To spite me.” She leaned closer. “I’m sure the woman instructed you to do it. Did you never think there would be consequences?”
“I did nothing to spite you,” Mira retorted. “I knew nothing of your business dealings. I was only helping Belarac survive.”
Amadina gave a short laugh. “Playing the innocent. You are no longer a girl. Do not insult me with falsehoods.”
“I speak the truth!” Mira protested. Anger ignited in her chest and smoldered there, gathering strength.
The sound of muffled shouts penetrated the ceiling. Footsteps pounded on the staircase.
Please, Mira thought. Let that be Elena and Xabi.
Amadina withdrew a glittering object strung on a gold chain from her bodice and lifted it over her head. Her veil drew back, revealing her flushed face.
Mira’s eyes widened in astonishment. Mother Béatrice’s signet ring dangled on the chain, the ring that had gone missing when she died.
“You,” she breathed. “You murdered her.”
Amadina smiled thinly, a shimmer of pride in her brown eyes. “No, I did not.”
Amadina’s slight emphasis on the word ‘I’ gave Mira pause. The memory of her friend Deedit’s death in Toulouse last year came rushing forth in a flood. In broad daylight, Deedit had been felled by a cloaked assailant’s blade. During the chaos afterward, Deedit insisted that the man lunged at Mira, not her.
“You gave the order, though,” Mira said to Amadina, rage flooding her veins. “By my guess to the same man you paid to kill me in Toulouse. But he slaughtered my friend instead. Twice now you have tried to end my life. And twice you have failed.”
“I will not fail a third time,” Amadina murmured, stepping closer, swinging the ring on its golden chain in front of Mira’s face. “You can be sure of that.”
With one deft motion she slipped the necklace over Mira’s head, twisted it tightly, and pulled.
Mira felt the world begin to go dark. Desperately she lurched toward Amadina and gathered the woman’s skirts in her hands, yanking with all her strength. Amadina cried out and tumbled to the floor.
The huge man behind Mira yelped in pain. Then, blessedly, the pressure on her shoulder vanished. Mira gasped for air, trying to clear her head.
“Get buckets!” screeched the innkeeper from the stairwell. “We need water! Hurry!”
Mira staggered to her feet. Her eyes fell on the bellows next to the hearth. She leapt for it just as Amadina heaved herself up and pivoted in her direction.
This time they both crashed to the floor in a tangle of skirts and cloaks. Mira thrust the bellows violently at Amadina’s head. But Amadina ducked and rolled over in a surprising display of nimbleness. She sat up wi
th a blade in her hand.
Mira swung the bellows again. This time she got Amadina on the shoulder, but lost her balance and pitched forward. Amadina’s dagger pierced her skirts, slicing into her thigh.
She could not suppress a cry of pain.
Behind her she heard Xabi cursing in Basque as he tussled with Amadina’s servant. Then she heard another familiar voice.
“What by all the gods is this?”
Braid flying, Elena wrenched the dagger from Amadina’s hand and tossed it into the fire.
Mira fumbled under her skirts for her own blade, trying to ignore the searing ache of her wound. She stalked toward Amadina, brandishing the weapon. Amadina scuttled backward, eyes wild.
Mira lunged, her blade coming within a finger’s breadth of Amadina’s throat. Amadina pulled away in panic and stumbled into the fireplace grate. She toppled to the floor again.
A crack of wood on bone sounded behind them. Glancing sideways, Mira saw Amadina’s manservant collapse. Xabi stood over him holding a splintered chair, blood trickling down his cheek.
Elena knelt by Amadina’s side, her own dagger at the ready.
“She means to murder me,” Mira croaked. Her breath came out in jagged bursts.
Elena’s expression darkened. “Say the word, and I’ll slit her throat.”
Amadina let out a scream. “Help me! I am under attack!”
Elena pushed the point of her blade against Amadina’s neck until blood beaded there.
Mira stood over Amadina, studying her face. It was so like Carlo’s, with the same round cheeks, wide brown eyes, generous mouth. Two siblings—so alike in appearance, yet so horribly different in temperament.
A realization struck her.
“You poisoned Carlo, too,” Mira said in a voice so low, so terrible, that even Elena glanced at her with alarm. “You murdered your own brother.”
Amadina’s lips trembled. “I had no other choice,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He betrayed me.”
Mira raised her dagger high, desperate for vengeance, the blood pounding in her head. Elena stood aside, seeming to understand. Mira’s blade would end Amadina, not hers.
Then, with great effort, Mira corralled her anger. She stilled herself, dropped her arm.
“Why do you hesitate?” Elena asked, eyes blazing. “Strike!”
Mira’s gaze did not stray from Amadina’s face. “If I kill her we all face punishment.”
“The woman deserves to die,” Elena protested. “She’s a murderer.”
“Her gold carries more weight than the truth,” Mira said. “She has the bishop in her pocket. Destroying Amadina will bring my death as well—perhaps all of ours. What will happen to the children?”
Servants and lodgers streamed down the staircase into the entry hall, their arms loaded with belongings.
“Fire!” someone shouted.
“No!” Amadina’s face constricted in terror. “My things!”
She caught sight of her manservant, who lay unmoving on the floor, face down.
“Step back,” she ordered Mira and Elena. “Your man has killed my servant. You will go to the bailiff, all three of you, for the crime.”
“He’s not dead,” Xabi interjected from the doorway. “He’s still breathing. I checked.”
Amadina scowled.
“Anyway, you’re not the one holding a blade,” Elena pointed out acidly. “You’re scrabbling on your backside like an upended tortoise.”
Mira put a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Please, do as she tells us.”
Mouth pressed into a thin line, Elena complied.
Amadina heaved herself up, stumbled into the entry hall, and pushed through the crowd descending the stairs.
“What are you doing?” the innkeeper roared at her.
“I will be hasty,” she snapped, mounting the first step. “Leave me be.”
“We’ve seen enough,” Xabi thundered at the women over the din. “Let’s go.”
Her wound throbbing with pain, Mira grasped Elena’s hand and limped toward the door.
81
February, 2017
Oxford, England
Zari
Slipping on her hood to ward off the mist sifting down from a dull gray sky, Zari stood on the sidewalk in front of her hotel, looking in the direction of the train station. She had texted her mentor Vanessa Conlon yesterday hoping to get together. But Vanessa was in Ireland for a few days visiting family.
There was just one more reason to linger here.
The adrenalin that propelled Zari from London to Oxford was gone. In its place was a mood of calm acceptance. She savored it, not quite sure where it had come from. Then she wheeled and pulled her suitcase through the heart of Oxford, past John’s laboratory, all the way to the gates of Fontbroke College.
When she entered the doorway of the porters’ lodge, one of the men called out a greeting from behind the glass.
“You’re the American who was studying the portrait of a lady,” he said, bright blue eyes fixed on her. “What was it, two years ago?”
“Good memory,” Zari said, smiling at him. “You don’t forget a face, do you?”
“Oh, I forget plenty of faces. But I wouldn’t forget that smile,” he said, grinning. “You Americans and your perfect teeth. What brings you back to Fontbroke?”
“Professor Conlon told me she had the portrait moved out of the storage vault, and I was hoping to get one more look at it. She said she put me on the visiting scholars list.”
He busied himself rifling through papers on a clipboard and glanced up at her again. “She did indeed. D’you want to take a peek at it now?”
Zari nodded. “Please.”
“Come on, then. I’ll show you.” He emerged through a side door in the porters’ lodge and waved her through the main entryway into the college.
They traversed a small square where the dean’s office overlooked the comings and goings of students and faculty. Zari admired the graceful lines of the dun-colored stone building, imagining Dotie sitting at a high window gazing out at his domain in the not-too-distant future. The thought made her gut twist with annoyance. She tore her gaze away and followed the porter through a set of arched double doors to the shadowy confines of a medieval hallway, its graceful arcades overlooking an open courtyard planted in grass.
The porter ushered her through another door into a red-carpeted interior hall leading to the dining room. The corridor’s wood-paneled walls were hung with dozens of paintings. Some were portraits of well-fed men wearing the white breeches and red coats that marked their status as wealthy members of the British military. Others were of men in civilian clothing, dating from the Renaissance era to the twentieth century. Interspersed with these portraits were landscapes of the bucolic English countryside featuring an assortment of cows, clouds, and the occasional shepherdess.
Near the end of the corridor, just above eye level, hung the portrait of Marguerite de Oto. Zari stood before it, hands to her mouth, scarcely able to contain her excitement. She bit her lip to fight back the sob threatening to explode out of her chest. Once again she was struck by the feeling that Mira was beckoning her back in time, yearning to be seen, to be known.
“She’s looking well, I’d say,” remarked the porter. “Despite having to wear a corset. And living in a drafty old castle with no plumbing.”
Zari burst out laughing, relieved to expel some of the emotion boiling inside her.
“I think she’s happier here than she was in the basement,” she agreed.
Just then several men barreled through the double doors leading from the dining room, talking animatedly amongst themselves. Zari turned. One of the men was middle-aged, but the others were much younger, probably graduate students.
Oh, no, Zari thought. Anxiety ignited somewhere inside her stomach and
spread like a sickening wave into her chest. Her left knee began to wobble.
The man at the center of the approaching group was none other than Dotie Butterfield-Swinton.
“Ah!” Dotie said, flapping an arm toward Zari. His thinning sand-colored hair was combed over just so, his skin pale as milk. He was dressed in a three-piece brown suit with a handkerchief in the breast pocket, folded to a meticulous point. “Enjoying our lady? A rose among thorns, isn’t she?”
Zari realized he hadn’t recognized her yet.
“She’s come out of the shadows.” The powerful voice resonating through the air was, miraculously, her own.
The men slowed, their chatter fading away.
“Marguerite de Oto,” Zari went on smoothly. “Painted by her daughter, Miramonde. Too bad there’s no plaque identifying them. Yet.”
She locked eyes with Dotie.
He faltered. “My God, you’re that American!” He sucked in a breath as if he’d just seen a ghost.
“Yes, I am.” Zari smiled warmly, as if she were greeting an old friend. “So good to see you again, Dotie.”
Dotie glanced over his shoulder at one of the young men, exchanging a meaningful look with him.
The man raised one eyebrow slightly and addressed Zari in a tone he probably reserved for pets and small children. “Not sure where you got your information. Professor Butterfield-Swinton has identified this as the work of Bartolomé Bermejo. Indeed, there are several works once inaccurately attributed to others, or lacking attribution entirely, that are now entering Bermejo’s oeuvre thanks to his efforts. One of them was sold this week at auction.”
There were assorted nods of assent from the others.
Zari’s quaking knee stilled. Although she was the only woman present, she felt Mira with her, buoying her with invisible strength.
“How interesting,” Zari said politely. “But I know where you got your information, and you’d be wise to do some digging on your own to learn the truth about the Old Master who made those paintings.”