is a chance I may have moved my chair closer to you.” His expression darkens. “I don’t remember. You bewitched me with that show you put on—inserting me into your fantasy. I probably couldn’t have told you what day it was while I was in that room, let alone whether or not I moved a chair.”
“But the catacombs? That dark hole under the floor?”
He nods, a soft smile taking over his features. “There is not only a maze above the ground but one beneath it, as well. They run from under the palace to the far reaches of the grounds. I assure you that is all you saw beneath the cottage, and I can almost assure you it was I who moved the chair.”
I sigh, and he finally drops my wrist. “I guess that all makes sense.” And it does, though I’m still uneasy. “I guess...I’ll head back and go to sleep.”
He reaches for my cheek but stops short.
“You are still frightened.”
I nod.
“Then you will sleep here.” He gestures toward the bed. “I was going to sleep on the floor anyway,” he adds.
At this, I want to reach for him, to ask him to forgive himself for nothing more than wanting what he cannot have. But I know that will only cause him further distress. And because I do not want to be alone in what now feels like too strange of a place, I agree.
“I do have one condition,” I say, and he bows his head slowly. “You need to let me tend to your wounds. There are so many bruises.” For a moment I wonder if this is the hardest he’s punished himself yet. “I don’t want you marred on my account.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I shake my head. “Let me—let me do something good,” I say.
His shoulders relax, and he points toward the direction from where we came. “The bathing room is on the left. You will find supplies in there, healing salves and such.”
I smile and turn toward the door, and that’s when I see what’s on the wall...what wasn’t in my line of sight when we entered the room.
This is what I was sent to find, but now that I see it, I realize that whatever the story is behind the painting, it’s more than I anticipated.
It is not only the image of an angel...but it is one who wears my face.
Benedict
THERE IS A loud thump as my bedroom door slams shut. I whirl around to find Ruby crumpled against it, hands pressed to her face, her cheeks drained of all color.
“What is it?” I demand. My heart is in my throat. She seemed fine a moment ago, composed even.
“The portrait...” She keels forward as if to swoon. “You own one of Vernazza’s Guardian Angels paintings?”
I blink slowly, unable to comprehend the depth of emotion in her voice. “You’re a fan of Giuseppe Vernazza’s work?” Vernazza was regarded as the great artist of our age until his unfortunate death a decade ago, losing control of his car and wrapping it around a tree along the Nightgardin border. A waste to lose such a gifted prodigy before his time.
Her laugh is without humor and goes on and on, the hysterical edge slashing my peace of mind. “You could say that,” she gasps. “Vernazza was my father. Look closer at the painting. Tell me, does it remind you of anyone?”
I transfer my gaze from her beautiful face to that of the angel, the one that has so often served as both my temptation and my salvation—and my heart gives a dull thud. What a fool I have been not to see what was right under my nose. Ruby’s face...the angel’s face, good God, they are one and the same. No wonder she appeared so familiar the moment she removed the wig. My insides churn.
“He painted my features as he imagined they would one day look. His imagination came close to the truth, right?”
It’s as if my world has flipped its axis and down is up and up is down. “I didn’t know.”
How could I have been so blind?
“Of course not.” She winds her arms around her legs, hugs her knees to her chest. “Who would imagine the daughter of Europe’s most famous painter since Pablo Picasso would make a living by selling her body?”
“Why do you work for The Jewel Box?”
Her eyes darken. “My father died.”
“Rest his soul.” I make the sign of the cross. “A terrible accident. I shall pray for him.”
“Accident?” She pushes herself to standing, her features fierce, shining with hidden fire. “My father drove that same route between Nightgardin and Rosegate at least once a week to deal with patrons. He took expert care of that car. No. That wasn’t a mere accident that claimed his life. The weather was calm. The sun shining. He was murdered. Someone tampered with his brakes!”
My shoulder blades slam together. “You have proof?”
A sob escapes her. “Only the truth in my heart. There is no proof. No motive. Mother died not long after my birth, and all I had after Father was my brother. J-J-J-Jasper.” As the name leaves her tongue, her weeping grows.
“Jasper Vernazza.” I frown. “This name, it’s familiar to me.”
“His fate wasn’t as dramatic as Father’s. He still lives, if you can call being locked in a cage like an animal a life. He was a minor news story this past year until we lost his case and they locked him up. He was an art historian caught stealing a painting from my father’s collection in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. They say he wanted to sell it to a black market dealer in Hong Kong, but my brother reveres museums and Father’s legacy. It doesn’t make sense.” She wipes her eyes. “The portrait he was accused of stealing was another angel, actually. My father painted a whole series of them.”
“And each one is superb. I’ve studied his works.” I’ve seen most of them over the years. They are all of Ruby’s dreamy, heavenly face contrasted with a different hyperrealistic dystopian cityscape.
“My brother was set up, I just don’t know why.” With one shuddering inhalation she composes herself. “Anyway, this is not your concern. I remember your library. Art is not the only thing you study. You are fascinated by tales of pleasure, as well. I swear on my life you know more about the erotic arts than Madam herself.”
I nod. “I seek to understand beauty, for to know beauty is to know the face of God.” Strange. Until this moment I’ve never articulated this idea, either in thoughts or words.
She ducks her chin, a little shy, and stares up between her curtain of golden hair. “And to you, pleasure is beautiful?”
“I believe there is a sacred union of the body and soul when it comes to sex.” I begin to pace, assuming the tone of the professor, not a stretch considering I hold a PhD in Sacred Theology from the University of Edenvale. “Sexuality has the power to be as explosive as dynamite, and when used properly, it can be a tool that moves mountains. And if used improperly, it can grow volatile and wreak untold destruction.”
