She imagined the room darkening, the piece lit differently, and realised: this was one of the paintings Professor Westmoore had talked about in her Introduction to Art History lecture in Estwood.
‘… I am here. Trapped … as if in a house of water,’ the Muse had said.
A house of water …
It had been strange phrasing, not only because the Muse lived in an apartment. But if she’d meant an aquarium, like a caged animal, why hadn’t she said that?
A house. Of water.
There were so many paintings here of Sirens and water. But …
Her gaze dropped to the gleaming plaque.
Waterhouse.
‘Waterhouse was one of the most well-known Victorian painters,’ Nicole said, answering Remi. ‘He was heavily inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites and so much of his work had delicate-featured, red-haired women like the Muse. Westmoore had one of his paintings in her collection, too:A Mermaid.’
Back then, Nicole had thought the painting was just one of the many depictions of supernaturals in the professor’s private collection. But how could it be a coincidence that Westmoore had a Waterhouse painting and now Nicole was faced with another?
She took out her phone to call her father and dislodged the audio tour. ‘Dad, I need you to look up the paintingHylas and the Nymphsand tell me what the flowers mean.’
It took a few moments as he explained each of them. But the final one had her lips curling into a smile.
‘The white water lily,’ he said, ‘is calledNymphaea alba.’
They couldn’t get the next clue from the Museuntil they brought her a flower, and the Nymphs were thesecret-keepers… trapped in a Waterhouse painting.
Nicole’s smile grew. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ She hung up. ‘It’s that one.’ She pointed to the bright lily floating in the dark water between the Nymphs.
She hesitated a moment before reaching for the table in front of it, apologising under her breath.
Then climbed on top of the priceless furniture.
‘Er, Nicole?’ Remi asked. ‘Whatcha doing?’
‘I need to get a closer look.’ Hopefully Luca would be working his Nazen magic on the cameras.
A zinging sound informed her that Remi had activated a small shield of her mother’s that could deflect human interest.
But not for long.
‘You’ve got one minute, unless someone gets too close,’ Remi warned.
Nicole knelt on the dresser and peered closer, hesitant to touch it without gloves. A whisper of instinct had her Empyreal turning its eternally watchful attention on the painting too. Something brushed against her face. She jerked back, but could have sworn the Nymphs’ inky-black eyes had turned to her.
It made her think of everything the Muse had said: how she was deemed responsible for others’ actions. How desire was not to be feared. How blame had been written on a woman’s body, and how she wanted aflower back.
‘It’s this one,’ she said.
‘Okay, but what does thatmean?’ Remi asked. ‘Tell me you have an idea for how to get this thing out of here and why it’s not glass.’
‘I don’t think we need to take the whole thing,’ Nicole said. ‘Maybe it will just …’ She pressed her lips together.
She wished she had a pair of gloves.
‘You’re going to have to touch it,’ Remi said, over the countdown of the tech.
Nicole sucked in a pained breath. Touching a masterpiece was going to send her to artistic hell.
