‘Your flower,’ Nicole said nearly two hours later, putting the glass lily down as delicately as she could on a pile of art books in the Muse’s apartments.
Nicole’s still-damp hair smelled of pond water, despite trying to use a hand-drier in a café bathroom while Remi ran to grab her some new clothes. It didn’t stop her spreading her hands on the table, and leaning closer to the enigmatic creature who sat sprawled in one of her luxurious dress robes, hair like liquid copper, eyes satisfied.
‘Now,’ Nicole said. ‘The painting.’
For the first time since they’d met, the Muse smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Nicole
THE PAINTING WAS A ROSSETTI.
‘Roman Widow, orDîs Manibus,’ the Muse intoned as Nicole stared down at the framed piece.
In it, a single figure robed in gold sat just off-centre. She had the stylised face and famous red hair of the Pre-Raphaelite women, and her pale skin was wan against the silky fabric of her draped garment. To the figure’s left sat a stone memorial with a small basin below it, wreathed in pink roses.
Remi drew closer. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen this before.’
‘Ah, that’s because it’s supposed to be in the Museo de Arte de Ponce,in Puerto Rico,’ the Muse said.
Westmoore had explained that many paintings believed to be elsewhere in the world – like theDantepainting in Paris, orThe Wild Hunt Of Odin,also known asÅsgårdsreien,that should have been in Oslo – were forgeries to keep the real ones safe.
Nicole drank in the details of the painting. In each hand, the figure held a harp. One was entwined with flowers but both were made with spotted amber and black tortoiseshell.
‘Ancient harps,’ Remi said quietly, her brow pulled together as she studied it. ‘I think I’ve only ever seen something like these on the frescoes in Pompeii.’
‘They’re four-sided,’ Nicole said, hinting at what Remi had theorised about the Dagda’s harp.
Her friend only made a thoughtful noise.
An unusual type of pink rose – a dogrose – was entwined in the strings of the harp. It had fewer petals, which made it look more like a poppy, and symbolised both love and pain.
But it was the memorial-like object to the right of the widow that drew Nicole’s attention. It looked to be a carved box of honey-coloured stone, set in a recessed niche in the wall behind the figure. An eagle, rams’ heads, and an inscription in Latin decorated it.
But it was wrapped with a curious item that looked like an over-long, flexible torc.
‘What is that?’ Nicole asked.
She hated that she didn’t immediately know. That something about the painting hadn’t revealed what all this wasfor.
‘It’s supposed to be a bridal girdle,’ the Muse said, clearly unamused by the object.
Remi scrunched her nose. ‘Ew.’
The Muse chuckled. ‘They were more decorative, to be worn around the waist. Not sexually restrictive like chastity belts. May I?’ She glided between them with the glass lily in hand.
Her fingers were poised in a painterly curl that matched the painting as she reached for a circular seal on the frame. There were four of them, like gold disks, one on each side.
The Muse turned each one a certain way, before reaching the one at the top and twisting it as if it was hinged, to reveal a slot inside. She lifted the flower and placed it face-first inside like a key, then, using the pinched back of it, turned it.
The frame clicked and the strange little tap below the urn in the painting actually began toleak.
‘Wait!’ Nicole cried. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It reveals what’s beneath,’ the Muse said calmly.
As it did, the liquid pooled over the surface.
