Just without the threats; the yearning.
She swallowed and nodded though he couldn’t see her.
They moved again and Nicole took in the rest of the paintings, the masterpieces of Victorian artwork and mythological images that filled her with such a sense of magic and beauty and craftsmanship that it almost felt supernatural.
But, where were all the paintings of Irish myth? She turned, scanning, a whispered revelation trickling through her mind.
There werenone.
There had been none in Remi’s research of the harp either; none in Burghley House …
Perhaps if she laid it all out in front of her, she’d see it more clearly. There was another museum in Manchester, the next closest city. No doubt it also had Pre-Raphaelite and mythological paintings that might be worth searching …
‘I’m going to Anglesey today,’ Kyan said, where he lingered beside a small black-bronze sculpture of an athlete wrestling a python – all strained dark muscle. ‘To see if there’s anything there.’
The Druid.
‘Do you think there will be?’
‘I have no idea, but I’ll check the stones. I’ll be back tonight. You can—’ He paused. ‘You can sleep in my room. Biróg knows which one it is.’
Nicole stilled at the thought, the Muse’s earlier words on desire and temptation returning, her pulse ticking. ‘Okay. Thank you.’
He made a gruff sound. ‘I want you to be comfortable.’
A smile pulled at her mouth. ‘I suppose I’ll see you tonight, then?’
‘Tonight,’ he agreed, the word warm and gold as the Empyrean that bound them together.
After spending some time using the neighbouring library’s access, Nicole returned to the townhouse. She shared an abundant take-out with her family, Remi and Lawna, and soon the dining room scented of spices and canned drinks.
Despite the mystery she had to solve, Nicole couldn’t help but look around and feel a grateful ache in her chest. They’d batted around ideas and theories about the white-haired stranger in Dylan’s memory and the Victorian language of flowers, but come to no conclusions.
After a shower, Nicole changed into her pyjamas – a short white pointelle set with a soft, long cardigan over – then took all her notes to Kyan’s small study.
Biróg had explained that she’d warded the house so no one could see which lights were on or windows were open, and no one would hear or see them from outside. So, Nicole gratefully cracked the window across the space, warm night air flooding in, a light pattering rain filling the candlelit room with scents of petrichor and wet pavement.
The space was quiet and papered in all the shades of a lost glade. Across on the right was the small window. Otherwise, the right-hand wall had a small black and vintage-tiled fireplace. A single desk sat in the centre of the space which didn’t face the mantlepiece. When she stepped closer, she realised why.
It was lined with his things.
Nicole approached slowly. There was a gladiator helmet engraved with a warrior – Kyan – fighting a centaur. She trailed the mythological details, her finger hovering close but not daring to touch. Next, a battered-looking Celtic Revival piece of jewellery. Nestled deep in the shadows of another artefact was an acorn that made her lips turn up slightly, and a small white sports ball that must match the hockey-like stick in the corner. Both untouched.
An academic calm came over her as she sank into the chesterfield office chair, her notes and paintings splayed out before her.
She pulled out the photo she’d printed from an infamously impressive collection of glass flowers. They’d been created by a father and son duo by the name of Blaschka, in what was then known as the Kingdom of Bohemia. Working from the late 1800s over fifty years, the pair had crafted thousands of incredibly delicate and realistic glass flowers, most now housed in Harvard University.
There was more research to do before they decided their only bet was to fly to the US. The Muse was in Liverpool for a reason. All the connections tied back to Ireland in some way.
But now there was just her, and the whispers of her mother’s mythological trail.
Nicole adjusted the poppy she’d placed in a tiny, antique-looking glass from the kitchen, its tissue-thin petals drowsy and bloody. When she’d taken her father images of the Pre-Raphaelite paintings, in preparation for going to Manchester Gallery the next day, he’d told her what the Muse’s poppy meant in the Victorians’ language of flowers.
Death, for her mother’s murder.
Any more death, though, Nicole wouldn’t accept.
So, she got to work.
