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Chapter 27
The very first thing that came to my mind upon entering was the lost Library of Alexandria. I’d read many depictions and seen even more artistic rendering of it, such as O. Von Corven’s famous nineteenth-century sketch. But right now, all of them seemed to pale in comparison to the Thorbørn family library. It had all the same grandeur as the rest of their home, without the modern elements. It looked ancient with rows of columns and scrolls that lined a whole section of the walls that went on for rows. It seemed untouched by time or man, but that was impossible because there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.
Slowly, much slower than a human, I stepped farther inside, moving from the double doors to the first row of rolls. The paper was well-aged, and I knew the ink must have faded a bit. What lost knowledge of humanity was just sitting on a shelf here? How many historians, conservators, restorationist, would give everything they had just to spend an hour in here?
“A great many, I would assume.” Sigbjørn’s voice arose from behind me, and when I turned to look, he was lifting a massive covered canvas onto an easel with ease and automatically, with vampire speed, I was at his side curious.
“What is this?” I asked, almost bouncing. It had to be amazing. Everything here was amazing, and if it was art, it was my bread and butter.
“She looks like a puppy waiting for a bone.” Ulrik laughed at me.
“If she had a tail, it would be waging for sure,” Hinrik added.
“Leave her be,” Theseus grumbled, stepping up to his father and me. “Father, did they interrupt us simply so we may be their entertainment, or is there truly a need for us?”
“Us…as in the both of you?” He grinned. “No, you are not needed, Theseus. Druella, on the other hand, I need her assistance.”
“Me?” I looked between him and the blanketed canvas. “With?”
With a single tug, he pulled the sheet off the art, exposing a blank canvas, and I could feel all the excitement and joy fall from my face. So, when Ulrik began to laugh, I knew the disappointment was clear.
Even Theseus couldn’t help but snicker. “I would be jealous, a simple painting, or the lack of one could bring forth such an expression if you did not look so endearing as you pout.”
“I’m not pouting,” I lied, trying to correct my face, looking back to Sigbjørn who also smiled but not as wide and silly as the rest of his sons. “I don’t understand. Is this a joke? You all want to see if an art nerd would admire a blank canvas as art? If so, you picked the wrong person. I’m not a fan of modern or minimalist art. I stop at the Impressionism era and then go back to the classics.”
“Truly?” Sigbjørn inquired with a fixed gaze. “I find modern art quite pleasant. However, that is a discourse we shall have to have another date. For this is neither modern nor minimalist art.”
“Is it art at all if it is blank?” I asked again. I was expecting lost works of art Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Vermeer, Rembrandt, never before seen sketches from Frida Kahlo. Art recovered from Nazis. There had to be some.
“Patience, young one, you have all of eternity to behold our collections.” Sigbjørn said before looking back to the canvas. “Have you forgotten we seek answers to set you free from your binding?”
Right, properties. “Okay, how is this going to help?”
“This,” he nodded to the canvas, “is a painting I bought in 1831. It is by an all but forgotten Austrian painter named, Elisa-Maria Götze. She studied under the Düsseldorf school of painting. I believe with your occupation, you should be familiar with such a school.”
“Yes, of course. But I have never heard of this woman. And female painters were rare in the Düsseldorf,” I replied.
There weren’t many females accredited to the school back then. It was a “man’s profession,” and it wasn’t always looked upon with great kindness for them, let alone women. To find female artists, I had actively searched them out while studying the different periods. In the Düsseldorf era, I even wrote a paper on the work of Amalia Lindegren and Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann. But I’d never heard of this Elisa-Maria Götze.
“Götze. I’d forgotten about her,” Theseus spoke to himself as he stared at the blank canvas, too.
“That seems to be your creed nowadays, brother,” Ulrik replied, coming around and placing his arm around Theseus’s neck,
nearly putting him in a chokehold.
Theseus looked more exhausted by Ulrik’s presence and then concerned. Hinrik came over to stand right beside his father, also staring at this painting of nothing.
“Am I missing something?” I asked all of them. “You bought a painting of nothing from a female artist in 1831.”
“Can’t you see the magic?” Hinrik frowned, looking me over, confused.
“Magic?” As magic, magic, or as in Disney magic, the painting of nothing represented something deep, which made us all gather around it?
Sigbjørn snickered, his gaze shifting to Theseus’s. “Your mate’s humor is very refreshing. It is like listening to the thoughts of a mortal sometimes.”
Ulrik snorted before laughing. “Father, that makes her sound dumb.”
“If he wanted to call her foolish, he would have said her thoughts were similar to yours,” Theseus snapped back, breaking out of Ulrik’s hold. “She is only a year old. Of course, her thoughts would be so.”
