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“The painting is cursed, Druella,” Sigbjørn cut in before Ulrik could comment.
“Cursed?” I repeated, stunned.
“Elisa-Maria Götze was far more talented than any of that school and era; however, unlike other artists, her works were appreciated while she still lived. Her fame spread across Europe, much to the ire of her husband, who was a Wiccan. When the Queen of Denmark asked Elisa-Maria to do the royal portraits, her husband could not contain his rage and jealous any longer.”
“So, her husband cursed her art because she was famous and talented?” What the hell?
“It was very unusual for a woman not only to be an artist but to be so revered as one. To make matters worse, he was also an artist but could not come to terms with being the lesser of the two of them,” Theseus explained, frowning. “She had the talent and fame he desired.”
I cracked my jaw to the side, trying to contain the rising inner feminist that wanted to break free and curse him out. How could he ruin her art?
“It is not the art he cursed, Druella. It was her,” Sigbjørn went on. “For greed and jealousy go hand in hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“The art was not originally blank,” he answered. “It was only Elisa-Maria Götze who could not see it then. Her husband’s curse was on her eyes only, so no matter how many times she put ink or paint or even dirt on hemp, cotton, or linen, she was unable to see any of it. The moment she would paint, her ability to see it would vanish—such a supernatural thing. You can imagine how a human would react.”
A feeling of dread washed over me. “She went crazy, didn’t she?”
“Worse,” he stated.
But what could have been worse than losing your mind?
“Having your mind while the rest of the world doubts you,” he answered like I had questioned that out loud. “She knew for certain something was wrong with her eyes. She called doctors, and they called her mad. She called priests, and they called her possessed. Nevertheless, she painted, knowing she could not see the works, and they were greater masterpieces. Her fame grew even more as society wished to see the works of the mad artist. Upon finishing, still painting, seeing its glory, her husband—who had pretended to be devoted and nurturing—strangled her as she signed her name. Upon her death, this which was said to be her greatest work faded into what you see now. The rest of her work has been destroyed or lost over the years.”
A chill went up my whole body, and hair at the back of my neck rose. I had goosebumps on my arms, and my fingers twitched. I wasn’t sure if it was rage or just sadness rising inside of me, but it was deeply rooted. I wasn’t sure what to say but wanted badly to say or do something.
“Now we’re talking!” Ulrik clapped, and I didn’t know why until I saw the painting tremble. I took a step away from it, feeling worse the more I looked upon it. They all looked at me, intrigued and bewildered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I shot back defensively. “I’m not sure what’s happening, either. Magic is even more of a mystery to me than it is to you. Whether I have it or not, this art is giving me bad vibes. I feel like her ghost might come out screaming or something.”
“Another ghost?” Theseus grinned. “So, it is her spirit that makes it empty?”
“Wait. What do you mean another ghost?” Hinrik cut in. “You see spirits as well?”
“She did while we were with the Swan Family in America.” Theseus smirked. “She caused quite a stir.”
“Hey! It was an accident, and luckily, it worked out. Let’s hope it was a one-time thing because I really don’t want to see another one any time soon.” Vampires and witches were enough; I didn’t need ghosts right now, too.
“Retreating is not an option,” Sigbjørn replied. “I wish for you to break the magic. Whether that calls for you to break the original spell or undo the curse and free a ghost.”
“Me?” I pointed to myself. Where were the ghostbusters? “I have no idea how to do that, and even if I did, what is the point of bringing this to me now? I thought our priority was to free me?” Saying that aloud felt a little selfish, but I didn’t understand why he brought this up.
“You do not see your similarity to Elisa-Maria Götza?” Sigbjørn question.
“I would certainly hope not, Father,” Theseus said defensively, eyeing his father oddly. “For that would mean I would share a similarity to the husband of Elisa-Maria Götza.”
“The thought did not cross my mind, though your possessiveness did not help your cause.” Sigbjørn shifted his gaze to me. “The similarity I see is in the character, not merely the circumstance.”
“A talented artist, a talented witch,” Hinrik spoke up, his large arms crossed over his chest as he inspected me. “One belonged to a talented school, the other a talented coven. Such supreme talent always draws envy, animosity, and rage. The talented artist was cursed to separate her from her art. The talented witch—”
“Cursed to separate her from her magic,” Theseus finished, his eyes widening a bit as he looked down at me. “Someone tried to bind your magic, but it still came out, so what if someone tried to kill you—”
“But I ended up a vampire.” As we could clearly see.
“Which might be worse than death for a witch,” Ulrik said so seriously that it was disconcerting to see him like that. “Your magic would have been gone. Normal covens would have abandoned you and never spoken of you again, but the Omeron, they would hunt you down, and you’d been running from your own for the rest of your life.”
All of them really knew how to string a story together to make me feel the absolute worst.
