by Amy Maroney
Artelan Press
Portland, Oregon
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real places, or real people are used fictitiously. Other characters, places, names, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-0-9975213-3-7
ebook ISBN: 978-0-9975213-4-4
Copyright © 2018 by Amy Maroney. All rights reserved.
Cover design and formatting by Design for Writers.
Map by Tracy Porter.
www.amymaroney.com
For my parents
Contents
Book I
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
Book II
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
Book III
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Author’s Note
Contemporary Cast of Characters
Historical Cast of Characters
About the Author
Acknowledgements
“My illustrious lordship, I’ll show you what a woman can do.”
—Artemisia Gentileschi,
Italian Baroque painter (1593-1652)
Book I
Respice post te, mortalem te esse memento.
Look around you, remember that you are mortal.
—Tertullianus
1
September, 2015
Amsterdam, Holland
Zari
Zari found an empty seat in a half-filled row near the front of the conference room. The latte she’d downed at the Amsterdam airport was still buzzing through her veins. It wasn’t just caffeine making her jittery, she admitted to herself. It was nerves.
All around her, chairs were filling with people who mostly seemed to know one another. Art conservators, art historians, art dealers, journalists. Listening to the flare and ebb of voices swirling through the room, Zari imagined a day when she would walk into a conference and see dozens of familiar faces. A day when she would stop feeling like an outsider.
An elegantly-dressed man she recognized as a Swiss art dealer whose image appeared regularly in Art News Weekly sat down next to her. With him was a younger man, probably his assistant, carrying a laptop in one hand and the conference schedule in the other. Both of them nodded politely to Zari as they settled back in their chairs. The faint scent of a citrusy cologne wafted her way.
The lights dimmed. An expectant hush settled over the room.
John Drake strode onto the stage, clad in a slim-cut gray suit and a pair of truly spectacular black leather brogue shoes with tone-on-tone stitching. Zari smiled a little at the sight of him. In his laboratory at Oxford, John wore an all-black uniform of shapeless sweater, work boots, and jeans. But in public speaking situations, he showed a different side entirely.
Just before John launched into his talk, Zari caught a movement to her right. A reedy man with thinning sand-colored hair slid into a chair one row ahead. Her stomach lurched. It was Dotie Butterfield-Swinton. He crossed one leg over the other, eyes fixed on the stage, ignoring everyone around him. Zari exhaled. With a little luck, she could evade him for the entire day.
An image of two paintings appeared on the screen behind John. One was a portrait of a noblewoman standing against a plain black background; the other was a portrait of a merchant family, also against a dark background.
“These are early sixteenth-century portraits, oil on panel, unsigned,” John said, gesturing at the images with his laser pointer. “Both were attributed to Cornelia van der Zee by experts in Netherlandish Renaissance art.”
“I spent the better part of a few months analyzing the portrait of a noblewoman you see behind me,” he went on. “It’s the property of Fontbroke College at Oxford. The other portrait, the merchant family, is in France undergoing a similar analysis. The owner was kind enough to share the results thus far with me. And what we’ve discovered is extraordinary.”
He clicked to the next slide. This time, the portraits’ dark backgrounds had been replaced by elaborately detailed landscapes.
“The story these portraits tell is much more complicated than meets the eye. For instance, our work revealed these highly complex original backgrounds. This is remarkable because—as far as anyone knows—Cornelia van der Zee only used plain dark backgrounds.”
Another click.
“We also found charcoal underdrawings—and words—beneath the layers of paint on the two portraits,” John said.
Now the screen showed two charcoal drawings of the name ‘Mira’ with a whimsical image of a young nun forming the tail of the letter ‘a’. Alongside one of the images were inscribed the words ‘Pray for my mother’; a single word, ‘Bermejo,’ floated above the other image.
The next slide showed the back of each painting. A stamp bearing the initials ‘ADL’ was burned into the wood on both panels.
“Our analysis showed that these portraits are both painted on Pyreneen oak panels. In contrast, every verified Cornelia van der Zee painting is made of Baltic oak. And this stamp?” John’s red laser pointer circled the initials ‘ADL’ on the screen. “It doesn’t fit the pattern either. All of Van der Zee’s known works bear a different mark entirely: the stamp of the city of Flanders.”
A few people began murmuring to one another. Was it Zari’s imagination, or did Dotie sit up a little straighter in his chair? Her pulse quickened.
John waited a beat, his eyes searching the audience. For an instant, his gaze settled on Zari.
“So,” he continued. “Connoisseurship led these paintings to be attributed to Cornelia van der Zee. But then research and science intervened and called those attributions into question. Clearly the expert eye is not always reliable. But can it work in tandem with science? Absolutely. This should be a partnership, not a rivalry.”
He paused to take a sip of water from the glass on the podium before him.
A wom
an in the front row raised her hand. “Who is Mira?”
“That’s a question for Zari Durrell, not me.” He pointed in Zari’s direction. “Find her at the drinks reception tonight.”
Zari felt the weight of Dotie’s gaze upon her. Then his arm shot up.
“Perhaps we might be equally curious about Bermejo,” he said crisply. “His name on one of the panels, plus similarities to his style in the paintings themselves, give us reason to hope that Bartolomé Bermejo himself may be responsible for these works.”
Zari half-rose from her seat. “The prongs of the ‘M’ in one of the underdrawings we just saw contain the hidden script ‘Mira, painter and servant of God,’” she asserted. “Mira was a painter, too—and her name is on both of the panels under discussion.”
Dotie opened his mouth, about to launch a rebuttal.
“Please save comments about theories for the reception,” John said coolly. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand.”
Zari clenched her jaw, heart thudding, and settled back into her chair. Beside her, the art dealer leaned over to whisper something in his assistant’s ear.
Dotie folded his arms across his chest, turned his head, and stared in Zari’s direction.
Studiously ignoring him, she concentrated on the man behind the podium. Using all the mindfulness tips burned into her brain after a lifetime listening to her mother spout New Age wisdom, she tuned back into the words John had spent weeks crafting—words he built around discoveries that had taken them both months to unearth.
The energy in the room shifted as John unspooled a tale of secrets long buried under layers of paint—of voices silenced by history that were only now being brought to light. Zari glanced sideways at the art dealer and saw a gleam of interest in his eyes. Even he was falling under the spell of John’s storytelling.
She smiled. The adrenalin-fueled worry that had dogged her all morning was gone.
Somehow, she felt as if she had reached back through five hundred years of time and grasped Mira by the hand.
Zari stood in a little alcove in the reception room, fielding questions and showing photographs of her research findings to anyone who exhibited even the slightest interest. After an hour of nonstop conversation, she went to the bar for a glass of wine and stood alone for a moment, regrouping.
She scanned the faces in the room, searching for John. Could you technically buy someone a drink from a free bar? At the very least, she could thank him and offer to fetch him something.
Then Dotie stepped into her line of sight, clutching a tall glass filled with clear liquid, ice, and a slice of lime.
“Zari Durrell.” He pronounced her last name the British way, with the emphasis on the first syllable.
“Hello, Dotie.”
True to form, he made a quick head-to-toe examination of her body before returning his gaze to her own.
“You’ve changed your hair, haven’t you? It looks longer since we last met. A cascade of pre-Raphaelite curls.”
“Mmm. Yours looks different, too,” Zari said thoughtfully, peering at the crown of his head. “I’m not sure why.”
“That’s quite a dress.” Dotie’s eyes roved south again. “One feels a bit dizzy looking at it.”
Zari’s indigo-and-black batik silk dress had been a find in a second-hand shop in San Francisco. Wearing it was like being embraced by an old friend.
“Then look away,” she suggested, smiling brightly.
Dotie’s jaw tensed. He took a pull from his drink. “I’d assumed you left Europe after your post-doc was over.”
Zari shook her head. “Europe is still stuck with me. I’ll be in France through the spring.”
“Still hammering away at that theory of yours, it seems.”
She nodded. “With as much enthusiasm as I imagine you devote to your own theory.”
He gave a short, dismissive laugh. “Our theories have nothing in common. Bartolomé Bermejo was a living, breathing person. You, on the other hand, are conjuring up an artist out of thin air.”
“Mira de Oto existed, too. I’ve seen the proof. She was an artist of great talent.”
“Unfortunately, the historical record shows that women artists were rarer than golden eggs in those days.”
Zari smiled. “The historical record is full of holes.”
“It takes a connoisseur’s eye and decades of experience to see an artist’s hand in a painting.” Dotie swirled the ice in his glass. “And you’re no expert on Renaissance-era portraiture, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I would never claim to have an expert eye.” Zari felt the color rising on her neck. “I’m digging into history. That’s where I’ll find Mira. On the page, not on a panel.”
“Ah, youth. There’s so much more to this than you know.” He leaned in conspiratorially, exuding an aroma of gin and sour lime. “Finding a paper trail from the Renaissance era takes expertise that one spends a career building.”
“I may be inexperienced,” Zari said, bristling. “But I managed to snag a Mendenhall Trust grant to do this work. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. With all your connections at Oxford.”
The smile vanished from Dotie’s face. “During my summer holiday I don’t bother with institutional news unless it’s of vital importance.” His tone was clipped now. “And grants for junior academics don’t fall into the category of vitally important, I’m afraid.”
He muttered something about refreshing his drink and turned away.
Zari took a long breath and let it out slowly, watching him drift toward the bar.
Mira de Oto lived. The words pounded in her head, keeping rhythm with Dotie’s footsteps.
Her story will be told.
And I will tell it.
2
Summer, 1504
Pyrenees Mountains, Aragón
Mira
Mira emerged from the cabin into the cool dawn air, filling her lungs with the scents of earth and oak. The night had slipped away with dizzying speed. If she slept at all, she had no memory of it. She smiled, her heart pounding a little faster at the thought.
Tilting her head back, she saw the pale glint of a star in the brightening sky. A hawk vaulted from the highest branches of a pine at the edge of the meadow and glided silently in her direction. The pulsating crown of the sun appeared over a ridge to the east, setting the grass ablaze with silvery light.
Mira stood spellbound for a few moments, watching the hawk chase its own shadow over the sun-dappled grass, waiting to hear the rush of its wings overhead. Then, slowly, she turned back to the cabin, already anticipating the warmth of Arnaud’s arms around her.
A bank of lead-colored clouds advancing from the north made her hesitate.
“Do not bother to light a fire,” she called out. “If we leave now, perhaps we can avoid the worst of whatever comes this way.”
Arnaud appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “What comes this way is sunshine.”
“From the east, yes. Come stand by me and look to the north.”
He stayed where he was, leaning against the doorframe. “The people say this cabin’s blessed by the gods. After last night, I’ve no quarrel with that claim.”
“As much as I loved spending the winter with your family,” she admitted, “I had been longing for a night alone with you since our wedding day.”
“Let’s linger here a while.” He took a few steps forward, held out a hand.
She pointed at the approaching clouds. “It is never wise to tarry in the mountains—were those not your father’s parting words when we left Ronzal?”
A gust of wind set the meadow grasses rippling, carrying with it the rumble of distant thunder.
Arnaud sighed, peering up at the sky. “I’ll saddle the mules.”
“By rights, we should have a long, mild summer after the winter we just en
dured.” Mira swiveled in her saddle, checking the straps on the parcel secured behind her. “Instead it feels as if summer is already over before it has truly begun.”
“That’s the mountains for you.” Arnaud swung up into place on his mule.
“Do you have all the pieces of your chair?” she asked.
“Every last one.” He jerked his head toward the cabin. “Did you leave something for whoever comes next?”
Mira nodded.
The mountain people had an unspoken rule: shared spaces were always left tidy and stocked with necessities for the next visitors. It had been that way in the cave last fall. When she and Arnaud left, they had scrubbed it clean, erased all signs of violence, piled a neat stack of firewood by the blackened pit that served as a hearth. She shuddered, remembering the blood of her attacker pooling at her feet on the pitted limestone floor. Reflexively her hand went to the sheath at her waist. Arnaud had insisted she wear her dagger for the journey and she had pulled it from the bottom of her satchel with some reluctance. All winter in Ronzal, she’d had no need of the thing.
But only a fool would cross these mountains unarmed.
The mules ambled along the rocky trails through a fine mist, stopping at every opportunity for mouthfuls of tender grass. As they passed through a bowl-shaped meadow frothing with blue wildflowers, the sky darkened. In the space of a moment, the clouds unleashed a hailstorm.
“Let’s stop under those beeches,” Arnaud shouted, gesturing at a grove of tall trees crowned with pale green leaves. “We’ll wait it out.”
Mira urged her mule forward, her face stinging from the lash of the hail.
Just as they dismounted, the sound of men’s voices and the discordant jangle of iron bells drifted across the meadow. A flock of sheep appeared through the hail, accompanied by several shepherds and large golden dogs. Arnaud cupped his hands around his mouth and whistled. At the sound, one of the men peeled away from the flock and approached them, carrying a long staff tipped with an iron spike. He was young, with heavy-lidded brown eyes and a thatch of curly black hair.
“The summer grazing season is upon us, even if the gods don’t agree.” He scraped hail from his beard and flung it on the ground. “The journey from Belarac to Ronzal is slow in the best weather. But this?” He eyed the skies, shaking his head.
