He was still waiting for an answer.
“Life’s complicated,” I said eventually.
“Where did you study?”
“It’s not necessarily where, but from whom.”
Renoir leaning over my shoulder, holding a paintbrush and smudging the paint delicately on the canvas, masterfully merging the grey to reveal a cloud moving over the horizon as though he’d revealed it and not painted it before my eyes.
The stranger’s feet were dangerously close to the edge.
“What happened to your leg?” I asked.
“Why?”
“You mentioned you’re a dancer?”
“Was.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Got hit by a car.” He’d spoken the words so matter-of-factly they sounded rehearsed, used up and almost comfortable. “Leaving a late night rehearsal,” he continued, “Taking my usual route home through London.”
My thoughts encroached into his and I was seeing his journey through his eyes, his bicycle whipping past houses and shops, navigating the busy roads down twisting lanes, slowing only to take the tight turns.
“It was raining,” I whispered, seeing the blur of the road.
“The car came out of nowhere.” Dazed, he was reliving the moment all over again. “The driver swerved, but . . .” He reached for his trouser leg and lifted it, revealing a gnarly looking deformity to his lower right calf. “The only time I ever felt alive was when I was dancing.” He gave a small gesture as though emphasizing that was why he was here now.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“As you’ve already suggested, what’s the point?”
I already knew it was Sebastian.
“Why are you doing it?” he asked.
I came back to the moment, realizing he was still waiting for an answer. “I don’t even know if I have a soul.” The words tumbled out as though coming from a place deep within.
“Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes.” He glanced at the edge.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” My ill-timed grin quickly faded.
“I figured the drone of the bell would drown out my scream.”
I took a step toward him. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
“What’s that meant to mean?”
“I believe you’ll regret it.”
“Well by the time I reach the ground, it’ll be too late.” He sneezed.
“Careful,” I said.
The clock struck and I covered my ears as the bell rang out, chiming it was half passed the hour.
Sebastian pressed his hands against his ears too, trying to block out the deafening clang. He lost his footing, tipping dangerously, his face twisted in terror, his arms flapping widely as he tumbled backward off the ledge.
Falling . . . flying . . .
Sebastian scooted backward on the pavement, moaning his terror as though still falling.
He froze.
Standing a few feet away, I was astonished that I’d actually caught him and I squinted back up at Big Ben, having swallowed my fear.
Sebastian became reanimated, caressing the ground, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He staggered to his feet, his eyes riddled with confusion, his mouth gaping.
“That was close.” I shoved my hands into my pockets.
His face froze and then tension rippled across his brow.
“Second chances are quite something, aren’t they?” I headed eastward.
“What are you?” Sebastian shouted after me.
Ignoring him, I picked up speed.
“Can you see him?” Sebastian’s voice was strained.
Two scruffy young men were walking our way with their hoods pulled over their faces, protecting them from the morning chill.
The taller of one of the two pointed at Sebastian. “Look.”
“Can you see him?” Sebastian asked them again, gesticulating wildly in my direction.
The taller man gave a snide grin. “No mate, don’t see no one.”
Sebastian mumbled something, clearly on the verge of panicking.
I headed back toward them. “Keep walking,” I said to the boys and hailed the oncoming taxi. It slowed, but as soon as the driver caught sight of the two hooded men he sped up and sped off.
I drew closer to the eldest. “Your brother here has carnal knowledge of your girlfriend.”
The thug’s eyelids flickered. “Knowledge?”
“Extensive.” I closed in on him. “David, while you’re working hard in your father’s garage, breaking your back and shouldering the family business, Ray here is in the office doing your girlfriend Becka.”
David teetered in a dream-like state and focused on his brother.
Check his phone, I sent the message silently, pointing toward Ray’s pocket.
David reached out his hand. “Give me your cell.”
Ray removed it from his pocket. “What’s wrong with yours?”
I gestured to Sebastian he was to follow me.
David had Ray’s phone and was fixed on the small screen. “That’s Becka’s number!”
I breathed in the freshness of the rain striking the pavement, clearing the dawn air, and returned to the curb. I raised my hand toward yet another taxi that had just turned the corner.
Sebastian was still lingering, fascinated with the entranced brothers.
The black hackney carriage parked in front of me. I opened the rear passenger door and ducked low to climb in.
And then I waited for Sebastian to join me.
Chapter 9
SEBASTIAN SAT BESIDE the walnut table, crossing one long leg over the other, taking in the luxurious suite. One of the Savoy’s finest.
Though this room was a little too plush for my taste, I still appreciated the unusual collection of objet d’art that were placed here and there, providing an eclectic mood. From the crystal decanter resting on the far side table, I poured Sebastian a large glass of sherry into a tumbler and carried it over to him.
“Thank you, William.” He pressed the glass to his lips but didn’t sip. “I fell . . .” he said. “You caught me.” He went to speak again but instead slumped as though the moment defeated him.
“How is it?”
He downed the sherry, barely tasting it.
Strolling over to the closed curtain, I caressed the thick velvet drapes. “This suite has a wonderful view of the Thames.”
He rested the empty glass down. “Isn’t the National Gallery about a ten minute walk from here?”
“The gallery houses one of the world’s finest collections of European paintings,” I said, yearning for the past, regret by another other name.
Unable to push away this longing, a reminder that everything I once held dear was at risk, I faced him again. “These curtains remain closed.”
He offered his understanding. I marveled at how easily his thoughts opened up to me.
“Bath first or food?” I asked.
He scanned the room. “I’d love some crisps.”
“Room service will be here soon. Shower?”
“You can fly.”
I sauntered toward the bathroom and opened the door. “You’ll feel better once you’ve freshened up.”
He rose from his chair. “Are you going to tell me what really happened back there?”
“In what respect?”
“You saved me.”
“I believe it’s the other way around.”
He squeezed my forearm as though checking I was real. “Why?”
“It’s just a shower.”
“I love the Tate. Used to, anyway.” His voice softened. “What kind of art do you like?”
“Old masters.” I pointed. “There’s some spare clothes in there that should fit you.”
He headed on in and I shut the door behind him.
Taking a seat in the velvet armchair I allowed my mind to wander and find solace in my imagination, recalling the Gallery’s glorious yellow-lit corridors presenting their finest treasures, bra
ve expressions of art including paintings from Botticelli, Leonardo Da Vinci, Cezanne, Turner, Renoir, and Van Gogh; glorious echoes of their souls channeled onto each canvas, sharing their genius.
There came the sound of the shower.
Inevitably my thoughts were drawn to the 1507 portrait by Raphael of St. Catherine of Alexandria, which I’d loaned to the National and was on display there still.
Back in Cornwall, remembering Catherine’s haunting glare; the bluest irises portraying fear when she’d seen me for the first time; and something else too—hate.
Not far from where Raphael’s St. Catherine was exhibited hung another painting of mine, Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast. A grand depiction of a biblical tale where God had sent a message to Prince Belshazzar that his days were numbered.
Were both lost to me now? I wasn’t ready to believe that.
Sebastian stood in the bathroom doorway wearing the hotel’s luxury robe.
“That was quick,” I said.
“Wasn’t sure what your plans are,” he said. “Don’t want to hold you up.”
I waved off his concern.
“Can I use your razor?” he asked.
“There should be a complimentary one in there.”
A knock signaled room service had arrived.
Within minutes dinner for one was set on the walnut table and the hotel waiter was tilting the 1976 vintage Brevier de Jane for my approval. With a steady hand he uncorked the wine and poured a sample into a crystal glass. I picked up the leather wallet and signed the bill, adding a generous tip. The waiter made a discreet exit.
Although Sebastian and I were alone again, my inner ghosts left me feeling crowded and my thoughts divided as I struggled with my decision to loan St. Catherine to the National, tortured by the way it reminded me of my own Catherine, remembering how she loved to sit and admire it when we were children.
In a daze I froze, still holding the bottle mid-tipped and ready to pour.
“You alright?” Sebastian was dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, and where he’d shaved he was left with a fresh-faced boyish appearance.
“Miles away.” I poured the Bordeaux into the tall stemmed glass. “I’ve already eaten.” I answered his question before he asked it.
He reached for the glass.
“Let it breathe,” I whispered.
Sebastian lifted the silver lid. “Pasta!” He let out a laugh. “For breakfast!”
“I can order something else.”
His face lit up. “No, I haven’t eaten like this in . . .”
I pulled out the high-backed dining chair for him and he sat in it, scooting forward, reaching for the silver cutlery placed on either side of the fettuccini-laden porcelain plate. He ate elegant mouthfuls of the yellow creamy dish, pausing briefly to dab his mouth with the napkin. He tried to say, “Thank you so much,” with his mouth full.
I strolled back over to my chair, briefly catching the flicker of emotion in his eyes, reflecting the comfort a good meal provides.
A familiar turmoil raged within, reminding me that time was of the essence, though Sebastian didn’t catch it. He was far too engrossed in the taste of the Bordeaux. He studied the wine label and caught the age of the vintage. He became fixated on the waiting pot of crème brulee.
“How’s the wine?” I asked.
He took a sip. “Delicious.”
“Do you trust me?” I asked.
“You saved my life.” He smiled and yet it seemed out of place.
“Stay here tonight. You’re quite safe.”
“Where are you going to stay?” he sounded suspicious.
“I’m going home.”
“This place is costly.” He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “I shouldn’t stay.”
“I insist.”
“Where’s home?”
“Cornwall.”
“Nice. Bit of a drive.”
“I live on an island.” I rose and reached for the bottle and topped up his drink. “Very private.”
He raised his glass. “You’re not having one?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Huh,” he said, surprised. “And yet you choose the finest wine. It’s my father’s favorite vintage.” He scratched his chin and said, “You don’t know him, do you?”
“No.”
I’d hoped such a familiar red might stir his nostalgia, perhaps even nudge him in the direction of home.
Sebastian’s fingertips caressed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re scared of heights?”
Remarkable. Despite his own problems he’d caught my moment of vertigo back on Big Ben.
He straightened in his chair. “Strange that a man who can fly is scared of heights.”
“When was the last time you slept in a bed?” I asked.
He glanced at the one here and gave a deep sigh.
“That’s a long time,” I whispered.
“I can’t trust what I saw. Or what I think I saw.” He put down his empty glass. “Why are you being kind to me?”
“You don’t think you deserve it?”
“Most people who look at my tatty clothes think I’m a homeless bum.”
“Pain has led you to the place where you must come to terms with it. Only then will you find your way out of it.” I realized those words were also meant for me.
“You sure my father didn’t send you?” He rested back.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are you like a guardian angel?”
I chuckled.
“Did you drug my wine?” he slurred.
Now wasn’t the best time to admit to Sebastian that a few drops of vampire blood mixed with, say, a 1976 glass of Brevier de Jane, or any wine for that matter, would eventually make a mortal sleepy.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispered.
“I thought that was dancing.”
“I’ve given up on all that foolishness.” His eyelids fluttered, threatening to shut.
Caught off guard, my tears blurred my vision.
Chapter 10
GAZING UP AT THE FOYER’S low hanging chandelier, I was distracted by the way the crystal droplets refracted candlelight, throwing off shadows that danced around me like small, taunting demons hauntingly conveying the truth—
I’d have gone for something more gothic.
I broke away and ascended the staircase with a sluggish step, trying to shake off the guilt of leaving Alex alone here.
There was something comforting about his bedroom, the familiarity of being surrounded by some of his things, and I wandered over to his wardrobe to check his clothes were still here. I scrunched up one of his shirts and buried my face in it.
There was a pinewood table that Alex had obviously dragged in here at some point, but I couldn’t remember when. I took a closer look at what he was working on, admiring the handmade wooden ship and next to that a finely carved mast yet to be attached; as well as an assortment of miniature paint pots awaiting their application.
The intricate design would have taken him weeks to complete or longer. I read the name on the side of the vessel. The Blue Rose.
I jolted up, grabbed the boat and flung it against the wall, shattering it into pieces.
Alex’s replica of the very ship Orpheus had sailed upon over from Spain in 1805 was now unrecognizable.
There was a blur of movement in the corridor.
“Alex?” I called out, seeing no one there.
Strange how a place can be familiar and yet foreign at the same time, this once sanctum of mine was now stifling. The only thing offering consolation was Alex, and I needed to see him.
I scoured the castle.
At last I found him balancing upon one of the turrets facing the ocean, staring out at the nightscape, deep in thought.
I braved to shake him from his daydreaming and said, “I owe you an apology.”
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” he said.
Neither did I.
; Alex turned round. “Ingrid’s still looking for us isn’t she?”
“I can handle her.”
His expression was full of confusion.
“I’m sorry about your boat,” I said. “It’s just that . . .”
Several seagulls swooped low, flying across the horizon and I envied their ability to take flight with no explanation required.
“I promise we’ll find our way through this.” I took a step closer. “A way back.”
Alex shrugged. “You really believe that?”
“Come down, please.”
His coat flapped against his legs. “All this is my fault.”
“Hardly.” I sidestepped toward the wall and peered over at the sheer drop.
Alex caught my reaction.
Again I gestured for him to come down.
He hinged on snapping. “We can’t be friends.”
“You don’t see Jadeon in me, is that it?”
He threw me a look.
“I’m determined to put this right,” I said.
“I was watching you walk around the castle. Caught you staring at the chandelier.” He raised his eyebrows to make his point. “You’d have gone for something more gothic.” Alex quoted my thoughts exactly. “That’s Orpheus right there.”
“Look deeper.”
“How could you have done this to me?”
His words stunned me. “Why did you make Orpheus that boat?”
Alex’s face changed and he seemed unable to answer.
Pressing my hand against my chest, I gestured sincerely. “I’m your brother.”
“My brother’s dead.”
I felt like I was failing him for not finding the words, or maybe just not saying them right. “I’m here.” I was sure if I stepped any closer he’d jump. “We almost drowned in that water, remember?”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Manipulate me.”
“No, Alex, no.”
“Prove to me that Jadeon’s here.” He turned back to face me.
“I need you to help me find the scrolls.”
“So you can destroy them.”
“No. No.”
He smiled in a way that hinted he was fast becoming overwhelmed.
“I need you,” I whispered.
Time slowed and my vision blurred as I reached the wall that he no longer stood upon, and I collapsed beneath it, knowing I’d let him down for having not seen the agony in his eyes soon enough. My fingers groped at my shirt collar to loosen it.
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