Page 50 of Marked By Moonlight
Our shoes clicked over intricate parquet floors, then padded over thick Persian rugs. My eyes roved, taking in molded ceilings and walls covered with paintings.Nice placewas an understatement. It was huge and vaguely regal, as if its owners hobnobbed with the residents of Kensington Palace.
But it was all a little aged and dusty, like the help hadn’t been by in a long time — and not too many visitors either. There were gaps on the walls too, where artwork had been recently removed or sold.
I glanced at our hostess. Had her funds dried up when her husband died (or been bumped off), leaving her struggling to maintain her old lifestyle?
Anastasia led us to a living room with a plush but faded sofa and armchairs.
“Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll fetch the tea.”
Her words were aimed at Mina, not me, so while she settled onto the sofa, I headed for a corner where I could keep an eye on Mina, the door, and the windows.
I hissed quietly, then jerked my head to the right.
Mina frowned, then scooched along the couch, watching me.
I made astopmotion, then nodded.
She rolled her eyes and spoke into my mind.Is this really necessary?
Moving her out of the clearest line of sight from the front aspect of the building? Yes.
Standard procedure,I growled back.
When Anastasia returned, she served sandwich slices and bite-sized cakes from a three-tiered platter that screamedteatime in Britain. The tea was served Russian-style, however,in glasses set in silver holders, and the hot water came from a samovar in the adjoining room.
“Oh, one more thing…”
When Anastasia toddled off again, Mina held up her glass and tapped the design on the holder.
I squinted at the rocket and letters engraved into the silver. I knew enough of the Cyrillic alphabet to slowly spell outSputnik— the first satellite launched into space, way back in the 1950s. A truly vintage, old-school piece. Like its owner, I surmised.
“There.” Anastasia added a plate of lemon wedges to the coffee table and took a seat. “Now, tell me about yourself, dear.”
Mina considered, then started haltingly.
“Well, Gordon and my father were close friends. My mother is French, my father American…”
Understandably, she left out thesupernaturalpart and the part about her château.
“I majored in art and art history, and I worked as a middle school art teacher…” Her eyes lit up as she summarized that aspect of her résumé. “I also worked at an auction house, so I’m familiar with the process of authenticating paintings.”
Anastasia asked about siblings, places Mina had lived, and politics, studying her like a hawk the whole time. This wasn’t chitchat. This was judging whether Mina could be trusted.
With your life, and definitely with precious artwork,I burned to say.She even risked her life for a lousy Van Gogh.
My dragon grumbled at the memory, and Mina coughed into her hand.
Watch it,she warned.
Then Anastasia drilled Mina on art. What were her favorite styles, painters, and artworks? What was most important in Impressionism — the light, the moment, or what a painting left unsaid? What about post-Impressionism? If Mina could have brought another guest to tea with Anastasia—
I shuffled, trying not to take that personally.
—would she pick Kandinsky, Toulouse-Lautrec, or Modigliani?
Mina giggled. “Oh, definitely Modigliani.”
I made a mental note to look up the guy.
