Page 53 of Marked By Moonlight
Anastasia patted her hand. “It really is something, isn’t it?”
Mina nodded, speechless.
I frowned. The painting was bold. Colorful. But truthfully, a little basic. A couple of horses, some mountains, and a rainbow. I wouldn’t cry over that. Hell, I wouldn’t even sniffle.
But Mina stared at the painting with tears running down both cheeks.
Chapter Twelve
MINA
Anastasia handed me a tissue, and I did my best to pull myself together. But, heck. It was like glimpsing the ghost of a loved one you thought you would never, ever see again. My heart fluttered, and my skin prickled with goose bumps.
Marius tilted his head at me, then at the painting, confused.
“Franz Marc.The Tower of Blue Horses,” I murmured.
Recognition dawned on his face. “Like the horses on your mug?”
I smiled. “A lot like that.”
The mug was my father’s, actually, and the only one I refused to share.
The horses stood one behind the other as if on an incline, giving the painting its name —The Tower of Blue Horses. Filling the right side of the long canvas with energy, curves, and sharp lines, they gazed left over a stylized mountain landscape.
Marius put a hand on my shoulder, letting me cry, while signaling he was there for me. The man was definitely a keeper.
Crying felt silly, but I couldn’t help it. Why? Because of the sheer beauty of that artwork. Because of my father, who would have given an arm to find this masterpiece. Because of Franz Marc and everyone killed in senseless wars — people with great talent and potential, snuffed out at a tragically young age.
I reached up to touch Marius’s hand. He might not understand why that painting meant so much, but he respected that it was important to me, and I loved him for that.
Well, I loved him for a lot of things.
“This painting has been lost for decades,” I explained, then caught myself. “If it’s the real thing.”
Anastasia snorted. “Not lost. Carefully guarded. And as for genuine, have a look for yourself.”
I stood to inspect it. But it was very much like the Van Gogh I’d come across in Mallorca — I already knew it was real. I could sense it. A true masterpiece had an aura to it, as if marked by the artist’s passion and genius.
Was that one of my magical abilities, or did I simply have a practiced eye? I wasn’t sure which, but boy, did that painting look like the real thing.
I leaned closer, checking the canvas…the brushstrokes…the kaleidoscopic effect on the horses’ bodies…
My eyes stopped at a line that didn’t fit in — then another, and another.
“Sadly, there was some damage,” Anastasia explained, seeing my reaction. “My father had it repaired, but a keen eye can spot it.”
Her father, huh? I tucked that tidbit away for later.
“We call it the painting’s war wound,” she chuckled. “Something only healed after its long journey home.”
My mind conjured images of war-torn landscapes, weary soldiers, and officers snapping up booty under the guise of reparations.
Franz Marc had paintedThe Tower of Blue Horsesin 1913, not long before joining the German army to fight in World War I. He’d died at the Battle of Verdun, along with hundreds of thousands of other soldiers. The painting had ended up in theprivate collection of a top-ranking Nazi before disappearing in the last, chaotic days of World War II. So, Anastasia’s story fit.
Most art historians agreed the artwork had been carted off by the Soviet Army, while others believed it to be locked in a Swiss vault. But here it was today, in London. Right in front of me.
I wanted to pinch myself. To grab my phone and call my mom, sister, and cousin. Better yet, to shout to heaven.Big news, Dad! The Tower of Blue Horses has surfaced — in London!
