Page 54 of Marked By Moonlight
He would have had so many questions, as did I. But I had to be sure it was the real thing in a way I could explain to Gordon.
I leaned in, studying every detail, like the crescent moon and stars painted into the curves of the horses’ bodies. Then I touched the frame and turned to Anastasia.
“May I?”
When she nodded, I eased the painting away from the wall to peek at the back. Marius held it while I flashed my phone light. I saw traces of a stamped inscription as well as slanting script, though I couldn’t make out the details. Those could probably be traced to a museum or art dealer to establish the painting’s authenticity.
Would that convince an expert? I was sure it would, and anyway, this was definitely worth Gordon’s time to follow up on.
“Incredible,” I said, returning to the couch to stare at it.
Anastasia smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”
Marius shuffled behind me, bringing my mind back to business.
“Gordon said you wanted to have someone evaluate it,” I murmured. “Does that mean you hope to sell it?”
She nodded sadly. “I’m an old woman, and it’s time to put my affairs in order.”
I followed her gaze to the cracks in the plaster walls and dust on the chandelier. And those were just the superficial jobs needed in one room of many.
Boy, could I relate. Would I find myself in Anastasia’s position someday, selling my most prized possession to finance my living expenses? Worse, would possessions be all I had to show for my life, rather than years of health, love, and happy memories?
I gulped and made a mental note to myself.Check own priorities.
“I hate to part with it,” Anastasia said, “But selling it now allows me to ensure it goes into the right hands.”
My heart thumped as I asked the million-dollar question — or rather, the multimillion-dollar question, given the painting’s value.
“By the right hands, you mean…”
“Someone who will love, cherish, and protect it the way I have.”
My heart sank, because that sounded a lot likehidden in a private collection.
Still, I played dumb. “You mean, like a museum?”
She scoffed, clearly disappointed in me. “Oh, my dear. Don’t you know? Museums are fine in theory, but they’re run by political appointees and mediocrities.”
I had a few negative opinions of my own, but none quite as cutting.
“So, not a museum,” I said flatly.
In my imagination, the horses in the painting stamped and snorted, equally unhappy with such an outcome.
Anastasia shook her head vehemently. “I refuse to let it go to a museum, a capitalist, or an egoist.” Her face twisted with anger, and her hands cut the air as she spoke. “They’re criminals, all of them. And I can’t let it back into Russia…”
“Would you prefer it remain in England, then?” I tried.
She snorted. “Royalists make up a third of this country, and the other two-thirds are provincials who read theDaily Mail.”
I blinked. For a little old lady, she could get pretty damn vicious.
“It must go to someone who knows art. Who appreciates it,” she continued. “Someone like you, dear, though I doubt you can afford it.” She patted my hand agreeably.
I winced. She was right, but it would have been nice to put that a little more delicately.
“Pity,” I murmured.
