Page 82 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

“His own niece. His own family. He must have known…”

“I’m certain he did.” Arthur sat back on the floor. “How could he do that? What was he afraid of?”

“A legitimate claim on the family fortune?”

“Probably, yes. Especially since Malcolm gave your great-grandmother financial support for their son.”

Regan stared at Arthur, still in shock. “If Malcolm can do all this—move paintings, give people dreams and nightmares and throw keys at them…why didn’t he try to save my mother?”

“Maybe he did try,” Arthur said. “You don’t know that he didn’t. Good chance my grandfather just ignored all the signs and warnings. Now Malcolm’s trying again.”

“Too late now.”

“Not for you. You said it would take a miracle to convince you to have a life with me. You got your miracle, didn’t you?”

“Arthur…” She shook her head.

It wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

A knock surprised them both. A knock and a door opening.

“Boss?”

It was Zoot. She didn’t wait for an answer but marched straight into the office holding a wrapped painting.

“Boss? What’re you two doing on the floor?”

“Oh, just going through some old papers,” Regan said. She quickly stood up and gathered herself. Arthur went to the window that looked out onto the city.

“You wanted me to take something to the auction house, right?” Zoot asked.

“Yes, this one.” Regan passed her the Nourse painting. “And you can hang the other painting over the fireplace.”

“I’ll do it,” Arthur said. He took the wrapped painting into the sitting room, Zoot following.

“Regan?” Arthur’s voice came from the other room. Something in his tone made her run to him straight away.

“What is it—” Then she saw.

“What’s wrong, Boss?” Zoot asked. “You want something else? Thought Evelyn de Morgan was your girl crush.”

She’d told Zoot to bring up another painting, any painting. The painting Arthur had unwrapped was by Evelyn de Morgan—indeed her favorite. And she knew this painting well. It was of a woman wearing a blue gown, adorned with a peacock feather, a net of pearls in her hair, and manacles on her wrists—one cuff made of iron, one made of gold.

The Prisoner.

“No,” Regan said. “It’s fine. You can go.”

Zoot gave her a long look, and Arthur, too. Perhaps sensing the tension, she made no other comment and simply left with the Nourse painting.

They stood alone, side by side, she and Arthur, the painting slightly trembling in his hands.

“The Prisoner?What do you think it means?” Arthur said. “Am I supposed to chain you up? I wouldn’t mind it. Regan?”

She stared at the painting without speaking.

Something stirred in her. She’d looked at this very painting a thousand times without feeling anything but admiration for the technique, the colors, the details on the woman’s gown and hair.

Now Regan saw something else in the painting.

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