forty-one

I’m a healer who hates hospitals. My fate was sealed the moment I’d encountered a doctor during the plague outbreak that killed my brother. The unnerving visage of a beaked mask covering an anonymous doctor’s face did little to assure the sick or those of us who cared for the dying. The terrifying mask was worn as a precaution against disease, with the extended beak filled with straw mixed with rose petals, cloves, mint, and other herbs and fragrances thought to clean the miasma in the air.

Modern hospitals worked miracles compared to the fearful doctors who’d poked patients with sticks from afar, but my involuntary reaction of unease remained the same.

Brixton had ridden to the hospital with his mom in the ambulance. I’d followed in my truck. I was glad to have the space away from the teenager. I didn’t want him to see how worried I was. It wasn’t only the fact that his mom had been attacked—it was what I’d noticed before the ambulance arrived. Though a palette of fresh paint had fallen next to Heather, the easel in front of her was empty. The person who’d attacked her had stolen the painting she was working on. This attack was related to the Logan Magnus case.

It took me a while to find where at the hospital they’d taken Heather, but I knew I’d found the right place when I saw Detective Vega in the waiting room. I wasn’t the only one who’d seen the connection.

“Is Heather all right?” I asked her.

“She will be. What are you doing here?” the detective asked, looking at my grass-stained knees. I hadn’t changed after working in the garden with Brixton.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Her brown hair was down, and she was wearing an elegant red dress with three-inch heels.

“This isn’t a job with regular hours.” Detective Vega sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear, which sparkled with silver earrings in the shape of Celtic crosses. “Did the Taylor boy call you?”

I shook my head. “I was with him when we found her. Why did you get pulled out of your evening out? You think it’s related to Logan Magnus?”

“Or the art forger who got away. I’m getting notifications of local crimes related to art. Her son told the investigating officer her most recent painting was gone, and I remembered her name from the Magnus investigation. He owned one of her paintings.”

“Who was it that attacked her?”

“I haven’t been able to see Ms. Taylor yet. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on that.”

As I waited in the sterile waiting room, my nerves got the best of me. I imagined everyone was staring at me. It was only the fact that hospitals made me nervous, I knew, but I still didn’t like it.

The sight of Brixton was a welcome one.

“Mom’s awake,” he said.

“I didn’t see him,” Heather was telling the detective when we got to her room. “I assume it was a guy. It was someone strong. I was working on my latest painting and all of a sudden a gloved hand was covering my mouth and nose. The smell of the cloth … I tried not to breathe, but I had to, you know?”

“This was a commissioned painting?” the detective asked casually.

“What?” Heather crinkled her nose. “No. I always paint what inspires me.”

“Never copies?”

Heather laughed. “Why would I do that?”

I couldn’t imagine that Heather had anything to do with the art forger, and it wasn’t only because I was biased on account of our friendship. I could see her optimistic naiveté leading to her being tricked, but I couldn’t imagine her creative spirit being confined to copying the style of another artist. Why had Heather been attacked and one of her paintings stolen?

While the detective finished questioning Heather, I went into the hallway and called Dorian, asking him to stay home until I returned. We’d developed a special pattern of rings so he’d know if he should answer the phone. Only Brixton and I knew the pattern. I didn’t tell Dorian what had happened or where I was, because I knew I’d never get him off the phone, but he agreed to wait—as long as I didn’t take too long.

Then I called Tobias. He picked up on the first ring.

“You were in Portland before Saturday morning.” I wasn’t asking a question.

“What?”

“You heard me. Detective Vega told me.”

Silence followed.

“Tobias?” I said softly, feeling a cold loneliness encase me. My oldest friend … “Did you lie to me about when you arrived?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does—”

“I was distraught after Rosa’s death. You can understand that, right? After the funeral, I needed to get out of Detroit. I hopped on a plane. To Portland.”

“But I’ve been in town this whole month.” The sterile light blue walls of the hospital felt like they were collapsing around me. “You never rang my doorbell.”

“As soon as I arrived, I knew I couldn’t see you. I wasn’t ready to see someone who’d understand. I know that doesn’t make any sense … ”

But it did make sense. At least to me. “There’s an isolation you and I have experienced that people who grow old together before they lose someone can’t imagine. It’s not necessarily worse, but it’s different. I understand that.”

“And I wasn’t ready for understanding. I wanted to lash out. I needed to get it out. But I didn’t want to do that with you in the vicinity.”

“So you left.”

“And when I was ready, I called you. But I doubt that reasoning will fly with the detective.”

“So you lied to her when you first spoke with her and told her you weren’t in Portland when Logan Magnus was killed? You didn’t think she’d check?”

“Give me some credit. I told her the truth. But I didn’t count on having the bad luck that the dates would coincide with when that artist died.”

“We’ll figure it out together. But where are you?”

Silence.

“Are you at the Castle with Isabella?”

“I’m fine, Zoe.”

“Watch yourself. Heather has been attacked.”

Tobias swore. “Is she okay? What happened?”

“Someone attacked her in her garage art studio and stole the painting she was working on.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’ll recover.”

“I take it they don’t know who attacked her and stole the painting, or you would have mentioned it right away.”

“No, but the detective is looking for you. It’s probably best not to ignore her for too long. That’ll just make you look more guilty.”

Detective Vega stepped into the hallway as I hung up. “Ms. Taylor asked for you,” she said.

Heather was sitting up in bed, with Brixton in a chair beside her. “Give us a sec, Brix?” she said.

I expected him to object, but he agreed and closed the door behind him.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Oh, sure.” Heather smiled, but it wasn’t her usual bubbly grin. “They want to keep me under observation for the night.” She frowned. “They aren’t sure of all the chemicals used to knock me out. It might have been something bad, you know? Abel is out of town for work … ”

“Do you need me to get a hold of him?”

She squeezed my hand. “I’ve already called him. He’s going to come but he won’t be here until tomorrow.”

“Brix can stay with me tonight.”

After taking Brixton to get his things, it was late when we got back to my house. Dorian hadn’t stayed home as I’d asked. Since he didn’t know what had happened, I couldn’t blame him. He was taking his increased baking responsibilities seriously. But after tucking Brixton into bed—a term I was careful not to use with the teenager as I said good night—I was keenly aware of just how alone I was.

In spite of the late night, I woke up at dawn. Brixton was still asleep, so I crept downstairs.

Tobias hadn’t taken the metal sculpture Isabella had given him. It was a stunning design even without seeing its true form in shadow.

I opened the living room curtains. The light from the rising sun shone into the room from the large windows I rarely opened because of Dorian. I turned the sculpture until it cast a shadow of two crows in flight. As the sunlight filtered into the room, the birds’ wings moved as if they were flying into the distance.

It made me think of the phoenix charm Isabella had made for her husband. The lightning bolts intertwined in the flames looked as though they were flashing from the sky, like a separate piece of the form.

As shadows danced across the floor, I ran my hands over the metal that formed the wings of the crows. It was made of two pieces that had been welded into shape around each other but didn’t quite touch, similar to the structure of the pendant. I hadn’t realized it at the time, because the pewter shapes were so perfectly matched, but the pendant must have been made of two pieces too. That was how Isabella had achieved the detail. I’d never tried to open the pendant. There wasn’t an obvious opening, but I now felt sure there had been two pieces.

Detective Vega had given me her cell phone number, so I called her.

“Faust?” Her voice was sharp. “Zoe Faust? Do you realize what time it is?”

I hadn’t. But as soon as I told her my suspicions about the pendant, she perked up. She was her usual noncommittal self, but she thanked me for the idea.

I hung up the phone and watched the shadow of the crows dance from the walls to a faint shadow on the floor, and then disappear all together as the sun rose higher. Both this sculpture and the pendant were ingenious designs that left different impressions depending on how you viewed them. So similar to the gallery lighting that made Logan Magnus’s art a success …

The last rays of direct sunlight disappeared from the room as it filled with the diffuse brightness of the day. The stark shadows were gone, and the sculpture was again the central piece of art. A signature had been scraped into the base. An ornate letter that looked familiar. I thought at first it was an L, but it was an I. The style was the same as in the paintings displayed in the Logan Magnus memorial gallery.

It was her.

Just as Philippe Hayden was Perenelle Flamel, I was certain Isabella Magnus was the artist who’d created the famous “Logan Magnus” paintings.