February, 2017
Oxford, England
Zari
Slipping on her hood to ward off the mist sifting down from a dull gray sky, Zari stood on the sidewalk in front of her hotel, looking in the direction of the train station. She had texted her mentor Vanessa Conlon yesterday hoping to get together. But Vanessa was in Ireland for a few days visiting family.
There was just one more reason to linger here.
The adrenalin that propelled Zari from London to Oxford was gone. In its place was a mood of calm acceptance. She savored it, not quite sure where it had come from. Then she wheeled and pulled her suitcase through the heart of Oxford, past John’s laboratory, all the way to the gates of Fontbroke College.
When she entered the doorway of the porters’ lodge, one of the men called out a greeting from behind the glass.
“You’re the American who was studying the portrait of a lady,” he said, bright blue eyes fixed on her. “What was it, two years ago?”
“Good memory,” Zari said, smiling at him. “You don’t forget a face, do you?”
“Oh, I forget plenty of faces. But I wouldn’t forget that smile,” he said, grinning. “You Americans and your perfect teeth. What brings you back to Fontbroke?”
“Professor Conlon told me she had the portrait moved out of the storage vault, and I was hoping to get one more look at it. She said she put me on the visiting scholars list.”
He busied himself rifling through papers on a clipboard and glanced up at her again. “She did indeed. D’you want to take a peek at it now?”
Zari nodded. “Please.”
“Come on, then. I’ll show you.” He emerged through a side door in the porters’ lodge and waved her through the main entryway into the college.
They traversed a small square where the dean’s office overlooked the comings and goings of students and faculty. Zari admired the graceful lines of the dun-colored stone building, imagining Dotie sitting at a high window gazing out at his domain in the not-too-distant future. The thought made her gut twist with annoyance. She tore her gaze away and followed the porter through a set of arched double doors to the shadowy confines of a medieval hallway, its graceful arcades overlooking an open courtyard planted in grass.
The porter ushered her through another door into a red-carpeted interior hall leading to the dining room. The corridor’s wood-paneled walls were hung with dozens of paintings. Some were portraits of well-fed men wearing the white breeches and red coats that marked their status as wealthy members of the British military. Others were of men in civilian clothing, dating from the Renaissance era to the twentieth century. Interspersed with these portraits were landscapes of the bucolic English countryside featuring an assortment of cows, clouds, and the occasional shepherdess.
Near the end of the corridor, just above eye level, hung the portrait of Marguerite de Oto. Zari stood before it, hands to her mouth, scarcely able to contain her excitement. She bit her lip to fight back the sob threatening to explode out of her chest. Once again she was struck by the feeling that Mira was beckoning her back in time, yearning to be seen, to be known.
“She’s looking well, I’d say,” remarked the porter. “Despite having to wear a corset. And living in a drafty old castle with no plumbing.”
Zari burst out laughing, relieved to expel some of the emotion boiling inside her.
“I think she’s happier here than she was in the basement,” she agreed.
Just then several men barreled through the double doors leading from the dining room, talking animatedly amongst themselves. Zari turned. One of the men was middle-aged, but the others were much younger, probably graduate students.
Oh, no, Zari thought. Anxiety ignited somewhere inside her stomach and spread like a sickening wave into her chest. Her left knee began to wobble.
The man at the center of the approaching group was none other than Dotie Butterfield-Swinton.
“Ah!” Dotie said, flapping an arm toward Zari. His thinning sand-colored hair was combed over just so, his skin pale as milk. He was dressed in a three-piece brown suit with a handkerchief in the breast pocket, folded to a meticulous point. “Enjoying our lady? A rose among thorns, isn’t she?”
Zari realized he hadn’t recognized her yet.
“She’s come out of the shadows.” The powerful voice resonating through the air was, miraculously, her own.
The men slowed, their chatter fading away.
“Marguerite de Oto,” Zari went on smoothly. “Painted by her daughter, Miramonde. Too bad there’s no plaque identifying them. Yet.”
She locked eyes with Dotie.
He faltered. “My God, you’re that American!” He sucked in a breath as if he’d just seen a ghost.
“Yes, I am.” Zari smiled warmly, as if she were greeting an old friend. “So good to see you again, Dotie.”
Dotie glanced over his shoulder at one of the young men, exchanging a meaningful look with him.
The man raised one eyebrow slightly and addressed Zari in a tone he probably reserved for pets and small children. “Not sure where you got your information. Professor Butterfield-Swinton has identified this as the work of Bartolomé Bermejo. Indeed, there are several works once inaccurately attributed to others, or lacking attribution entirely, that are now entering Bermejo’s oeuvre thanks to his efforts. One of them was sold this week at auction.”
There were assorted nods of assent from the others.
Zari’s quaking knee stilled. Although she was the only woman present, she felt Mira with her, buoying her with invisible strength.
“How interesting,” Zari said politely. “But I know where you got your information, and you’d be wise to do some digging on your own to learn the truth about the Old Master who made those paintings.”
She flicked her gaze back to Dotie. Did she imagine it, or was there a look of uncertainty on his face? He turned down the corners of his mouth in a prim frown.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said icily, drawing himself up to full height.
“No, of course you don’t,” Zari agreed. She turned to the porter. “I’m ready to go. Will you see me out?”
He looked a little befuddled, but smiled gamely. “I’d be pleased to.”
Walking back into the main courtyard, Zari felt a laugh bubbling up within her like steam rising from a kettle. With tremendous effort, she fought it off.
At the doors leading to the street, she thanked the porter and bade him farewell.
Zari set off toward the train station. The gloom was vanishing, revealing an indigo sky. Patchy sunlight illuminated Oxford’s ancient lanes and alleyways, setting the worn stone buildings aglow. The entire city seemed burnished with gold. Oblivious to everything but her thoughts, Zari barely noticed the beauty all around her.
She strode along savoring the heady feeling of victory she’d experienced seeing the portrait on a wall in a public space, marveling at the confidence she’d felt facing down Dotie and his courtiers. It no longer mattered to her if he got the position of dean or not, if he ascended the ranks of Fontbroke College honorably or through deceit. One day, his lack of integrity would catch up with him.
Something huge was shifting in the landscape of Mira’s story now. The burden of responsibility Zari felt, tugging on those threads that spooled back five hundred years to Mira, was lifting. She’d always had a handful of supporters, people who believed her. But her meeting with John yesterday was pivotal. It somehow dissolved the worry that had dogged her for nearly two years.
For the first time, Zari felt certain that Mira’s star would rise. That she would take her place in history. That her story would be known, and shared, and celebrated.
It was time.