Page 62 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
Security has been outrageous here ever since the fire. Patrols as if we’re in some kind of military compound. Men at every exit. More cameras installed. It’s supposed to make me feel safe, but I can’t shake the nervous anticipation.
“I’ll stay here,” I promise.
With a single hard press of his lips against mine, he’s gone.
After a few minutes of aimless wandering in his room, I head into the bathroom. The tub is truly lovely, large and filled with jets, water pouring down from a ledge built with stone. Little glass pots on the side are filled with everything I could want, and I pour in a small scoop of sea salt and a few drops of lavender oil. Steam fills the room, coating every shiny and reflective surface. It’s like bathing in a cloud. I close my eyes, breathing in the relaxing aroma.
The doorbell chimes. I jolt with surprise, sending water over the ledge.
My breathing is too fast. You’re safe, I remind myself.
There’s more protection here than at Tanglewood City Hall. Not to mention, if anyone had bad intentions they probably wouldn’t announce themselves by using the doorbell.
I grab a thick white towel and step out of the bathtub, taking care on the slippery floor. I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, my wet hair in a ponytail.
A man named Blue is in charge of security here. Apparently he owns a prestigious company that does protection for businesses, even celebrities. Gabriel insisted that he personally oversee my safety.
My heart skips a beat when I see what’s leaning against the wall.
Large and flat, wrapped in brown cardboard. “That’s me,” I say. “That’s mine.”
Even before I look at the label from the antiquities dealer in Maine, I know that it’s my mother’s portrait. I started looking for it as soon as the escrow account transferred to my name. Gabriel offered to buy it for me, but I refused. It’s important that the money from the auction goes toward rebuilding my life. My virginity will always be twisted with shame and responsibility, with darkness and dread, but there’s one bright spot. Because with that money comes independence.
I’m here by choice. I’m with Gabriel because I want to be.
It cost a small fortune to track down the picture. The original dealer had sold it to an anonymous buyer. I had to pull a Polaroid from insurance records and send it all over the country. Finally I found it. The agent I spoke with over the phone assured me it was the same painting. He even sent me a digital picture from his phone to confirm. I bought it from him immediately and had it shipped.
Blue’s expression is usually intimidating, military presence combined with hard experience. Now it turns even more forbidding. “I need to inspect the package, Ms. St. James.”
“I appreciate you taking the job seriously, but it’s just a painting. And it’s kind of personal.”
He nods without apparent sympathy. “I need to inspect it first.”
I hold back a sigh. “Okay.”
“If you could wait upstairs.” From the look on his face, this isn’t a request. It’s an order. And I’m guessing this man isn’t used to being disobeyed.
I know he’s under the strictest orders from Gabriel, so I take pity on him. “You have five minutes.”
Once upstairs I linger on the landing, elbows resting on the balcony. Blue glances at me, and I know he wants to tell me to go away. What does he think is in that package—a bomb?
He must think better of it, because he pulls out a pocket knife and slits the cardboard. I cringe, not wanting the blade to touch the painting, but there’s some padding underneath. And Blue is very careful, I’ll give him that. Even from far away I can see his delicate handling of the piece.
From here all I can see is jewel tones in the paint, a champagne gold frame.
Excitement twists my stomach into knots. I force myself to stand still as Blue runs his hands along the sides and inspects the backing. If there’s even a speck of dust on that painting he’ll find it. That’s how carefully he covers every inch.
He takes his protection duties seriously, I’ll give him that much.
Helen of Troy has been represented in wildly different ways, from a dark seductress to an unwitting spoil of war. Her agency and motivations vary in every depiction, but one fact holds true. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. The ancient Greeks didn’t consider beauty to be in the eye of the beholder. It was an objective trait, the universal value of a woman. Helen was the definitive best, all others judged against her perfection.
Every story of my mother is both true and false. Even the one she told herself through her diary. Filled with hopes and desires and dreams. With love for a man who didn’t deserve it.
