Page 55 of Eternal Surrender

He rested the empty glass down. “Isn’t the National Gallery about a ten-minute walk from here?”

“The gallery houses one of the world’s finest collections of European paintings,” I said, yearning for the past, regret by another other name.

Unable to push away this longing, a reminder that everything I once held dear was at risk, I faced him again. “These curtains remain closed.”

He offered his understanding. I marveled at how easily his thoughts opened up to me.

“Bath first or food?” I asked.

He scanned the room. “I’d love some crisps.”

“Room service will be here soon. Shower?”

“You can fly.”

I sauntered toward the bathroom and opened the door. “You’ll feel better once you’ve freshened up.”

He rose from his chair. “Are you going to tell me what really happened back there?”

“In what respect?”

“You saved me.”

“I believe it’s the other way around.”

He squeezed my forearm as though checking I was real. “Why?”

“It’s just a shower.”

“I love the Tate. Used to, anyway.” His voice softened. “What kind of art do you like?”

“Old masters.” I pointed. “There’s some spare clothes in there that should fit you.”

He headed on in, and I shut the door behind him.

Taking a seat in the velvet armchair, I allowed my mind to wander and find solace in my imagination, recalling the Gallery’s glorious yellow-lit corridors presenting their finest treasures, brave expressions of art including paintings from Botticelli, Leonardo Da Vinci, Cezanne, Turner, Renoir, and Van Gogh; glorious echoes of their souls channeled onto each canvas, sharing their genius.

There came the sound of the shower.

Inevitably my thoughts were drawn to the 1507 portrait by Raphael of St. Catherine of Alexandria, which I’d loaned to the National and was on display there still.

Back in Cornwall, remembering Catherine’s haunting glare; the bluest irises portraying fear when she’d seen me for the first time; and something else too—hate.

Not far from where Raphael’s St. Catherine was exhibited hung another painting of mine, Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast. A grand depiction of a biblical tale where God had sent a message to Prince Belshazzar that his days were numbered.

Were both lost to me now? I wasn’t ready to believe that.

Sebastian stood in the bathroom doorway wearing the hotel’s luxury robe.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Wasn’t sure what your plans are,” he said. “Don’t want to hold you up.”

I waved off his concern.

“Can I use your razor?” he asked.

“There should be a complimentary one in there.”