Simone rose from the limousine like she’d been born to it, easing one leg out at a time. She kept her knees together and held the hand of the chauffeur in order to stand. Gracefully, she stepped away from the vehicle, bent forward slightly to adjust her slim-fitted pencil skirt...stood again. Strands of hair slid across her face, sent there by a gust of wind that ruffled her cardigan sweater.
All of it very strange.
She rarely wore skirts. Heels. Or her hair loose. She nearly always kept it secured in a hairclip. It was easier and looked more professional. Then she added in the cardigan. She’d never worn one, nor would she have it buttoned to her throat. She probably resembled a schoolmarm.
There was more strangeness.
It was late in a wintry day. It should be cold. Despite the thought, she couldn’t feel temperature. She couldn’t seem to grasp much of anything. A man came jogging down the lengthy flight of wide stone steps before her.
“Greeting, miss. I’ll just get your things.”
He passed by her. Simone didn’t move. Not because she couldn’t. It just seemed like too much trouble. Lassitude dogged her, while inaction kept company. The sound of a car door opening and then closing barely registered in the immensity of space she stood in. The fellow came back into view toting what looked like her suitcase in one hand, while his other held a cello case.
What was this?
She’d packed a suitcase?
And her cello?
This was like a dream sequence in a movie. Surreal, and yet vaguely familiar. A feeling of déjà vu flitted through her. She’d felt exactly like this before...
But when?
Simone blinked a couple of times. Nothing altered. The view didn’t dissolve. She was facing the front of a magnificent palace. It could almost be the chateau she’d been in last night.
No.
Wait.
Chateau Boreonne had stunned on sight, yet this building actually eclipsed it. The chateau before her was so majestic she should be slack-jawed. Simone scanned up six stories of palace, if the windows were any indicator. All of it crafted of white stone, washed at the moment with pale gold from the setting sun. She couldn’t take it all in with one look and from one angle, but knew there were additional structures on either side of her. The design formed the large courtyard she stood in.
The man carrying her luggage reached the top of the staircase and disappeared through one side of a double-height doorway. The limousine engine started up behind her. The driver put it in gear. Tires crunched on the drive. She couldn’t seem to drum up any reaction as the motor sound faded.
It occurred to her. She knew exactly when she’d had this sensation before. She’d come out of surgery...right after the automobile accident that claimed her parents and nearly killed her. She’d been disoriented. Dazed. Yet, renewed...primed to move onto whatever awaited.
Had something like that happened again?
But...how?
And when?
She didn’t even drive.
There had to be an answer. How to find it?
That sounded difficult. Simone stood immobile, working through flashes of memory, searching for recollection. There wasn’t much. She’d played her cello. She needed to. She was out of practice. The quartet had been desperate or they wouldn’t have hired her. Still, despite her rustiness, they wanted to use her again. Soon. So, she’d practiced until her fingers were almost raw. She no longer had calloused finger pads on her left hand. She should have bandaged them beforehand. The session had worked, however. She’d felt confident again. She recalled that satisfaction while loosening bow tension before placing it and her instrument in the case.
Then what?
She’d taken a short walk...reached a café. Eaten a light meal, followed with demitasse. She’d been sipping from her small cup of strong coffee when something had happened. Momentous and yet...not quite clear.
How odd.
She couldn’t remember what had transpired after her coffee.
“Are you all right, miss?”
Simone lowered her chin. A young woman stood before her, dressed in a high-necked black dress. Her expression welcomed, and instantly comforted.
“I—I...think so.” Simone’s voice sounded raspy.
“Please come in, then.”
“I don’t know...” She finished the sentence soundlessly, ‘if I should’.
“It’s rather chilly out.”
It is?
At the woman’s words, a tingling sensation began, as if a limb that had fallen asleep was just getting blood again. Simone blinked several times. Swallowed.
“That’s why we set a fire for you. In the blue salon.”
“You set a fire? Inside the chateau?”
“It’s in a fireplace, miss.”
Amusement colored the woman’s explanation. Oh. That was another thing Simone had forgotten from the experience with anesthesia. For some time afterward, thinking coherently had proved difficult. Simone inhaled deeply. Almost coughed. The woman hadn’t misspoken. It was definitely chilly.
“Will you need an assist with the steps?” The woman spoke again.
“Um. No. Thank you.”
“Are you certain?’
“Yes.”
Simone’s next breath brought a lot more cold with it. Her exhalation frosted the air. Returning sensation was a double-edged thing here. Although necessary, it wasn’t exactly pleasant. And the young woman was already halfway up the steps. Simone pondered options. She didn’t know where she was. Why she was here. Or what she faced. She could stay out here and contemplate it, risking hypothermia.
Or she could follow.
At first, her legs didn’t function well. The staircase was incredibly wide and didn’t have a handrail. Each step was slow. Precisely placed. But before she reached the top, weakness no longer dogged her. She felt almost normal. Although perched atop heels, her stride was confident as she walked through the doorway. Then the door closed behind her. Simone spun. Nobody was even there.
Oh my.
That was kind of scary.
The thump that accompanied the door’s closure echoed for some time. Simone listened to it recede, uncertain of her next move. There wasn’t anyone about. Not only had the woman disappeared, so had the fellow who’d hefted her luggage. This was beyond weird. Still dream-like, but if she had a choice she was ditching the ‘heroine arriving at a haunted house’ storyline. She’d rather imagine herself a princess arriving at a fairytale castle.
Only this princess wore Film Noir-inspired clothing.
And had brought a cello.
Simone snickered. She toyed with pinching herself. Dismissed the notion. Even if she was dreaming, that always sounded like an inefficient way to prove it. At the moment, and in her current surroundings, it also felt gauche.
She looked about. Couldn’t see much. She stood in an apartment-sized space that might be a foyer, but it wasn’t lighted. She couldn’t tell opulence level, although it felt rich. Dark caverns of space loomed on either side of her, portending hallways. Nothing felt welcoming or warm. Then again, she’d been told a fire was lit in the blue salon. Apparently all she had to do was find it.
Her best option appeared to be the lit span of space directly before her. Light beckoned from between two Greco-Roman inspired columns. Simone walked forward slowly, went between the columns, and regarded another wide staircase. This one was only half the length of the first, and led to a huge open space. Room size was impossible to estimate, but the place was cavernous. Her eyes were growing accustomed to dimness, but discerning detail was a chore. There appeared to be candlelit chandeliers high in the ceiling. They weren’t sufficient. Gloom poured down the walls in sections, reaching down to spread out in pools across the tiles like virus colonies.
And then she saw it.
A Tintoretto?
A real one.
Oh. Wow.
Simone’s eyes went wide. Her breath caught. There was a painting backing the room. It was enormous, dark-toned, and dimly lit. Despite that, the painting thrilled and then drew. Simone started toward it. Her steps quickened. High heels clacked on tile, the sound loud. Abrasive. Jarring.
Stiletto heels are so stupid.
Why on earth had she worn them? The shoes pinched her toes, made her feel off-balance, and they were difficult to walk in. Strolling was a chore. This pace was dangerous. Her ankles wobbled more than once. Then she reached carpeting that not only muted her steps, it slowed her, too.
Damn it.
Thick fibers sucked at each step. She lost a shoe. She didn’t glance down for it. Her gaze was glued to the painting. She limped forward, tiptoeing on the shoeless foot, finally reaching a spot that allowed her to view the painting in entirety. Thankfully, there was a chandelier directly above her. The lighting was insufficient, but at least she had some.
Simone just stood there, looking at something she’d never imagined. Eyes wide. Lips gapped. Completely awed. A child of two concert musicians, she’d grown up with stringed instruments, but art was a passion. There had been a time when she’d experienced artwork of this caliber...back in her early college years. The memories rushed back as she stood, utterly rapt. But even those experiences paled in comparison to this one. It was just...
Just...
Oh my.
Mere words failed. Simone blinked against an onrush of emotion. What a stupid time to cry. She had a Tintoretto before her. The last thing she wished was to blur anything.
Her vision cleared. She narrowed her eyes. Started an evaluation. This was an immense canvas. She’d guess it at twenty-two meters wide. There was a larger Tintoretto in existence, Il Paradiso in the Doge’s Palace in Venice. That one measured eighty-two feet. She’d never seen it in person, but that was on her bucket list.
Oh.
Wait.
Something wasn’t quite right. Her eyes narrowed as an insane idea occurred to her. Six steps closer brought her to the proof. This painting wasn’t a Tintoretto after all. She was in the presence of a Veronese. And that was just unbelievable.
Paolo Veronese had been the first choice for the Doge’s Palace. The artist died before it could be started. Tintoretto had been his replacement. A Veronese of this size wasn’t just rare. She hadn’t known one even existed. And then everything stopped. Her heartbeat. Breath. Thought process. Cold beyond any temperature outside shot through her, freezing her in place.
“Oh, no. No. Dear heaven, no.”
The whispered words barely made sound. She couldn’t hear them over her pulse as it restarted. Loud. Harsh. And fast. This was no dream. She was caught in a nightmare beyond scope. It was horrific. It wasn’t possible, and yet...
She was looking at damage. A lot of it. And done recently. The canvas had been spattered with a conglomeration of fresh paint. The result wasn’t just destructive. It was sacrilege. Criminal. She felt nauseous.
And then it got even worse.
Simone slapped a hand to her mouth and tried to keep the scream silent. She failed. The cry carried anguish at incalculable harm. She couldn’t miss seeing it at this angle. There was a paintbrush hanging from the canvas. Outwardly hanging! And that meant that someone had—.
They had—!
Shock filled her, overriding any earlier sensation. She actually felt faint. The spot about her nose tingled. Dear God. Someone had stuck a brush through this priceless piece of art.
A paintbrush?!
And that’s when the anger hit, white-hot and huge. Simone felt such a rush of murderous rage, she shook. She hyperventilated, close to sobbing. Filled with hatred. All of it alien. She wasn’t vicious. She was against capital punishment. But right now, a medieval drawing and quartering didn’t sound like near enough punishment for this level of desecration.
She was even willing to help.