third floor. Or rather, she saw Natascha disappear into an apartment on the third floor, her long legs scissoring out of
sight down a long, dark, dusty hall.
What?
She braked to a stop. No. How? This wasn’t right.
But the door was open, Natascha out of sight.
‘Natascha?’ she called after her. ‘You can’t go in there.’
No reply.
‘Natascha! Get back out here now!’
Silence.
‘For God’s sake,’ Flora muttered, taking a single step over the threshold, as though afraid to follow, her hand tracing the number
6
on the open front door, her fingers
finding the key in the lock . . .
Wait, what? The key fit? It was the key for this door?
She could hear Natascha’s footsteps on the stripped floors as she barged from room to room. ‘Natascha!’
Slowly, she began to walk down the hall, sure she must be tripping. This made no sense. She doubted her own mind. Was
she
the one mistaken? She stared back at the door – at the
brass
6
– and then back down the empty hall; she passed bare rooms, thick with dust and nothing else. She found Natascha in the bedroom at the front of the building. A wooden bedstead
– no mattress – stood in the room, beside a crate.
‘Is that
it
?’ Natascha demanded, her hands on her hips.
Almost as though in slow motion, Flora looked at the painting lying face up on the slats of the bedstead. What was going on? Was this some kind of game? She walked towards the bed, noticing a
toy on the floor beside the crate.
But that wasn’t what she was interested in. Her eyes were almost immediately drawn back to the solitary painting lying on the bones of the bed. Its beauty was luminous and all the more
startling for being found here, alone – a portrait of a woman, Edwardian period, her green eyes shaped like pear-cut emeralds, her russet hair twisted and fashioned into an intricate topknot,
the exquisitely rendered silk of her peacock-blue dress modulating through teal to turquoise to sea-green, with top notes of gold flecks. On one elegant hand was a gold signet ring, on the other a
ruby, the vermilion scratch shocking against the creaminess of her skin, like blood in the snow.
Flora’s eyes flicked to the bottom corners, looking for a signature, but there wasn’t one that she could see and she turned it over and checked the back – nothing. No gallery
sticker or dealer name, no exhibition number, no clue to reveal who this woman was, nor who had immortalized her. Immediately Flora knew this rendered the painting almost worthless on the open
market but she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more beautiful portrait.
‘You said there were hundreds of paintings here!’ Natascha shouted, dragging her from her immersive thoughts. ‘I heard you. I stood behind the door and I heard you!’
But Flora wasn’t interested in Natascha’s confession. All her concentration was folded inwards as her brain tried to process what her eyes were showing her. It wasn’t just that
the apartment was almost entirely empty . . . ‘I don’t understand. You had a key?’
‘Don’t try and play the innocent with me! What have you done with them?’
‘Done with what?’
‘My family’s paintings! Where have you hidden them?’
‘I haven’t hidden anything!’
‘Then explain to me where are the
hundreds
of paintings in my grandparents’ apartment,’ Natascha said sarcastically, holding her arms out wide and indicating the empty
space. ‘What have you done? Where are they?’
Flora blinked back, understanding precious little more than Natascha did. But without saying a word, she unfurled her index finger and pointed to the ceiling.
Chapter Seven
Flora stood by the front door, refusing to play ball. She wouldn’t be part of this; she wouldn’t be Natascha’s tour guide. It wasn’t as though she knew
what the hell was going on anyway. She couldn’t make sense of what had just happened: another key, another apartment, another painting?
Her finger traced the brass
sight down a long, dark, dusty hall.
What?
She braked to a stop. No. How? This wasn’t right.
But the door was open, Natascha out of sight.
‘Natascha?’ she called after her. ‘You can’t go in there.’
No reply.
‘Natascha! Get back out here now!’
Silence.
‘For God’s sake,’ Flora muttered, taking a single step over the threshold, as though afraid to follow, her hand tracing the number
6
on the open front door, her fingers
finding the key in the lock . . .
Wait, what? The key fit? It was the key for this door?
She could hear Natascha’s footsteps on the stripped floors as she barged from room to room. ‘Natascha!’
Slowly, she began to walk down the hall, sure she must be tripping. This made no sense. She doubted her own mind. Was
she
the one mistaken? She stared back at the door – at the
brass
6
– and then back down the empty hall; she passed bare rooms, thick with dust and nothing else. She found Natascha in the bedroom at the front of the building. A wooden bedstead
– no mattress – stood in the room, beside a crate.
‘Is that
it
?’ Natascha demanded, her hands on her hips.
Almost as though in slow motion, Flora looked at the painting lying face up on the slats of the bedstead. What was going on? Was this some kind of game? She walked towards the bed, noticing a
toy on the floor beside the crate.
But that wasn’t what she was interested in. Her eyes were almost immediately drawn back to the solitary painting lying on the bones of the bed. Its beauty was luminous and all the more
startling for being found here, alone – a portrait of a woman, Edwardian period, her green eyes shaped like pear-cut emeralds, her russet hair twisted and fashioned into an intricate topknot,
the exquisitely rendered silk of her peacock-blue dress modulating through teal to turquoise to sea-green, with top notes of gold flecks. On one elegant hand was a gold signet ring, on the other a
ruby, the vermilion scratch shocking against the creaminess of her skin, like blood in the snow.
Flora’s eyes flicked to the bottom corners, looking for a signature, but there wasn’t one that she could see and she turned it over and checked the back – nothing. No gallery
sticker or dealer name, no exhibition number, no clue to reveal who this woman was, nor who had immortalized her. Immediately Flora knew this rendered the painting almost worthless on the open
market but she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more beautiful portrait.
‘You said there were hundreds of paintings here!’ Natascha shouted, dragging her from her immersive thoughts. ‘I heard you. I stood behind the door and I heard you!’
But Flora wasn’t interested in Natascha’s confession. All her concentration was folded inwards as her brain tried to process what her eyes were showing her. It wasn’t just that
the apartment was almost entirely empty . . . ‘I don’t understand. You had a key?’
‘Don’t try and play the innocent with me! What have you done with them?’
‘Done with what?’
‘My family’s paintings! Where have you hidden them?’
‘I haven’t hidden anything!’
‘Then explain to me where are the
hundreds
of paintings in my grandparents’ apartment,’ Natascha said sarcastically, holding her arms out wide and indicating the empty
space. ‘What have you done? Where are they?’
Flora blinked back, understanding precious little more than Natascha did. But without saying a word, she unfurled her index finger and pointed to the ceiling.
Chapter Seven
Flora stood by the front door, refusing to play ball. She wouldn’t be part of this; she wouldn’t be Natascha’s tour guide. It wasn’t as though she knew
what the hell was going on anyway. She couldn’t make sense of what had just happened: another key, another apartment, another painting?
Her finger traced the brass
Similar Books
