The Other Side Of Midnight

I chew and swallow. Then I look sideways and catch the Count looking at me. The beautiful man is cradling his goblet of red wine in his hand, the stem of the glass is between his third and fourth finger.

And I remember something. Something that has been troubling me ever since it happened.

Chapter 21

Autumn

“I met a lady the other day,” I tell him. “An incredibly beautiful, blonde lady in a long black car.”

He goes incredibly still, like a statue. “What?”

“Yeah, it was raining and I was waiting at the bus stop. She stopped the car and gave me an umbrella. Do you know—”

The question is cut away by the scream that erupts from my mouth. The goblet he was holding has smashed in his hand. Blood and wine mix and spill on the white table cloth. For a split second, I see a jagged piece of glass sticking from his flesh. In the candle light his blood appears tinged with blue. Before I can even begin to react, he has already pulled the broken glass from his palm, and wrapped his hand in a napkin.

“Oh, my God. That looks like a really deep wound,” I cry belatedly.

“It’s nothing,” he says quietly. “Please excuse me, while I get a bandage on the cut.” He makes an old-fashioned bow and exits the room.

I’m still staring at the spilled wine and blood on the immaculate tablecloth, when William comes in with two servants. One of them is carrying a table cloth and another is carrying a goblet wine glass. Silently, I stand and watch as they expertly change the tablecloth and put everything back on the table. William pours wine into the glass. Then he nods at me, and they leave.

I look around the room and my eye is caught by a painting inside a glass case at the far end of the room. I walk towards it in sheer disbelief. Surely, not, but it is unmistakably, The Storm on the Sea of Galilee! Painted by Rembrandt in 1633, and stolen in 1990. No one has seen it since then. I have only seen photos of it, and it is more of a legend to me than an actual piece, but from the first moment I laid eyes on it, the energy and beauty of it struck and inspired me. And here it is now. As I stand staring at its incredible magic, I know without a doubt it is no replica I am looking at. It is the original, the real thing.

I am in front of Rembrandt Van Rijn’s stolen masterpiece.

His approach has been soundless, but I know he is standing behind me without turning around. The hairs on my neck are standing, my fingertips are tingling.

“Where did you get the painting from?” I whisper.

“Paris.”

I turn to face him. “You knew it was stolen, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But you wanted it.”

He seems unrepentant. “Yes, I wanted it.”

“So you reached out and took it?”

“Yes.”

I think of that library crammed with thousands of old books. He is a collector of things. But not an ordinary thing, rare and precious things. “I suppose you have other houses in other parts of the world full of beautiful stolen artworks?”

He nods, and again I see that flash of despair in his eyes.

“But none of it gives you joy?”

“Nothing I own gives me joy… anymore.” There is a bitter twist to his lips. The air becomes thick and slow with the smell of candle wax, exotic flowers, wet grasses, and him. I breathe in the scent. It is intoxicating.

I take a step towards him and reach for his hand. His fingers are long and thick, but his skin is cool and as smooth as a woman’s. Certainly, smoother than mine. No doubt he has never done a day’s work in his life. We are so close I can smell him. That sweet smell of grass, rain, and earth.

My skin tingles as I turn his palm upwards. There is a bandage across it. A vague sensation of relief washes over me. I thought the wound was more serious than that. As the relief fades I feel a strong urge to run my hand up to his wrist and feel his heartbeat. Resisting the compulsion, I drop his hand.

“Who is the blonde lady?” I ask, looking up into his mesmerizing eyes.

“My sister.”

I nod slowly as I digest this fact. Even though she was beautiful and blonde like him she did not share any similar features with him or have a similar energy signature so it never crossed my mind they could be brother and sister. The only reason I thought they were somehow connected was because they were both so obviously different from all the other folk in the town.

“What does she want with me?”

His face is still and unreadable. “I don’t know.”