"De astronoom" (The Astronomer) by Johannes Vermeer (c. 1668), stolen by Nazis in 1940 and branded with a swastika, returned to Rothschilds family after war, acquired by French state in 1983 as payment for inheritance taxes - value unknown (high)

Chapter Thirty-Four

I pushed through the throngs of guests, feeling heavy. Like a dull throb I'd allowed to become an all-consuming, full-body snarl of pain, I was hurting. I was so intensely overwhelmed with the choices I'd made.

Especially as I found myself alone.

I felt proud for what I was walking away from, but I had plenty to be ashamed of, too. My choices were coins with two faces; they'd been flipped too many times, and still continued to spin. They decorated the ground as much as they adorned vaults. I was rich in more ways than one, but burdened and ungrateful no matter the perspective.

Keep moving forward.

My dress didn't seem so sleek anymore; it chafed my skin. It dragged as if lined with stones, and my feet ached in the heels that held me high. My layers of armored indifference were weighing me down. I knew it, but I couldn't change it, just as I knew armor only got heavier the longer it was worn. I had no choice but to bear it. I was already paying for my previous decisions and sins; boiling from the heat of fires I'd set, drowning under the rushing of rivers I'd diverted.

I'd pulled the trigger myself—so why was I so surprised by the blooming red? Why was I clammy under the very lights I'd invited, blinded by the same spotlights I'd chased?

There was always blame to place. Yet, very few truly deserved the amount they were given. How much did I deserve? How much could I explain away if I tried? How much could I give to others?

The orchestra was spinning out intricately woven melodies, but all I heard was an underlying pulse that seemed directed at me. Alone, it said. Alone. Alone. You're alone, and you did it to yourself.

I tuned it out, but the moment I did, I was greeted by another unpleasant sound. The people around me had little to say that'd offer any interest or value. There was no escape. There was blame oozing from melodies on my left, and filthy money spewing ignorance on my right. Where could I hide, when I was as part of it, as it was part of me?

I kept walking through the massive foyer, untethered and left to drift. It felt as it did strolling a pier, hearing the water churn, surrounded by tides frolicking free. Forging further than I should on storm-proof stilts, as waves slapped the boards and embraced the beams, knowing wood could rot and give way. Being slyly reminded the volatile depths drowned as much as they welcomed; a lurking worry exacerbated with every cry of the incessant gulls. My will was depleted. I was exhausted, and wheezing, as if I hadn't had a moment to really breathe since I'd arrived. My lungs had forgotten how to embrace air, especially through the heaviness of these sacred halls, marred by the salt of tears and high-class tides.

Snippets of nearby conversations rose higher and higher above me. Forcefully reminded I could only fight so many battles, I was left with no choice but to concede partial defeat, marking where losses needed to be cut. I came to a halt. Dozens of competing sounds eagerly thumped down, like snow off a roof, burying me entirely.

"Of course, her niece married a lord from the Netherlands, the estate alone is fifteen—"

"—reasons to stay the hell away from that woman, but you—"

"Nancy, darling, tell me they weren't talking about the same Eduardo that teaches you tennis three times a week—"

Stop.

"I can't stay away, Gabby, I don't know—"

"—wanted thousands just to get rid of the tree, not including all the landscaping that would need to done after—"

"Is it just because she's kinda mysterious? I know you've always liked mysteries—"

Don't.

"—dropped six points yesterday, if it falls any further, I'd say dump and sell but my contacts in the Senate say—"

"She's a mystery, sure, but—"

"—that green blob is a dog? Who painted this? Oh, Lomborghi? Oh, no, I see it now, the surrealist take on species variation—"

Please.

"—then play a game of Clue, don't play with her, and if you're not playing her, then tell her what you—"

I couldn't do it. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to barricade myself from the onslaught. But, lord, I was going to be sick. How much champagne had I had?

Clearly, the break between battles was too long, because my wounds were making themselves known. The overwhelming realizations, the exhausting fatigue, the swinging of my sword and the enduring of the whip; it was enough to bring me to my knees. But I couldn't. I could only sway under a chandelier, anchoring myself with an etched glass held in unfaithful hands. The anger was so easy when I was in front of juries and witnesses, but the second I was alone, the rest of it came back; the second I was unmoored, the faster water rushed in—

"Ma'am?"

"You've changed, Simon. No, Beck, he needs to hear this—"

"We had to offer the tutor a couple hundred for it, but he agreed to take it for him. You know what they say, seventh time's the charm—"

STOP.

"Ma'am?"

"I grew up. It happens, Gabby—"

"One kid's startup took off like a rocket. The other crashed like the bank they used, but who was surprised? Like I've always said, just because a Shark says it's a good idea, doesn't mean it's a good idea—"

"No, it's something more—"

"Ma'am!"

The voice was at my shoulder, an echo, like me—

Am I only an echo?

I was going to cry, or scream, or beg for forgiveness, or tell the truth, or—

"Eleanor Vaycker!"

The fall to Earth was short, but hard.

Cruel, but kind; the final blow to the dying. I looked to my left.

Yolanda looked nervous.

I gasped. The swell of the tide ebbed, sulking from its barely failed attempt to drown me, leaving me soaked to the bone and spitting out salt. Yolanda watched. I blinked. She glanced me up and down, armed with a keen gaze that triggered alarms she didn't know the likes of. I stared. She grimaced.

"I wasn't sure you heard me. You seemed a little out of it," she awkwardly supplied. Her smile was as feeble as my mind, still wrapped in its foggy haze, afraid to breathe more air I didn't trust.

I stayed silent. I was dumbstruck and floundering, and she tripped over herself to fill the gaps. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight," she continued. "But I'm glad you came."

I swallowed. I swallowed it all down. Everything I'd carried for months, everything I'd just taken, everything I wished I could leave behind. I shoved it down, pushed it into some closet within my mind's recesses, and put a chair under the knob.

My heart was pounding. My voice was breathy, withered by bewilderment as it poured from a dropped jaw. "Yes, that seems to be the consensus tonight."

Yolanda was still looking at me in a way she'd never done before, and it was infuriating, and suspicious, and terrifying. The crowd was still chattering, the room was still watching, and the lies were still skulking.

I felt as if I hadn't been cognizant under the freezing waves and crippling ice all this time; now, I was emerging from where I'd been pulled under, cold and bruised. I had to grasp for straws of normalcy, but I was taking from empty baskets. I was summoning from empty reservoirs to quench parched throats, and scrambling for paper swords against an army.

I squared my shoulders, defiant, but my voice failed me. Failure was too familiar; success was too painful. "H-how are you?" I stuttered.

Yolanda teetered into a haphazard shrug in response. I clenched my jaw. It was too awkward; I was too afraid of slipping under again. If I didn't get my feet under me before we parted ways, the ice would harden again before I could catch my breath. So I tried again. "How's the promotion treating you?"

Yolanda shrugged like she'd done before, but now with a little unease darkening her brow.

I felt like I was going to be sick. I needed to be alone, but nothing sounded worse than being left to my own devices again. Before I could make another attempt, Yolanda finally spoke.

"That's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about," Yolanda slowly admitted. Scheming eyes darted around to tally the conspirators. Hers or mine, I didn't know.

"Me?"

"I had a question about something you were working on before you... er, left."

Are you serious?

I puffed a breath, examining the woman before me. I'd never liked Yolanda, but I'd once considered her a friend. We were once amicable, and I'd learned her limitations, flaws, and faults through time spent as colleagues. I doubted she'd changed—but it didn't matter. I'd once learned to work around them. I could do it again.

I nodded, pinching my cheeks into a weary grin of welcome. "What's the question?"

"Well, it's..." She suddenly gave a half-laugh, too abrupt and dismayed, and I felt my chest thrum with pulses of agitation. She seemed to be interrupting herself to offer a sidebar. "Okay, look, I recognize the awkwardness of the situation—"

The wave threatened to surge again. A ghostly yank on my discipline caused smidgens of irritation to seep out, and I held up a hand to interrupt her pandering. "Get to the point, Yolanda."

She shifted on her feet, frowning. It scratched my anger deeper.

"Eleanor, before you left, you were working on something. I'm not sure if you remember, but—"

"Yolanda!" I chastised.

"It's a report. From that restoration artist in Florence. The one we flew over for a consult?"

After a moment of uncertainty, I remembered. "Yes, for the Widow."

My irritation deepened to depths I was unpleasantly unfamiliar with. She'd reminded me there was a reason I'd never liked her.

"Sort of a moot point now, don't you think?" I grumbled, scowling at the flighty nimwit.

Yolanda's temper was of an underground sort, but for a moment it glistened; a crack of light through a manhole. I blinked again, and she was back to the pleasant side of her two-faced self. She tilted her head, nodding.

"I thought so, but you know we have to keep records for those kinds of things. I took a look so I could archive it, but his final report... it was..."

I was going to smack her. She was too dramatic for her own good, and I was too mercurial to tolerate it. "Any day, Yolanda."

She took a deep breath and leveled me with a stare. It was too painfully reminiscent of suspicion, so I braced myself.

"Ma'am, did you get Geraldine's approval before the consultant looked at the Widow?"

I stared again. The question was plain as dirt, but it was what laid beneath the surface that mattered the most. It wasn't what I had been expecting, if I was honest. My brow scrunched. Anger veered into confusion. She was acting like she'd never stepped foot in Whitehill before, or waded through its complex politics. Her prodding made little sense to me—especially now.

"No," I answered slowly. "She was in Sydney for that entire month, then New York. I got approval from Mr. Whitehill after suggesting the idea of restoration to the board. They wanted a full report of timelines, costs, and potential controversies before it was approved, so we flew in Signore Eriberto to give us an idea."

"Oh."

"I assumed Mr. Whitehill told her, since any restoration ultimately wouldn't have been approved without her. The final report was due back before October. But, Yolanda, why does it matter? You do realize the painting is gone, right?"

She scoffed, though there was still a haze of discomfort about her. I waited until she explained.

"We have the report, but it's bare bones at best. It's hardly a page! Although, since you were the lead, I suppose it makes sense no one followed up when it came in."

I had to bite my tongue. She didn't seem to notice.

She continued, "I gave him a call. The report was lacking too much, so I thought it was an error. I wanted to see if there was more. But on the phone, he was... evasive? Honestly, Signore Eriberto acted like he'd found something weird about the Widow."

"Weird how?" I gritted out.

She lowered her voice, the scared look of a child carrying too large of a secret emblazoned across her face. It was my turn to shift with restless feet. "I don't know, but I got the feeling it's the type of weird Geraldine should've known about. But like I said, I don't know, I could be wrong. It's just that something felt off about the whole thing."

I squinted, opening my mouth, but she wasn't done.

"I haven't brought it up yet," she babbled. "I wanted your input first since you were involved with the project, like usual. Honestly, from how he acted, I thought testing results were unclear, or something was wrong. I figured you'd know what to do!"

"What did Signore Eriberto actually say, Yolanda?"

"Well, he didn't say much, but that's the point," she emphasized. "He seemed nervous. He hasn't sent any follow-up report, and he hung up pretty fast. He seemed like he expected someone else to call—not me. Not to mention, he acted even weirder when I brought up Geraldine! Which is why I wondered if she hadn't known about him, or something else was going on."

I didn't understand. I didn't understand a lot of things anymore. I shook my head, annoyed at her potentially baseless paranoia and her lack of a spine when it came to actual work. "So? Yolanda—"

But she stiffened, glancing around. "We can't talk here," she urged. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Uh, no, I don't think that's necessary—"

"We need to meet somewhere people aren't listening," she insisted. "I need your help before I approach Geraldine."

Yolanda was a melodramatic, ditzy woman who sat pretty under the attention of others. She was skilled at siphoning drama, squeezing theatrics out of whatever she could, and inflating small issues into crises. Hell, she could be blowing smoke out her ears and preparing to yell fire in a crowded room—or she could be telling the truth. So I shrugged, and she flounced away to show off her shiny new job title.

While my run-in with Yolanda was strange, I had other worries. I made sure the door was secured, the locks were tight, and my smile was on before I made my way back to August. I ignored everything that'd happened in the past few minutes, and everything I'd heard, because I had to. I had to keep going. The party had hardly started; the night had hardly revealed all it needed to reveal. The lies were waiting, full-faced and pretty, and impatient lions were eager to be unleashed.

Even so, the half-baked revelations threatened to unravel me. The layers of tangled messes were multiplying by the minute. The questions were pounding on the overly used, rusty doors, and the truth was wailing at the handle for rescue.

"Holy shit," August groaned when I emerged from the crowd. His relief was evident, and his hair was messy. "I was about to send a rescue squad!"

"No need," I brushed off. I took care to give a blinding smile of reassurance. "Just a lipstick disaster and a long line."

He searched my face, but I was a better liar than he'd ever been. I stood, breezy, bright, and beguiling—as if innocent.

"You're good?"

"I'm good."

I'm anything but good.

"Well, I'm glad you made it back in time," he accepted. His eyes lingered, but he didn't question me further. August pointed to the other side of the room, where our graceful matriarch had begun to head to the stairs. "Gramma's about to start."

The music dimmed as the orchestra beside the steps took notice, and another hush started to descend over the open foyer. Geraldine soon stood halfway up the sweeping staircase. She gazed over the crowd with the silent glow of satisfaction, exalted and majestic.

"Good evening," she announced.

Her voice echoed off the wide ceilings, snaking around every shoulder until the remaining crowd turned at her command. Every gaze in the room was awarded to the hostess of the night, submitting to her spell with relish.

"Welcome to Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery. We want to thank you for joining us tonight."

Applause rose. The room was overflowing with respect for Geraldine; she was the queen, and she'd sowed fields of lavender loyalty in these fields.

It took several heartbeats, but when the applause finally tapered off, Geraldine began again. "I see so many familiar faces in the crowd. Friends, partners, creative brothers- and sisters-in-arms. And I see so many new ones! I look forward to new partnerships, new alliances, and new growth. But for those who don't know, my name is Geraldine Whitehill, the founder of this sanctuary and your host of the night."

More cheers erupted at that. Everyone knew who she was. If they didn't, they didn't have to know her name to know her worth, or the reach of her scythe.

"Tonight is a very special night," she proudly explained. "Every year, we hold this event during the same week: the week I celebrated my wedding anniversary with my late husband. This year is especially special—it fell on exactly the date. It was fifty-one years ago today that I married my love, my light, my muse. We started something beautiful; something I wanted to continue after he passed, and something I hope to share with all of you tonight."

The room was in rapture. She was transcendent, as if the very skies had split and scattered their stars around her.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Geraldine said, smiling wide and twinkling bright. "And yes, we do expect you to open your wallets tonight!"

The crowd laughed. She gave a wave, and clarified, "As our annual fundraiser, this is when we ask the community to open their hearts, and checkbooks, to let us continue the legacy of art we so passionately fight to preserve. We ask for contributions as we welcome a new generation of artists, sculptors, creators, writers, actors, directors, poets, and even critics, to the world they'll help shape. From our butterfly garden, where we work in partnership with the Paxhaven Children's Science Museum to raise fifteen species of butterflies, to our summer art programs for children of all ages, and to our scholarship fund for STEAM scholars—your donations help us create a lasting foundation. Your selfless charity will help our restoration programs, where we document research into the lives of artists and their work's extensive histories, and aid our team's work to return collections back to their original grandeur. From scholarships to charities, the Whitehill Foundation works hard to make an impact on our community, both large and small."

I was focused on Geraldine, but it didn't block out the whispers. I didn't look, but I heard them.

Just as I didn't feed the secrets, but they fed us.

"They probably need the money since the painting wasn't insured," the person beside me snickered, talking quietly to their companion. Their sniggers were coarse and cruel. "I mean, seriously, who doesn't insure a work like that—"

"Tonight, I hope you drink, dance, and enjoy all that Whitehill has to offer," Geraldine continued, unperturbed by any ripples through the crowd. "Later tonight, we'll have a special auction of works by local artists, all donated for this event, with proceeds going directly back to the community. I'd like to give special thanks to the Dawn Quinell National Orchestra, as they bring their incredible skills to give us beautiful live music tonight. And to my family, as we celebrate our lost loved ones. To Artie, who watches from above, and to the moonlit blues, the first songs my husband and I ever danced to. May I never forget that night, or my love."

The ovation was loud, full of acclaim and condolences, but Geraldine didn't bend under the weight of the crowd. She stood proud and tall as the music began. The violins, the piano, the slow melody of the classic song. It was reverent, and full of a sound that could only be born from one thing.

The notes were a celebration of what had been found, what had been gifted, and what had been felt—and also what had been lost.

I was as entranced as the rest of the room while the music wafted over our heads like clouds. I wasn't paying attention to the movement of others around me, so I was unprepared; I missed August's intentions until it was too late.

"May I have this dance?"

I turned to meet August's outstretched hand. Once, I never would have hesitated. Once, we would've laughed under twinkling lights and teased the other for missed steps, or goofy expressions. Once, I would've danced with my best friend, and not felt like he was too forgiving for his own good.

"We shouldn't, August."

I could feel the sticky gazes that'd landed on me again, now that Geraldine's speech had ended. I could hear the snakes slither, rearing their heads in disgust at what they'd found. I could feel the weight of my presence dragging down what should've been a joyous night. I could feel the pulse of risk coming alive with every note the orchestra played, every moment I was here, every word I let out. Every second I was surrounded by crystal, marble, and paint, was another chance for an eruption of crises. I had no issues standing before the crowd, but I hated to see August beside me. I had no concerns about myself; I'd become cloaked with impenetrable scales, but August's armor wasn't as strong.

Yet his hand didn't falter. August stepped closer, claiming more of my sight. "That's exactly why we should do it," he said firmly.

"August—"

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone, Eleanor. I don't either. But honestly? I'd love to show them you have my full support. Hell or high water, you're my best friend, and you always will be," he promised. "I don't care what you did or didn't do. And I sure as hell don't care what they think. I'm on your side."

"But—"

"Don't worry," he said, mouth twitching. "I have plenty of ammunition to defend us."

He was grinning by the end. August was a terrible liar. He was never good at hiding his truths—which is how I knew he wasn't lying. Words stuck in my throat.

But after a moment, I nodded.

I let August pull me onto the dance floor. I knew he felt the stares, the derision, and the utter shock of his choices, but August didn't let it show. He guided me through the dance as the song tumbled and played around us. Then through the next, as the orchestra's melody carried us. We danced, the outlawed duchess and the prince, and reminded the crowd the strength of August's heart, and the mighty foundation of our friendship. Their judgement was static and clingy, but August interrupted the charges to guide me through waltzes.

I knew our dances shocked the other guests. They'd probably assumed I'd crashed the party, or perhaps they believed the family had forgotten to revoke my invitation. Now, as August trampled their evidence, they couldn't shelter those assumptions. Our dances forced an uncomfortable reevaluation for all in attendance. It encouraged the beginning of a reversal of exile, watering the blossoms of doubt that'd sprouted outside these walls, and gave credibility to the ranks on my side. I watched how each step we took struck down their pointed spears and pointed at the crumbles in their defenses.

Still, there was so much to battle, and so many minds to change. Except... I didn't care about any of that anymore. I only cared what happened to August, not me. He was risking so much. Though I knew it mattered to him to stand by my side, I didn't really want to turn the tides. Besides, we couldn't dance forever. August had other wars to wage; he couldn't keep fighting mine. So, when another song ended, I pulled back from his hold. He looked at me questioningly, already ready to battle whatever doubts he assumed I had, but I wouldn't let him.

"Thank you for the dance, August," I said. I gave him a smile, dazzling and teasing and true. I leaned in to whisper, "But I think you're dancing with the wrong person."

He understood. I knew he did. Yet, August was only brave when fighting for others, when protecting his people, never in his own ventures. He needed a different kind of braveness for this. For him, I would lend what I didn't have, or couldn't use for myself.

"Go, August," I urged again. "Go get her. Ask her to dance. Make the first move."

His uncertainty still brewed, but something sparked and hardened in those blue eyes. And he nodded, squeezed my hand, and vanished into the crowd. He ensured no imminent threats waited to pounce before embarking on his journey, and I silently thanked him for it. I wished him luck. He might be a lion, but it was the queens who held their ground.

I watched him go, looking at his empty spot well after he was out of sight. He was searching for a rose in a burning garden, and I...

I felt a grief that came from being left behind. When everyone else moved on, but I couldn't follow. When I couldn't walk the path others meandered, because I'd been caught on the brambles. I didn't necessarily want to follow—but it hurt to know I couldn't, even if I tried.

I greeted the familiar melancholy I'd welcomed so many times before, the loneliness I'd invited in, the regret I'd woven through my future and past. Life was full of choices. I'd chased butterflies, tripped over fallen trees, and returned to the land I was made from. I'd been a princess, a phoenix, and a painter of stories I'd changed at will. I'd been the villain, the so-called hero, and the schemer. I'd been as thorny as the vines I was caught in.

I just didn't know I wasn't alone in the brambles.

It's been a year since starting this book. Sorry. I'm wrapping it up, I promise. There are sixteen-ish chapters left. As of now. (I say that, because sometimes I have to move things around! Or can't stop writing.)

By the way, I changed the prologue. More tweaks than a total overhaul, but still some changes. Let me know what you think! Smoother? Less smooth? Don't remember what it was before because it's been so long?

- H

P. S. "Castles Crumbling" by T. S. is absolutely perfect for this book! I love it so much.