The Portrait and The Letter
Chapter 2
"Did you hear that Dr. Everett will be on the team processing the artifacts from Alsace?"
Bella listened intently as she clutched her cup of coffee between her hands, her eyes as big as saucers. "Everett?"
"Well it makes sense, doesn't it?" Eric shrugged. "He is the most senior in Safeira when it comes to renaissance paintings and painting restoration."
Another woman sat with them, gathered around a small roundtable with dainty coffee cups with faded twirling blue lines along the rim of the white porcelain. She had stained her rim with her purple lipstick. Large golden globes hung by thin golden chains from her earlobes, and they looked about ready to give up. She had colored her cropped hair white, having come to terms with her graying onyx locks earlier the same year. Almond-shaped eyes hid behind pointed glasses, her slanted eyes further accented by the black cat-eyed liner. She drummed her short chrome-painted nails against the table as she gathered the leopard-printed shawl closer around her form.
"You're just curious who he'll choose as his assistant," Miranda said with a smug smirk. "Won't be you, Eric, we all know what he thinks about you."
"What makes you think he'll choose anyone at the university? He needs more experienced people than that, he'll probably work together with the team they're setting up at the National History Museum. I also heard they're flying in a chap from Geneva," Eric responded as he tried to shrug off Miranda's crude comment. She always had a way of getting under his skin.
"I just hope they're many people working on it, my students have been on me like crazy about the painting at the lectures," Bella sighed. She scratched her head and took a sip of the now cold coffee, scrunching her nose as she put the half-filled cup down. Two weeks had passed since the incident at the Opera House, two weeks of checking the news for strangers in black military gear or searching for anything alluding to the man she had met. But, alas, she had found little concerning such things. Bella chewed her lip, wondering who the men in the blue Sedan had been, and if the man who had pushed up her against the wall had been the driver of the black Volvo.
"Today's the Cullen lecture, right?" Miranda asked.
"Lord knows it's going to be crowded in the auditorium," Bella sighed. "Especially concerning the recent findings."
"How many sit-ins do you think you'll have?" Miranda continued.
"Last lecture there were fifty more seats taken. At this pace there'll be students lining the walls."
"No there won't," Eric filled in. "Fire safety says a maximum of 250 people fit in that room. I had the department administrator stop the registry this morning so there shouldn't be any students able to register for this lecture."
Bella shrugged. Ever since she'd started lecturing at the University of Safeira there was one lecture in particular that always drew attention—her lecture on the symbolism regarding Cullen and the Fell dynasty during the time he was alive. It was what she was writing her PhD on, after all. Cullen had been present only a few years in Angloan history, yet his short presence had sparked a massive impact. Not only had books been written about him—both history and fiction. But movies and TV-series had been dedicated to his short life and to the fight he'd waged on with the villainized Queen Victoria. That, together with the romance he'd had with Isabella Swan, had cemented him not only as a national hero, but idolized him for generations to come. His motto "Audeamus" was still used, half a millennia later, both ironically and seriously. It could be heard at football matches or from students before their exams at the library, cramming in a few more hours and foregoing sleep before showing up looking half dead at the exam hall. It was sometimes used by the politicians—even the Queen—on some rare occasions.
"I think half of the questions today will be about the painting," she sighed. Bella massaged her temples. "I think I'll go mad if I have yet another question asking me which movie best depicts Cullen."
Miranda chuckled. "Everyone knows it's The Lion and the Swan."
"Really? I thought you'd go for something more robust like A General for a Country," Eric said only to receive a slap on the shoulder.
Bella looked at her rose gold watch and started gathering her torn leather briefcase and beige handbag. "We all know the best depiction of Cullen was by made by Bart Edderling in 1968's Field Marshal," she said as she stood up. "I'm ashamed you didn't even mention it," she blinked as she walked away.
Later that day she stood once more in the center of the podium before a filled auditorium. Despite Eric's assurances that there would only be up to 250 students, Bella quickly understood that there had to be more than 300 people present in the room with her, many probably not even Arts or History majors. She sighed—the lecture would be available digitally shortly after on the university's webpage. She didn't understand why the students couldn't wait until it was uploaded.
When the doors to the room were finally closed, she rolled back her shoulders and made certain her power point and microphone worked.
"The previous lecture we took an in-depth look at royal portraiture during the 15th and 16th centuries, going through early depictions of Philip Fell and then to later look at his daughters and his son." Bella changed slides. "We compared depictions of Philip to William and the differences in symbolism found in these." She looked up at the large canvas behind her. "What I usually find when looking at the depictions of these men is one inevitable consistency—there was no doubt these were handsome, even by modern standards," she blinked and coaxed a muted chuckle to extend within the room.
"Later portraits of William would use symbolism to elevate his royal status, but as we later discovered it wasn't until the late baroque era that he was truly depicted as the 'Golden King'. Many of his feats would also be painted during the romance period and interpreted further in the post-modern era. We jump thus from portraits to depicting events instead, looking more at his feats rather than at the man himself."
Bella changed slides to a rough sepia picture of a well-known painting by now. Edward Cullen stared down at the crowd with piercing and ominous eyes. He towered over them proudly and imposingly as he held his sword in one hand. The dark mask was prominent, highlighting his eyes—though the color could not be seen in the picture—for it had been taken in 1941—they knew from accounts that the General's eyes had a piercing golden luster.
"The only portrait ever painted of the General when he was alive," Bella said as a silence fell over the class. She could almost sense the students catching their breaths as they stared at the canvas with wide eyes—at the history behind the mask, the pain, loss and death but also the bravery and victory. She gave them a moment to take it all in. "To believe a man could go through as much as he did and it not be fiction," she said. "Many have of course painted him since then, but the painters had never seen him or knew how he looked in person, which adds another mysterious layer to his already enigmatic persona."
She switched to another slide. "As most of you already know, the painting that was stolen in 1941 has been found in Alsace and a new scan was sent to the faculty earlier this week."
The new scan showed the—albeit dirty painting—in full color. "It will of course have to be extensively cleaned. The varnish has yellowed, and some corrections have been spotted with fluorescent lights. But here we get a greater understanding of the artist's vision. Let us first pay attention to the objects of this painting and then we will move on to the colors and finish with any additional symbols. We start with the sword," she said as she took a laser pointer and highlighted the rapier clutched in his right hand. "Power, protection, authority, strength, courage. All of this sounds rather fitting, no?" She continued, jumping to other objects in the painting until eventually going over the colors. After 45 minutes had transpired, the class was as enthralled at the end as they had been at the beginning.
When Bella was done, the class paused, as if processing the lecture, wondering if they were full or still hungry for more. When she asked if there were any questions, she was certain at least twenty hands flew up in the air.
Bella took the questions calmly, responding as best as she could, trying to avoid responding regarding the processing of the General's painting as she was not involved in it and there had yet to be any official statements from the Crown or Ministry of Culture who would lead the conservation and restoration of the painting.
"Have you been offered a position on the team?" someone at the back shouted.
Bella squinted her eyes, trying to discern the figure in the darkness.
"I am afraid I am much too inexperienced to—"
"But don't you have a background in art restoration?"
"Not enough to warrant me working on restoring one of the most important paintings in Angloan history," she countered. She turned to the rest of the class. "I believe that will be all for today. Don't forget to prepare for next week's lecture and Professor Gibbon's seminar on Thursday."
"Ma'am, is it wise to even consider mentioning this at the Conventus?" Athar asked as he read through a thick stack of documents.
"Barker is gone, and his outdated ideas with him." Leonore adjusted her lipstick in the mirror of the elaborate office in the west wing of Aldea. "A change is coming to Angloa, Nigel."
Nigel heard a hint of something most unfamiliar in the old queen's voice—she, a woman that rarely displayed any emotion except smug satisfaction, a charming cheeriness and relaxed attitude revealed something most alien to her disposition: hope.
Nigel stared at the stack, at what it might mean for his country which he so dearly loved. It would indeed see a change—a new world.
Leonore stared at her reflection in the mirror, at the lines in her face, at the years they represented. She hadn't felt wiser as she grew older, only more lost. She had expected a sudden moment of instant wisdom, yet it had never come. She put down the lipstick. "It doesn't mean the end, Nigel," she whispered as if she'd read his mind.
His silhouette was outlined against the roaring fire in the Elizabethan chimney. He stared into the flames, hypnotized by their dance. "700 years of strong monarchic rule."
"Magnus I, Victoria I, Edmund II, Edward IV and William III and… Alec I, my own grandfather…" Leonore murmured into the stillness of the room.
"Every country has their occasional black sheep, not all kings and queens can be perfect. The same goes for world leaders," Nigel retorted.
"Victoria almost gave Angloa back to the English… had she ruled we would probably form part of the Commonwealth now. And my grandfather…" Irritation and disgust laced Leonore's voice. "The shame of the Fell dynasty will lie on the legacy he brought on as a known Nazi sympathizer—and the embarrassment when they then invaded us! During the war we needed a Churchill, not a Chamberlain."
"That is harsh, ma'am."
"It is the truth," Leonore said as she stood up and paced over to the fireplace. Leonore's eyes drifted off into the distance, staring at no point in particular at the far end of the room until finally setting her eyes on a 19th century painting depicting the coronation of William Fell. A sad smile touched her features. "Many changes need to come to Angloa, Nigel."
"Some things have been done for so long for a reason."
"Heritage and tradition aren't everything."
"But it is what we have."
"No," Leonore said forcefully as she faced Athar. "Heritage and tradition will not be my legacy."
"You aim to dismantle a system that has worked perfectly well for more than 500 years?" Athar asked.
"When I pass, Nigel, Samuel is to inherit."
Athar faltered for a millisecond, and it was enough for Leonore to gain the upper hand in the conversation. The look in her eyes was eerily empty. "I fear for Angloa—should that boy take the throne with all the power it contains."
"I will not let that happen, ma'am."
Leonore turned to look at her oldest friend and confidant. Athar grew unnerved by the expression on her face, almost haunting in a sense. It was as if whispers from the past pushed through, warnings of feats that had long since taken place and might take place again. "I will not let that happen." She squared her shoulders and displayed the well-known Fell pride. Leonore arched an eyebrow. "Every mother loves her child; of that I can never be faulted. I gave him the best education, the best advantages to set him up as a magnificent king."
"I agree the lad might not yet be ready to take the crown, but you have many years still to—"
"The poor lad's a complete idiot, Nigel. It saddens me to say it as his mother, but he is easily persuaded and would rather leave matters of state to others which is dangerous. Even with you by his side, he is easily charmed and manipulated… of that we have both been witness, not to mention your own son! Imagine if Ascham were ever to convince him of his ideas! Samuel acts with his heart, not his mind. He takes after his father in that department, God rest his soul," Leonore muttered. "I am sorry to say it, but having the crown passed over to him with all the power it contains is a recipe for disaster. I mean, he could be persuaded to disband Parliament for goodness' sake!"
"No king or queen of Angloa has ever exercised that right."
"And by stupid vanity I am certain he'd do it, knowing it would make me turn in my grave. No, Nigel. Reforms need to be done. We live in the 21st century, in what is supposed to be a democracy. Yet it is fragile enough to be taken down by a simple coup. I am not the only one to realize this. I believe this should have been done decades ago, to let go of traditions that belong to the past. We need to step into the future." She looked at the painting once more.
Athar pursed his lips as Leonore turned her back on him signaling the end of their conversation. She heard him leave, never turning around, staring at her reflection in the window and scowled.
Abigail was followed by seven different people as she marched down the hallway of Sager Palace, the official residence of the Angloan Prime Minister, only a few minutes away from the Conventus and Aldea.
"At ten tomorrow you have a press conference as we spoke of yesterday, then at ten forty-five Langely wished fifteen minutes to speak to you about—"
"Cancel Langley, call Donna," Abigail said to her secretary, Nel, who was already noting it down on her little tablet.
"What about Isaac?" a portly man who was a head shorter than her asked.
Abigail stopped and turned to her chief of staff. "Isaac will have to wait, I need to talk to Donna." She walked into a big room with white paneled walls and a polished mahogany conference table. Her chief of staff closed the doors, leaving some people out and having only the room for the three of them.
Abigail cast herself down in one of the elegant leather chairs and looked visibly stressed. "The Crown must have decided on who they want on the restoration project," she tsked. "And as the Minister of Culture you'd think Donna would be able to tell me more?"
"Rumor has it that, aside from Dr. Everett, some expert from Geneva will fly in as well," her secretary said. "I can't believe that this is the main news," Nel sighed. "A damn painting!"
"The most significant painting in our recent history, don't forget that," Abigail's chief of staff filled in.
Abigail looked at the small clock on her left wrist. "In thirty minutes, I have my audience with her… I need information from Donna before I face the queen to know what questions I must ask."
Nel was already on the phone while typing away frantically on her tablet. Abigail's chief of staff, Daryl Waters, was typing on his phone as well. "You know, I think Donna is as much in the dark as you are," he tsked.
Despite herself, Abigail chuckled. A pensive look swept over her for an instant as she thought something over. "Maybe this painting is good for us after all," she murmured. Abigail stood up and straightened the collar of her suit. "But one would think the damn Prime Minister might be in on the information?" she lashed out as she collected herself. "Two weeks in office and not a damn thing achieved—"
"Two weeks, Madam Prime Minster," Nel muttered. "Only two weeks."
Abigail narrowed her eyes. "Time is not on our side."
She looked at her wristwatch. "Get the car." There was little else she could do. She would have to face the lion unprepared and hope that her charm would aid her this time as well.
The ride to Aldea was short, but it always seemed long to Abigail. She tuned out Nel's updates to her schedule as she gazed at the glittering water of the bay. The waves of the Atlantic rolled lazily against the coast of Safeira. She drummed her fingers against the car's windowpane as the palace closed in, towering over the rest of the city like the mammoth building that it was. She had always been amazed by its sheer poise and presence, by the elegant sapphire domes and exquisite architecture. But now it invoked a sense of discomfort within her. She could stand before the Conventus anytime, but alone before the queen of Angloa was something Abigail couldn't stomach, and she didn't know why.
The sleek black car pulled into the tiled courtyard, driving past the copper fountain as a footman expertly opened the door for her. Nel trailed behind, taking some notes and answering some calls as they entered the palace. Abigail stepped into the main foyer of the east wing, a giant dome rising above her with romantic frescoes of heaven, cherubs flying at the sides. Her neck always hurt as she stretched it to take in the sheer immensity of the paintings, as if she were staring at heaven itself. The interior of the palace was all refined with marble, gilding and exquisite paintings, sculptures and vases strewn here and there. The hallways echoed, her heels sounding extra hard as she followed the steward to the reception room. She was let in and made to wait, as always, before being allowed to enter the next room.
This would be her second time facing the giant, descendant of one of Europe's oldest reigning dynasties and with the proud bearing to match it. Abigail tidied up her appearance in her compact one final time, making certain nothing about her appearance could be criticized or looked down upon. Not that the queen would, of course.
The faint sound of a bell broke through the unbearable silence, and she was shown into the next room. There, in the middle, sat Leonore Fell, smiling at Abigail as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Ah, Madam Prime Minister," the queen said coyly.
Abigail walked up to the queen and gave a small curtesy. "Your Majesty," she said, recalling decorum.
"Please sit," Leonore gestured.
Abigail did as bid, waiting for the queen to speak her first word, she was not allowed to start. But Leonore remained silent, her eyes digging into Abigail uncomfortably. At first, Abigail tried desperately to refrain from making eye contact, but when she noticed that Leonore had her eyes steadfast on her, she changed tactic. She locked her eyes directly on Leonore's face.
Leonore smiled. "Your first fortnight has been busy, to say the least." She started pouring herself a cup, not bothering to ask Abigail if she wanted one.
"Mr. Barker left this country's finances in disarray—I had no choice but to call for extra sittings in the Conventus. We are cleaning up a mess, ma'am."
Leonore swirled the spoon around, distributing the sugar she had just put in. She took a delicate sip, testing the heat of the brew. A satisfied tug on her lips revealed it was just to her taste, another—longer—sip reinforcing it.
"Many matters are requiring your attention these days," Leonore said vaguely.
"If you are referring to the General's portrait, I am afraid I have been ill informed by my ministers and staff as they either seem clueless themselves or refuse to share any information—"
"The less information shared, the better," Leonore suddenly cut off. The aura in the room suddenly changed. The previously pleasant countenance in the queen had been replaced by that of a guarded and severe caution.
Abigail pursed her lips and couldn't help but frown. "Am I to understand that… that you have interfered somehow?"
Leonore put down the cup and sighed. "I do not mistrust you, Madam Prime Minister. I wish to place my full faith in you. But this is a delicate matter. There are certain things the Crown does not yet wish to reveal."
"Such as the people working on the painting? Ma'am, with all due respect, I am expected by the press, by my cabinet, by the Conventus, to hold at least some information regarding this. Otherwise, I will have to turn it on you. I cannot protect the Crown if I do not—"
"The Crown does not need your protection in this matter."
Abigail bit back another argument and recollected her thoughts. "Very well, ma'am," she finally said.
"Your apprehension has been duly noted, however, Madam Prime Minister," Leonore said with a faint smile.
"Tis more curiosity than apprehension, ma'am. Why is the Crown keeping the identity of the restorers a secret?"
"The public would lash out should they learn whom I have chosen to inspect this painting, as well as the academic world."
Abigail frowned.
"In due time, you will come to understand…" Leonore said, taking another sip. "Now, tell me more of our finances, how deep in the ditch did Barker leave us?"
Isaiah Everett was the first and foremost authority in Angloa when it came to painting and sculpture restoration. He had more than 35 years of experience in the field, and had written countless papers, articles and books on the matter. He held not one but two PhD's in Conservation and Restoration. Even internationally he was a big name. Bella, and many of her colleagues, supposed it made sense that Everett was chosen as the one to lead the project of caring for the Alsatian artifacts.
Therefore, his sudden disappearance a week ago had raised a lot of eyebrows. As had his sudden reappearance. One day, walking home one chilly April evening after a rather late lecture at the University of Safeira, he had never made it home. His wife had frantically called the police around midnight. He was reported as a missing person the morning after. It made national headlines by noon and by afternoon it had made international headlines.
The professor in charge of leading a precious artifact project of restoration strangely disappears!
No one at the university spoke of anything else. Even Mia, who rarely read anything but fashion or society blogs, had spoken to Bella about it.
Everett's reappearance a week later had been equally as astounding. He was found, sitting at the end of the harbor early one Wednesday morning in the same clothes he had disappeared in. White as a sheet he had been brought to the hospital where he was declared in health, though a bit shocked by his whole experience.
And that experience, which any journalist would have given their right arm to write an exclusive about, was never made known. Everett stated that he had no recollection of the last week, only that the ordeal had been so exhausting on him that he downright refused to now lead the restoration project. The gossip and speculation spread like wildfire throughout the capital, wondering what had prompted the previously enthusiastic professor to turn the other way from the project of a lifetime.
"I think he was persuaded by someone," Eric shrugged. Miranda gave him a side glance and tsked. The lecturers and some professors had gathered around a larger round table in the cafeteria, pondering over Everett's sudden disappearance and reappearance.
"There he goes with his conspiracy theories again," Miranda said as she rolled her eyes.
"Everything about this is fishy!" Eric said with a passionate tone.
"So, what is your hypothesis then?" Jennie Arden asked, a lady in her early 60's, professor in medieval painting and art.
"The artifacts are priceless, Jennie. I wouldn't be surprised if someone tried to gain information from him," Bella said, partially taking Eric's side.
"That is not what he is referring to, honey," Miranda stated, taking another sip of her now cold coffee.
Eric looked insulted. "I still think this has something to do with the SCR," he argued.
Miranda tiredly scratched her head as Jennie chuckled. "I can't believe the faculty gave you tenure!"
While they were bickering, Bella stared at her empty coffee cup. She didn't believe in the SCR—a supposedly unknown special forces operation group that acted in the government's interest, always acting in the shadows, preforming the most outrageous tasks that would otherwise be considered unimaginable. Eric argued, as many other conspiracists did on the internet, that the SCR were not your typical SWAT or SEAL team, they were far more experienced and apt at what they did. The outrageous claims on their own had previously been enough for Bella to dismiss them as nothing more than an urban myth. But after what had transpired in the garage of the Opera house, she hadn't been so certain anymore. The man she had stumbled across ticked a lot of boxes that she had searched for online—all decked out in the latest military gear, his identity obscured, acting in the shadows. He had done her no harm, and she had heard nothing in the news about a strange man in black since.
"But if Everett has turned down leading the project, then…then what happens?" Bella wondered. Would they simply store the artifacts forever? Would they display them without a restoration or look-over? No, that couldn't be. Someone else would have to take over. But if Everett was the leading authority on restoration in Angloa and he had turned it down, Bella had a sinking feeling in her chest that few others who came close in experience would accept the challenge. And she had another feeling the Crown wouldn't allow a foreigner to head such an important project, not when it came to the General.
She arrived exhausted at her apartment late in the evening. She cast her keys in a bowl and painstakingly removed her heels as she let her hair lose. Her apartment was strangely dark, she always left some lights on before leaving in the morning.
A sense that something was wrong crept up her spine as she stopped in the middle of the room, taking in the sounds of her apartment. She couldn't place her finger on it, not until she started taking in the details, slowly realizing that some minor things had been displaced. She usually kept most of her things in the same spot. The book she had been reading for the past week and that she always kept on her fauteuil by the window was instead on the living room coffee table.
Bella frowned as she quickly started dialing Mia and turned on the lights of the living room. Someone had been in her apartment, there was no other explanation. The only one who had a key was Mia. Her apartment had been locked before entering.
She was about to hit the dial button when she hesitated. Faintly peeking through the pages of the closed book was a piece of paper. Bella hovered with her thumb over the green telephone button as she bit her lip. She slowly walked forward, her eyes steadfast on the book as she reached out for it. Her breath rattled in her throat when a small envelope fell out through the pages and on her rug.
"Curious," she whispered to herself. Perhaps someone else might have panicked, perhaps someone else might have darted for the door and called the cops for Bella understood that this could not be some prank by Mia, she was too direct for tricks like these. It couldn't be Mike either, she had changed the locks weeks ago. Bella put aside the phone and picked up the square envelope, feeling its weight in her hand. She turned it, finding little else on the other side. There was no address, no name, nothing. Only a clean surface staring back at her, paper waiting to be torn apart, beckoning to be opened.
Slowly she ripped through the thin paper. The dull light of her living room lamp softened the shadows around her, making it feel as if she was in some sort of dream. The sickening need to know intermingled with worry and caution. A million thoughts rushed through her mind, the most prevalent being that she should refrain from opening the envelope but quickly overpowered by the need to know what it contained.
She unfolded a small piece of paper, staring at the simple lettering. Her eyes glazed over as she read the words several times.
'In a little while you will receive a phone call, they will give you false credentials and ask you some simple questions. Do not tell them the right answer.'
She looked around in the room, wondering if she was being monitored. Her heart raced in her chest as her hand hovered over her smartphone, she should dial the police now. Someone had broken into her apartment and placed the note there, someone with skill. She was indeed concerned about this fact. But, she kept thinking, this was someone who had gone to great lengths to hand her this note, someone who didn't wish to meet her in person. Maybe, she thought, it was someone who was giving her a choice. About what, she had no idea. But she had a choice if she wanted to follow the note's instructions or not. Alas, whoever this person was, they could not know the intense desire for her to unravel the mystery before her. Bella studied art, paintings, even literature, it was her profession to unravel symbols and explain them. This to her was no different. It demanded that she take the next step.
Therefore, it was only natural that, when her phone rang half an hour later, she answered. As she answered, a feeling in her gut—a premonition—foretold that she was about to be dragged into something she could never have imagined. She was shaking as she pressed the answer button, pushing the phone to her ear, breathing heavily.
There was a sound and suddenly she was on the line with someone on the other end. Bella waited for them to speak but there was only silence.
She licked her lips.
"Who…who is this?"
"Miss Dwyer," came a cool female voice on the other side of the line.
"Y-Yes?" Bella croaked.
"I am calling from the office of Head of Coordination of the Ministry of Culture. I work on a small team that has been given the task to handle the artifacts from Alsace. You are one of many people we have chosen to contact regarding organizing a new team since Dr. Everett unfortunately declined to lead the project. We have noted your expertise in some areas regarding historical artifacts that may be beneficial for the project. I have some questions regarding your work and your ultimate view on heading this project. This conversation will, of course, not be recognized should you go to the media or speak of it with anyone else. We are operating in strict confidentiality as this whole operation is quite sensitive. Do you understand?"
Bella didn't have enough time to process the words for her to stop and ask the woman as several doubts emerged in her mind. Bella nodded, dumbfounded, gripping the phone, sweat slowly pearling at her temples. Her stomach was doing multiple flips. She didn't know why she was nervous.
"Miss Dwyer?" asked the woman.
"Y-Yes?" Bella blurted out. A sigh told her she must have forgotten to answer.
"Do you agree to the terms?"
"Are you… asking me to head this project?" Bella asked bluntly.
"You are one of the considered candidates, yes."
"Do you realize that I am by no means experienced enough for such an endeavor?"
"The request has been that an Angloan head the project. Do have in mind that there are several candidates, but we believe covering everything in this area is necessary. If you are not asked to head it, you may still be asked to form part of the team."
"I am not a conservator, ma'am," Bella argued. "While I am flattered that you have chosen to call me, I do not see what area I would—"
"All you have to do is to answer some of my questions. If your answers are satisfactory, we will contact you again to continue with further evaluation."
Bella started growing suspicious now. The woman's attitude together with the auspicious note was giving her a bad feeling.
"Very well," she gave up.
"As I mentioned, if we ask you to head the project, it would be in tandem with an experienced conservator. However, we do require experts in the subject matter to analyze various paintings and sculptures and determine the period from which they come as well as them being originals or not, which is what your main field would be."
"Understandable," Bella agreed. She would most likely be asked to chime in during the process, most likely at the beginning. But she still had large doubts about what she could contribute to such an important investigation.
What followed were a series of questions designed to determine Bella's ability in medieval and renaissance art. The questions, she noted, were also designed to determine her mindset surrounding the project. It was subtle, but she picked up on it. She didn't know what was right or wrong, but she did manage to come off as rather hostile and eccentric at times, hoping that was the right move. Either way, the woman's voice didn't reveal anything on the other line. When the interview was done, the woman thanked her for her time and hung up.
Bella remained clutching her phone in a tight grip. Whomever had entered her apartment to leave the note had been correct. She might have been concerned, if not for the fact that the entire situation oozed mystery, and Bella loved a good mystery.
Suddenly, she heard the tone of an old Nokia phone in her kitchen. Bella jumped in place, placing a hand over her breast to stifle her riled heart. The ringtone ripped through her apartment with its joyful tune. With careful steps Bella approached and discerned, hidden amongst the bananas and apples in her fruit bowl in the middle of the kitchen island, a Nokia 3310. Her mouth dried, the ringing growing in strength in her ears.
But, eventually, she picked up the phone, pressing it hard against the ear.
"They have chosen not to continue with you," came a disguised voice on the other side of the line.
"W-Who is this?" Bella asked, startled.
"Look out your window."
Bella darted to her living room window and gazed down at the dimly lit street. There, around the corner, next to the neighborhood park, was a sleek looking Volvo C70.
"I understand the situation may seem harrowing, Ms. Dwyer. I also understand that asking you to come down and sit in the car you see outside your window may be too much. But you must understand, there is a reason why Dr. Everett suddenly chose not to head the Alsace project."
"If this is Mia, it isn't funny!" Bella exclaimed. "It's a shitty joke and frankly, the whole set up is sub-standard, at least—"
"You know this isn't made-up, Ms. Dwyer, or you would have hung up by now."
Bella gripped the phone harder. "What do you want?"
"We need to confirm something."
"Confirm?"
"We need you to look at something, maybe run some tests."
Bella scoffed. "Really?" she said, placing a hand on her hip. "Just like that, huh? Without any other explanation?"
"The nature of this request is delicate—"
"Alright, this is as far as we go. I'm calling the cops if you call me again," she said and hung up.
She pulled the curtains closed and placed both hand on her hips. Bella then spent the rest of the evening making certain that every window was bolted shut and her front door was locked.
She was trying to concentrate on the TV and evening news, nothing of note coming on, but her eyes kept glancing at the Nokia at the end of her coffee table. Bella's fingers were itching for it, an insatiable thirst within her to figure out who had called her and what it was about. At one point, she got up and pulled aside the curtains a sliver. To her great surprise, the car was still there.
A/N: Thank you for the lovely feedback on the first chapter! I am very excited for this story as I've had the idea starting to take root for a long time. Some things I might add from the last chapter. Modern Safeira is very much based off of my hometown Stockholm. The Opera House I actually based on "Dramaten" or "The Royal Dramatic Theatre" in Stockholm. I am working on a playlist of the music I have been listening to while writing this fic. It will be added next chapter :)
Cheers!
Isabelle