The Portrait and The Letter

Chapter 5

Samuel Fell sipped on the exquisite cognac as he stared at a picture on the Elizabethan fireplace mantle. He tilted his head back. It was strange, some said, how eerie alike he was to his father sometimes. He hated that comparison. Being compared to the man who had lived in the shadow of his wife was not a compliment to the Angloan prince.

"She can't do this," he growled.

Nigel Athar stood close to the door. He had to abide by the summons of the crown prince—for indeed Samuel was still technically one.

"I told you years ago, Your Royal Highness, that there would come a day when she would not tolerate your irate behavior any further," Athar answered condescendingly.

"I am the next in line," Samuel answered back like a small child. "And that witch will not take that from me."

Athar frowned, the lines prominent on his face. He had always immensely respected his queen, and hearing how her son addressed her almost had him disregard decades of etiquette and give Samuel a piece of his own mind.

"I mean, years, centuries of tradition and then she and that nasty Abigail woman try to disrupt it all," Samuel frowned further.

"The house of Fell has had to adapt before to changing times—" Athar began.

"We never succumbed to the regard of the public like this!" Samuel roared.

Athar squared his jaw.

"The greatest and oldest-living dynasty in Europe, and she wants to weaken us with this…this nonsense? I mean, Athar old boy, Article 13? Really?" He gritted his teeth.

"Aye, Your Royal Highness," Athar answered back, keeping the poise although it was becoming increasingly hard.

"I have connections in the Conventus, Athar. There are those realizing what this would mean. If my sister becomes the new crown princess, mother will surely try another dirty trick and they would never allow it!" Samuel perked up. "I think it is due time I have a meeting with them about this before mother or the public get any further ideas about my sister. We can't have them invoking Article 24 as well."

"Her Majesty would never, Your Highness," Athar said slowly. "Abigail de la Cereda has the majority support in the Conventus together with the support of Her Majesty but even thinking about Article 24 is preposterous."

Sam settled back with a grin. "I'll stop it before it ever gets there, Athar old boy, just you wait," he blinked.


He didn't say anything to her. He was as he appeared, a black shadow, a whisper of a person for Bella didn't believe there was a man of flesh and blood under all that black gear.

She focused on the broad shoulders as they walked through the labyrinth of tunnels. He would stop every so often as a train passed. They eventually ended up in the older part of the tunnels, here the tracks looked at least to be from when the underground had first been built in 1905. The iron rails kept leading them through the darkness. The only light source she had was the flashlight on her phone. Her guide, however, seemed fine without it. Yet Bella noticed how he—despite having long legs—walked at a temperate pace, comfortable enough for her to follow in her heeled boots.

They rounded a corner, and she slipped on something, falling haplessly forward. Before she knew it, a set of arms caught her. She turned, finding the dark lenses inches away from her face. She wondered what eyes hid behind them, what the man owning those eyes was thinking of her now.

"Nice catch," she breathed out. He helped her straighten up as she pushed her hair back. For the first time she had broken the silence between them, yet no response followed. Bella had always hated awkward silences and chewed her lower lip.

"Mind at least telling me how far away we are?"

Again, no answer, he turned and continued walking.

"Not much of a talker, huh?" she muttered, promptly following him. But she couldn't keep herself from speaking further. "I always supposed that there would be no inhibitions for someone to keep quiet when the other party doesn't even know who they are. You could practically tell me any lie you wished about yourself and I would never be able to prove you wrong. I find that thought pretty intriguing. You could tell me that you are—oh, I don't know—a race car driver, or an astronaut, not that an astronaut or race car driver would be doing these types of covert operations. Which, actually, is quite intriguing in itself. I always thought of covert operations as something more… thrilling, you know? Like, I was watching Mission Impossible the other day, obviously the first one, that's one of my favorites, and all this sneaking around kind of reminded me of that—"

Bella abruptly stopped as she walked into something hard. She gave out a muted "ouf" and stilled herself. She raised the light of her phone and watched in confusion, her nose still slightly touching what she then suddenly concluded was the chest of the stranger before her. A red hue started spreading down her throat and the tip of her ears as she looked up. He was actively staring at her because she could tell—there was this intense intuition screaming inside of her that his eyes indeed were resting on her and only her. While she couldn't see the expression in his eyes or read anything else on his face, something about his stance screamed of mild irritation or inconvenience.

A quick step away from her put some comforting distance between them.

He reached into a pocket on the left side of his fatigues and handed her something in a dark marine blue fabric. Bella stared at it for a moment in confusion before realizing what it was. She looked up and gave a snorting laugh. "I just tripped while being perfectly able to see, and now you want to blindfold me?" she asked.

The soulless black lenses gazed back at her, the defiance in his stance enough of an answer for her.

"I won't be able to walk."

He didn't move.

"If I fall and break any bones—"

He shook his head as if it were obvious such a thing would not happen.

"You promise?"

A faint nod.

"Well you said it, not I." But she still wasn't convinced. Bella shut off the light to her phone and put it in her purse, slinging it across her left shoulder. In pitch black darkness she placed on the redundant blindfold, feeling like an idiot.

"Alright—wait! What are you—" Without warning, she was picked up and settled into his arms, carried bridal style. He started walking without a word. Well, she thought, at least that solved her tripping problem.

"You won't last long carrying me like this," she remarked, receiving no response of which she had gotten used to by this point. He was strong, that she could not deny, neither could she deny the thrilling realization that this complete stranger was carrying her through the belly of Safeira to God-knew-where. She remained awkwardly in his embrace, finally letting her hands feel their way up his chest and hesitantly circling around his neck. He gave no indication as to what the gesture might mean for him—if it was welcomed or not, but Bella felt the need to explain herself. "For…uhm…for better support." She wondered if her face was flushed. If it was, she was grateful for both the blindfold and the darkness.

He kept carrying her and after a while, she lost track of time.

There came a point when he suddenly stopped, causing Bella to tense up in his arms. A gust of cool air swept across her lower face which was not covered by the blindfold. She could feel him ducking slightly, the action caused her to hold tighter around his neck. There was a sense that it was now light around them and while he stood still, she could feel them in motion. They had to be in some sort of vehicle, large enough for him to still stand upright. He made a motion as to lower her and she felt with her legs, meeting the harsh ground as they continued to move. The movement and ability not to see started making her sick.

"Are we there soon?" she asked in a panicking voice. "I think I'm going to throw up."

Without a word the stranger steadied her, guiding her to sit down somewhere. His hands came up to her face and removed the blindfold. Bella blinked at the harsh lights.

She was inside some kind of van, with bright LED lamps above her. It was reminiscent of a high-security prison van. The interior was stark, cold, and felt sterile to her. She couldn't spot a speck of dust anywhere, it looked brand new. There were no windows to indicate where they were heading.

In the brightness of the van, he contrasted greatly. She saw further details to his gear. He wore some sort of tailored fatigues in black with small panels in tougher fabric protecting his thighs and shins. The combat boots, she noted, laced up to a little lower than his mid-calf. Even the eyelets were in black so as not to catch the light. He wore a thin-knit turtleneck under a thin elaborate vest. She wondered if it was Kevlar, but it looked too thin and form-fitting for it. It allowed him to move with some agility. He wore a harness over the black vest to holster his guns, she spotted some pockets for whatever else he might need. His mask was in what appeared an even finer material and she noticed that the eyeholes were made custom for the glasses to fit snuggly into them. There was a thin layer of fabric just below his nose, as if it could be pulled down. She wondered if it might reveal the lower part of his face. The idea was tantalizing to her.

She settled on the dark lenses of the glasses around his eyes. Despite the light, she could not perceive anything of the eyes behind the tinted glass. Bella found herself looking far too long, yet he kept kneeling before her, still holding the blindfold. She leaned back. "Sorry, that was rude," she blurted out. "Staring I mean. Because generally, I don't just stare at people like that. I mean, I wouldn't but then again, most people I spend time with don't exactly dress like you—"

He got up and she was certain she heard a huff escape him.

"I know, I definitely talk too much sometimes. But I swear I only do so when I'm nervous," she said.

She could feel the van make a sudden turn and how they were going up a slope. At one point it became so steep that she was certain she was about to fall back to the doors. But she held steady.

When they stopped, she looked at the door but found that her stranger had once more settled before her, gently pressing the blindfold into her hands.

She sighed but placed it resolutely around her eyes. He was there to guide her, helping her stand as she could hear the doors to the van open.

She was whisked out by him, this time he did not carry her as he had before. Probably, she reasoned, because the ground was flat and that would leave no room for her to stumble and fall.

When her blindfold was removed, Bella was in another brightly lit space. This time, it had a vast table at one end with various instruments and vials. At the other end was the painting of the General, staring at her with those ominous eyes that could cut through anything.

She shivered.

At the other end she widened her eyes as she perceived a state-of-the-art X-ray machine. She had done very minor conservation work, and always together with a supervisor, she understood that the samples she had asked to be collected from the painting would have to be made by her, and after they had been tested at whatever lab they would be sent to, she would no doubt have to interpret the results. That she could do, but to X-ray the painting was a different thing entirely. She grew clammy at the mere thought of having to touch it.

She turned around and found the tall shadow accompanied by the blond stranger from before.

"We have all the tools at your disposal, Ms. Dwyer," he said.

The shadow settled back near the door.

"But I'm not—" Bella began before swallowing. "Not even an assistant?"

"We have no other choice."

She turned to the painting again. "If I am supposed to help you, you need to tell me more, because this isn't just about confirming this to be the real painting anymore." She approached him with a few steps, an accusatory tone creeping into her voice. "You were involved with Dr. Everett, weren't you?"

"It is complicated, Ms. Dwyer."

"There is something people aren't supposed to know about this painting."

The blond stranger pursed his lips. "I think you will have more answers than I do after an initial examination."

Bella crossed her arms, growing frustrated. "I think that highly unlikely." She pursed her lips, her arms slowly lowering as she placed them in her pockets. Bella stared down for a moment and sighed.

The blond man before her smiled, he knew she had accepted. "Knock on this door if you should need anything, an aide will be here to see to whatever needs you may have. And once you feel you are finished, let him know and he will call on me."

"This will take time," Bella said.

The blond man had started turning around. "Take all the time you need."

Bella couldn't help but smile. Her gaze shifted to the black-garbed man. "Your friend isn't really that talkative."

The blond man's smile grew wider. "He tends not to have a lot to say."

"Good thing I can talk for the both of us then," Bella shrugged as she placed her purse on a swiveling chair next to her and fished out a hair tie from it.

The blond man left her to her devices, and she turned to the painting, noting that the shadow hadn't left the room.

"Want to watch me work my magic, eh?" she said while tying up her hair. "Get comfortable then," she said pointing at the chair. "This is going to take a while and I have all night."

He stood as before, rooted next to the door, at attention. Bella shrugged and turned to the painting.

"Let's see what you've got for me."


Article 13 had never been invoked, and while Abigail was certain she had more than enough of the majority, there was still something in the back of her mind, a feeling or a premonition that told her not to relax just yet.

She gazed out the office window from Sager Palace, watching as the streetlights turned on for the night. Daryl was, as always, in the room with her—as loyal as any Chief of Staff. Paula, her Communication's Director, who had had some of her toughest and longest days at the office yet was also there.

"We have confirmed that most on the left will vote in favor of invoking Article 13, I can sway some on the center," Daryl said as he looked over a few papers. "We might need you to meet with the head of the opposition alliance tomorrow, ma'am."

Abigail frowned. "I've got a bad feeling, Daryl."

"We've been over this."

She turned around. "Tell him what you told me, Paula." Abigail knew it was a long stretch and knew it would never truly come to it, but her job was to foresee and prepare the country for all possibilities.

Daryl turned to Paula who adjusted her glasses and placed a long copper strand behind her ear. She had always gotten the short end of the stick because of her good looks and never really been taken seriously in politics—despite being bloody good at it. There were even times when Daryl mistrusted her capabilities. But not Abigail. Indeed, she had seen a spark in Paula.

"There are rumors from the right," Paula said. "Rumors that I think are more than justified and may pose a problem for us."

"What rumors, Paula? We are all waiting," Daryl said with rolling eyes.

"The conservative alliance will not vote through Article 13 because doing so may open the way for other articles to possibly be placed forth in the Conventus…articles they would never agree on." She paused when it was obvious that Daryl didn't know what she spoke of.

"For God's sake, Daryl. She's talking about Article 24!" Abigail lashed out, placing a distressed hand against her temple.

Daryl looked pensive as it slowly dawned on him. "You can't be serious," he said with a hint of a smile in his voice, alluding to him not taking them seriously at all. But when none of the women answered him, he turned to his PM. "Unless there is something from your conversations with Her Majesty that suggests otherwise?"

"She… she realizes what her son is, which is only wanting. But I see a strain in her, like she wants to be done with it… she could very well invoke Article 24."

He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Well, if she does, that changes everything, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, we should be happy to hear of such news," Paula agreed.

Then why did Abigail feel so queasy about the whole affair? She knew something was boiling under the surface, something that had just been set in motion by invoking Article 13, of that she was certain.


She had been several times to the undisclosed location, going back and forth for the coming few days. Bella always returned from campus around five in the afternoon and changed to go for a run, after which she would shower and then wait until it became dark. As soon as she deemed it safe enough, she would dial one on her burner and then head to the metro and get on the red line. The train would always stop after three stations, between Westman's street and the public library. She always chose the emptiest car she could but sometimes there would be people and she would have to drift to the section between both cars and wait for the lights to go out. Her friendly shadow was always there as the train dropped her off and they walked in a somewhat tolerable silence. Bella always made small talk but only because she knew it annoyed him. She perceived, however, that his whole persona seemed relaxed once he placed the blindfold over her because it automatically made her talk less. She had not asked him if he was the man from that night at the Opera. Indeed, how would she begin such a conversation? However, there was no doubt in her mind that it was him. One word would confirm it—because if the same unnaturally low voice accompanied the gear, Bella was sold. She had tried to work up the courage to confront him several times, but never actually arrived at it before they made it to the studio as she so endearingly referred to it. And while she went through the monotone tasks of initial inspections, he would be there in the room with her, standing as still as a statue making Bella wonder if he was alive at times.

On the night of the third day, the minuscule chips of paint that had been sent to the lab had come back. Bella had no idea how the results had arrived this quickly, and whatever lab they had used must indeed have worked around the clock for her to hold these papers. The X-ray had been done with the help of the shadow. He was helpful, when he didn't look so threatening.

She had looked at the overpaint with a blacklight, conducted various tests, looked over the X-ray several times as well as scrutinized the results from the lab yet she now sat holding the compiled information in her hands.

Bella didn't understand what she had just discovered. Her eyes were widening, her mouth dry as she gripped the paper, looking at the details for the sixth or seventh time—she had lost count. She wasn't an expert, but Bella knew not even she could read this information as wrong.

Her eyes flickered up to the painting that had been under such meticulous study, so many questions she thought would have been answered now muddled together with even more questions. She heard the door open behind her as the blond man walked in.

"I heard the initial results are in?"

Bella placed down the papers, composing herself. She wasn't ready to meet his knowing gaze yet, wasn't ready to acknowledge the secrets of the painting.

"The uhm initial examination with blacklight showed a lot of overpaint in the general area of the portrait. I took some samples of that paint—which has started to flake in some areas and I had the paint tested to determine specific ingredients used in its composition. With the limited tools and not wanting to go as far as trying to remove the varnish—because I think some of the overpaint is caked between two very thick layers of varnish—I still think my conclusion is satisfactory." She looked up at him, searching in his golden eyes as if wanting him to tell her she was wrong—that her conclusion was in fact not satisfactory.

"Which is?"

"This… this painting is from the same era the original was," Bella concluded.

"But is it the original?" He approached while the shadow remained in the corner.

Bella chewed her lower lip. "Everything indicates it to be so." Her voice was shaking, her brows furrowed together. "The blacklight indicated significant overpaint," she repeated. Her voice broke on the last word.

"Yes, you mentioned that already."

"The entire face, hands, and part of the body are the only areas with the same overpaint—it has the same composition as the base paint, but applied over another coat of varnish. The other overpaint—mainly small corrections in the background—comes from a few centuries later." Bella clenched her fists, her heart racing as it never had before as she fished out a picture from the folder before her. It was an X-ray of the painting. She placed it so that the stranger could see.

He looked down. He wasn't an expert, but even he could see the outlines of a face hiding beneath the painted mask in the X-ray, a face that he was very familiar with, which in turn would mean Isabella Dwyer was as well.

When he looked up again, he saw judging eyes.

"Who are you?"

The shadow in the back shifted his stance, but Bella held a firm regard for the blond stranger before her.

"This is much more than just a painting, Ms. Dwyer."

"If this is the original…" Bella breathed, sitting down as she understood what would have happened should the painting have been examined at the National History Museum.

He kneeled next to her. "Ms. Dwyer," he began slowly. "There are as of my knowledge seven people in the world aware of this secret that live and breathe."

Chocolate eyes looked up, wide and alarmed as she connected the scattered dots. "Then… then the rumors…it can't be," she whispered.

"Tonight, there will be eight," he continued. "And there will be eight because you already suspected what I am about to tell you. But I need you to hear it, because after you do, there is an important decision you need to make."

Her eyes were watering, and she didn't know what to think. Was she proud of herself that she had arrived at such a conclusion so quickly? That she understood what this man was about to tell her?

Indeed not. Rumors about this had surged centuries ago, but never taken seriously enough for Academia or the general population to even consider them.

Until now. And Bella understood that this couldn't be more than just a painting, it was a painting hiding a dark secret—a secret it had been hiding for more than 500 years.

"Oh my God," she whispered out, placing a shaking hand over her mouth.

"William Fell and Edward Cullen were the same person."

She was shaking. Her entire career had been built around the legend of Cullen. Her love for Angloan history had started with him and now she sat on the biggest scope of the century—probably half a millennium. She didn't know what to feel—it was a thrill and dread at the same time. Conspiracy theories that had taken root even in the 16th century and been dismissed as nonsense proved to be real.

"And it is time Angloa knew it as well."


A/N: Very excited to see the positive feedback and theories already starting to form since the last chapter! Hope you enjoyed this one! I'll try to post chapter 6 before Christmas next week! :)

Cheers

Isabelle