The opening was well-attended, with the majority of guests talking in loud and self-important voices about conceptualization and emotional resonance while wandering through two floors squeezed between other, larger buildings. The art on the walls showcased two young artists who specialized in urban landscapes and city panoramas with beautiful results.
Arthur fought against checking his watch as he studied the large painting inside the front door of Noir Bois, and tried to focus on the composition of the piece. The dark background made the sweeping strokes of color bring out Petit Pont, and the twilight effect was remarkably beautiful. He debated on checking the price, wondering if Charlotte would like it as a Christmas present or not. It was hard to tell; she hadn't been to Paris since the Fifties, but Arthur knew she'd crossed Petit Pont herself several times.
He was nervous, and fighting hard against showing it. Arthur resisted the urge to pick up any of the champagne that was being offered by the caterers and quietly kept studying the painting.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" came a low voice, the accent British. "Like a dream of the bridge rather than a flat replication of the thing itself; a marriage of color and line to trick the eye and recreate Petit Pont from blobs and streaks. A remarkable skill, don't you think?"
The speaker was a spritely gentleman with a goatee and sad basset hound eyes, who smiled at Arthur as he waited for a reply.
Arthur nodded. "Remarkable is the word for it all right. I like her painting of the Notre Dame gargoyles too."
"Yes, those are very good as well," the gentleman agreed. "Between the two of us, I'd advise you to snap up any of her works you like; once the review of this show makes the press, the prices will justifiably go up."
"Thanks for the tip," Arthur replied earnestly. "I was considering the Petit Pont one for my aunt."
The man sighed, but his eyes twinkled. "In that case, I shall withdraw my bid on it and wish you the best of luck. Any nephew willing to give his aunt a present of that caliber deserves praise."
Arthur blushed a little. "Hey, you don't have to do that!"
The man waved a hand, smiling. "Tush! Good presents are hard to find; believe me, I speak from experience."
At that point a movement behind the man's shoulder caught Arthur's eye, and then Ariadne was there, slightly out of breath and looking stunning in a black sweater, the Koi scale scarf draped around her neck.
"Sorry I'm late; the train was a little slow," she began, and then realized she was interrupting. "Oh, excuse me," Ariadne murmured politely to the gentleman standing with Arthur.
"That's quite all right, my dear," the man smiled at her. "Alex De Montevallo, at your service."
"Sir De Montevallo?" Arthur echoed, slightly stunned. The man nodded, looking modest.
"I much prefer Alex among friends," came the modest reply, "and anyone with an eye for good art is certainly a friend. You are-?" he prompted.
Arthur introduced himself, and Ariadne; Sir Alex brightened at her name. "Are you related to Professor Terpsichore Westwood by chance?"
"My mother," Ariadne admitted, and Arthur noted a sigh of resignation in her tone. He thought he understood; it was difficult at times to be in the shadow of a famous parent, particularly when you weren't following in the same field.
"How wonderful. Terpsi and I were on the same board of trustees for the Sutton Hoo expansion," Sir Alex mused. "Do give her my best when you see her again. Lovely to meet you both—" So saying, the man gave a gentle nod of his head and slipped off deeper in the gallery as Ariadne and Arthur watched him.
"The train—" Ariadne tried once more, but Arthur shrugged lightly.
"You're here now; that's what counts."
They both picked up champagne, and slowly began to wander through the gallery, studying the paintings and speaking briefly.
Arthur watched her out of the corner of his eye, enjoying her profile in the muted lighting, and curious as to what would appeal to her. She seemed to take each painting seriously, giving them all a thorough inspection before offering up an opinion.
Around them, other people stood and drank and clustered in little pools of conversation, with the occasional sentence trumpeting out loudly. Arthur contented himself in observing the event and his companion, taking it all in quietly. He was used to this sort of event, used to blending into the background and keeping to himself. Ariadne was quiet too, but hers was more a matter of thoughtfulness, and absorption. She was a sponge, taking in everything and Arthur sensed a shy pleasure in the process.
Ariadne circled back to one particular painting, waiting until other people had cleared out of the way before stepping closer to it. She tilted her head up and seemed to murmur something quietly; Arthur wondered what it was as asked her when she finally turned away.
"Oh. I was just remembering the first time I saw that view of Place de la Concorde two years ago. The artist really is extraordinary," she murmured gently. "Which one do you liked—the Petit Pont one?"
"Is it that obvious?" Arthur felt his eyebrows go up, and Ariadne smirked.
"You keep glancing at it," she pointed out, "and I can see why."
"I'm thinking of getting it for my aunt," he admitted, handing his empty champagne glass to a passing caterer. "For Christmas."
Ariadne nodded. "Beautiful gift, and you'd have time to have it shipped before the holiday."
He looked over his shoulder at it again, considering, and she nudged him when he looked back.
"Go, put in a bid," Ariadne urged him softly.
Arthur blinked. "Come with me," he asked, and she did. They made their way to the sheet pinned under the painting, and he noticed Alex De Motavallo's name neatly run through with an inked line. Arthur put his own bid in, feeling a surge of apprehension in his stomach; Charlotte would chide him for his extravagance, but love the painting just the same.
When he looked at Ariadne, she solemnly winked. That little unexpected gesture of camaraderie made him smile, and he handed her one of the pens from the cup.
"Your turn," he intoned, and gestured with his head to the Place de la Concorde painting. Ariadne squared her shoulders and spun on one heel, marched over and wrote her name and bid on the sheet hanging near it.
When she returned to Arthur's side, she gave a soft laugh. "Done. Neither of us might get them, but we definitely wouldn't if we didn't at least try."
"Yes," Arthur agreed. "Trying makes the difference."
It was a trite observation but for some odd reason it held new resonance when he looked at her, and she blushed, sipping the last of her champagne.
The accident was stupid, and in hindsight, could have been much worse. The stone steps leading up to the gallery door had gotten icy, and the wind had picked up as well. As they were leaving, Ariadne moved to grab the railing and she slipped. Arthur snagged her arm to steady her and ended up skidding himself, twisting and by bad luck, spearing his coat sleeve along the spiked points of the fence. The London Fog raincoat resisted but finally tore as Arthur fought to keep his footing, and Ariadne braced herself, looping an arm around his waist.
"Arthur!" she demanded, looking with horror at his arm. He glanced down, swore softly, and tugged; the final strip of fabric ripped loudly, leaving a gaping gash down his left sleeve. "Your arm—"
"S'okay," he grunted manfully, probing the damage with a gloved hand. "I've had a Tetanus booster in the last few years."
"That wasn't my first concern," she snapped with mild sarcasm, "but it's good to know. Come on, we've got to get you seen."
"Ariadne, no—it's not that bad," Arthur countered. "Some antiseptic and Band-Aids and I'll be fine."
"You don't know that," she grumbled, moving closer and trying to peer at his arm. "Are you bleeding?"
"A scrape," he admitted. "Nothing serious."
Then he made the mistake of wincing when she lightly probed.
"That's it; we're going to my place," Ariadne informed him quietly. "Look, I have an idea of why you may not want to go strolling into a clinic, Arthur, but you're going to have trouble trying to clean this on your own. Just humor me, please?"
He shrugged; Arthur knew she was right on both counts, but the embarrassment stung almost as much as the gash along the underside of his arm. Ariadne grumbled under her breath, but when she looked from his arm up into his face, her expression was more concerned than angry.