Harry woke frustrated.
His dreams had been empty of Ruth.
He would remedy that.
He could dream just as well awake.
Ruth did not want to get out of bed, she had been having such a wonderful dream.
She hoped that somewhere, far too far away, he was dreaming of her, too.
She lay there, fighting the desire to go back to sleep and conjure up his face once more.
She got up, as hard as it was, to begin the arduous task of looking at paintings, in Paris.
Alone.
Lucas had left a list of galleries at reception. He suspected that at one of the three exhibitions was the information the cell were sharing.
First stop for Ruth was Place de La Concorde and the Musee de I'Orangerie.
She rather unwillingly passed Renoir and Matisse and made for the new exhibition room. It was a collection of unattributed artists and was part of an exhibition which saw the participation of several of the city's museums.
It was an interesting concept to put this mix of styles and periods together amongst the most famed of artists. But she found they were interesting and often beautiful paintings which, had they had a name attatched, would have been almost as valuable as the rest. Some of them were, in fact, suspected of being painted by various masters but there was not enough true evidence to attribute them.
Ruth moved around the room taking in the collection. Nothing was immediately apparent but she had not expected it to be so.
She began again, painting by painting, brush stoke by brush stroke.
Look for anything, Lucas had said. Look for inconsistencies, for patterns, for messages hidden within the scene of the painting. Look for anything that might hint at which Cathedrals were being targeted. The message is somewhere in the collection, somewhere across the three galleries. Somewhere here in Paris.
She looked till her eyes were sore and her head was full. She looked till she could barely focus.
And then she walked into the bright light outside and breathed in the fresh cool air.
Her phone rang. It was Lucas.
"Anything?"
"No, I've just finished at the first but I couldn't see anything. I hope I'm not missing it Lucas."
"Ruth, I wouldn't trust anyone but you to do this. You will find it."
"But if I don't, we won't know the targets. There'll be devastation."
"Have faith, Ruth."
She laughed at the irony.
"OK. I'm on my way to the next," she said.
"And Ruth, if you can, hurry."
She ended the call and moved on.
Second on the list was the Musee d'Orsay. It was her favourite, above them all. She loved the high ceiling, the atmosphere, the enormous clock. It was a pleasure to venture inside, though she'd rather be in here with Harry.
As if he could read her thoughts, even from so far away, her phone beeped with the arrival of a text.
Rebooked dinner for next week. Lost without u. x
She smiled and vowed that as soon as she had finished her search she would call him. She missed his voice.
Until then she could at least reply:
Good.
She wondered if he would be confused as to whether she was saying good to dinner or good that he was lost. She retyped:
Good on both counts. X
And then she pressed send.
Again she gazed. Again she stared. Again she scanned, inch by inch, stroke by stroke desperate for the message to reach out and lead her to it.
Nothing.
She was nearing the end of the display and stood in front of a scene reminiscent of a Titian. Plump naked women lounged around what looked like an angel. They were in a grand hall, ornate and opulent. Other than that there was nothing. Fruit in a bowl, wine, a mirror, a spear at rest.
Nothing.
But no, there was something. Something reflected in the mirror.
She peered closer.
There was something horribly wrong with this painting. The reflection wasn't reversed as it should be and it wasn't in Italian, or Latin.
She stared blankly at it.
Incredulous.
It was in Mandarin.
She could not blink, she could not breathe, she could not hear. The sounds of the museum faded into nothing and all that remained was her heart hammering in her chest.
She translated it again and again and again.
Sure enough it was a hidden message.
And sure enough she could not believe the message she read there, even though it entranced her:
Marry me, Ruth.
She looked on, her world spinning.
The visitors surrounding her, disappearing.
The breath freezing in her chest.
"Did I do better this time?" came a familiar voice from behind.
She spun round, her tired eyes at once refreshed by the sight of a smiling, eager, loving, hopeful Harry.
"Did I, Ruth?"
She said nothing.
"What's wrong?" he demanded.
"I can't breathe," she said and with that she folded at the knees, her eyes rolling and collapsed into his arms.