Page 74 of The Chase
Andrew turned the handle—
St. Joanwasn’t alone.
She hung at the far end of the room with a small tag hanging from her frame. I vaguely noticed the Renoir to the left of her. To the right, Jan Gossaert’sPortrait of a Merchant, the subject’s condemning eyes watching me...
I began the journey toward her.
As a child I’d never truly comprehended Walter William Ouless’s work. I’d been too young, too naive to respect its true greatness. I’d always been more interested in my dad’s other paintings, like that Raphael in his office, or the Renoir in our living room, or my beloved Vermeer that welcomed guests, though few, into the foyer.
Walter William Ouless’sSt. Joanhad always intimidated with the revelation no one could live up to her.
Ironic how this painting now had my full attention.
“She shouldn’t be in here,” came a woman’s whisper from behind me.
Drawn into the canvas, recognizing each stroke of the brush, each minute crack of wood, the strength in her left hand as she raised the hilt of her sword before her...
Real.
No scientific test would discount the profoundness of her authenticity. My heritage had been hidden behind a veil of lies. A sob escaped and I cupped my palm against my mouth to prevent another.
Ouless had immortalized this now martyr, bestowing her with a strong and beautiful face, lush brunette locks, and had clothed her in armor, that red sash over her left shoulder a flash of color to represent the blood she’d sacrificed for her cause—that sword held up proudly before her, proving her commitment to serve.
Joan had given her life for France, for God, a woman’s martyrdom too profound to comprehend. Standing before her I knew she was no longer ours because we didn’t deserve her. The truth of our unworthiness radiated from her.
Self-hate spilled out of me as I struggled to catch air in my lungs.
“Zara.” The voice sounded familiar, a kindness in his tone.
Those butterflies returned to my chest, nudging out this dread.
“Turn around,” he said.
Unsteady, this numbness enveloping, this terror holding me fixed and trembling.
A hand swept across my face and I closed my eyelids against the palm resting against them. This cruelest spell broken.
I spun around—
Tobias opened his arms, and I fell into them, warm and comforted against his chest, resting my cheek against him.
“I’m here now,” he said.
Nuzzling in, a sense of refuge in his hold and his familiar scent soothing these spiraling thoughts.
My life had been a lie. Another sob escaped my lips.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, “we’re going to walk out and you’re going to show no emotion. Do you understand?”
I peered up and blinked at him, vaguely aware he wasn’t meant to be here. He looked dazzling in a three-piece suit.
“Zara.” He tightened his grip. “Show no reaction.”
“It’s her,” I stuttered out.
“We don’t know that. There’s been no forensic tests to prove it.” He rested a fingertip on my lips when I protested. “I need you to trust me.”
I went to answer but the words failed to leave my lips.
