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"It's a lot more than that. Most scholars agree he wrote it when he was half mad."

"What is it with artists and them going mad?" he asked.

She ignored him and continued. "Klimt's interpretation was that of Richard Wagner, that the Ninth was considered the 'non plus ultra' of all that was fantastic and incomprehensible. His job was to now paint a picture of that music and to bring it together in synthesis. A merging of the arts using Ode to Joy as an allegory."

His eyes pierced hers, smoky and sultry. "Go on."

"So, Klimt's frieze illustrates the human desire for happiness in a suffering and tempestuous world in which one contends with not only external evil forces, but also with individual internal weaknesses."

"And the woman?" he asked, sipping his wine.

She noticed he said woman, not women. "Uhm, yes. The woman was most likely one of his femme fatales."

His eyes traveled over her body as if the thin chiffon dress she wore was all of a sudden see through. "His femme fatales?"

"Dangerously attractive women who snare men into death, often considered so attractive that their sexual magnetism scandalized the art world and evoked vehement controversy," she said softly.

"And our Fraumeni is one of them?" He set his empty glass down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

She knew her cheeks were ablaze. "Uhm, yes. She is unabashedly sensuous."

He continued to study her. "How?" he asked.

She looked down at her glass, unable to hold his gaze. "The way she is posed, with her arms behind her head, open and inviting. It's extremely evocative. She is telling the world she is capable of both seduction and destruction."

His finger brushed over his lips. "And Klimt. What was he thinking when he drew her? It seems a bit misogynistic."

Charlie wished he hadn't done that, touched his lips. "On the contrary. Klimt loved women. His provocative representation of female nudity introduced an unorthodox visual discourse of women's sexuality into the public domain."

"I thought most of his work was considered pornographic."

"At the time, but it was not representative of him." She glanced up at him, but he had not taken his eyes off of her and she quickly looked down again. "He transformed women's, uhm, naked bodies into the visual conveyance of his feminist insights. He emboldened the power of female sex while also disclosing the chasm between social ideals and individual identity. In essence, he propelled the feminist movement to fight for transformation and liberation."

He leaned over and cupped her chin, tilting her face toward him. "And what about your liberation, Charlotte?"

"M-my liberation," she choked out the words. She knew her face was bright red at this point."I consider myself to be very liberated." She stood up, breaking his hold on her. "I think I'll go to bed."

"I'll be there in a minute. I need to set the alarms."

She froze. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"No, we'll both sleep in the bedroom. Even though it's isolated out here, this far north, I don't want to take any chances."

He opened the door and whistled for William. The dog came bounding into the small croft.

"I don't think—"

He came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulders. "Stop thinking, darling. I'll keep us safe tonight. You do not need to fear me."

She hurried into the bedroom and shut the door. She didn't fear him; she feared herself. To talk so intimately, it felt like she was talking about herself. He knew it too, as he pushed the erotic undercurrent, exposing not only her desires but her darkest passions. Her body burned with an unanswered need, her sex thrumming, its pulses resonating throughout her body, matching her rapidly beating heart. She changed into the blue silk nightgown and hurried under the covers of the bed. Her one hand grabbed the headboard as if she was cuffed to it while the other snaked its way under the covers until her orgasm took her, its counterfeit intention no better than a forgery and just as false in its affection.

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