Page 2

“Mirabel, you are the single most beautiful flower in Venice. Today is the happiest day of my life!” This version of Sebastian wrapped his arms around the raven-haired woman and kissed her tenderly. He wore a night-blue, tight-fitting doublet with silver braiding over knee-length Venetians. A small ruffled collar framed his face and around his waist hung a sword of silver.

The woman, Mirabel, blushed and hid her face behind a lace fan. “Mine too. Everything has been perfect. It’s hard to believe we’re finally married.”

The groom nodded and brushed the fan away to press a chaste kiss to his new bride’s lips. The scene froze into the image from the painting and Sebastian left his corner, a mix of longing and pain in his eyes. He walked right through the guests standing between himself and the couple to stand next to Mirabel.

Sebastian lifted his hand and followed the curve of her face, fingers feeling nothing. That was the blessing and the curse of his magic; while he could relive any scene as if he were there, he could not interact with them. Like a ghost, his hand passed through the face he so desperately missed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find you again. I always do,” he whispered, and allowed the magic to fade. The lights dissipated and the cold of the dungeon returned, leaving him again in his stony isolation.

CHAPTER2

Salt Lake City, Utah, United States. May 15, 2005

Quello Che Ho Persowas the mystery of the artistic world. The exhibit came in on a ship from Italy, but very little was known about the artist aside from his given name, Sebastian. Newspapers, magazines, and websites gushed about how eerily lifelike the figure of the unknown woman was who appeared in every painting. Some swore her eyes would follow the looker as they explored the exhibit. Others claimed they’d seen the woman move entirely.

Isabel believed none of it. She held the magazine her friend Melody had given her in one hand and rolled her eyes. “We both know it’s a coincidence, Mels. I swear on the grave of Baxter that I have no idea who the mystery artist is, nor am I the ‘mystery woman in the paintings.’ I’ve never even been to Italy.”

“I don’t know what your favorite cat or his grave have to do with anything, but you have to at least look at the pictures, Izzy. If the painting isn’t of you, then you have a doppelganger out there somewhere.” Melody tapped the magazine and took another bite of her bagel. “Just look at them. You’ll see.”

A stifled sigh died in Isabel’s throat at the pleading in Melody’s eyes. “Alright, alright. Just so I can prove you’re being ridiculous.” She slid her coffee cup out of the way and placed the magazine on the table.

“Page 15.”

Isabel rolled her eyes and flipped through the pages while the hustle and bustle of the other cafe patrons filled her ears. The sun shone warm on her back, soaking deep into the black t-shirt she wore and her raven hair. It felt good to be in the sun again after yet another months-long hospital stay. She reached page 15 and her eyes widened. Looking at the page felt like looking in a mirror, right down to the small freckle on her left nostril.

“See? I told you!” Melody exclaimed at seeing her friend’s reaction. “That’s way too close to be just a coincidence! At the very least this guy had to have gotten a photo of you or something, somehow. Do you know anyone named Sebastian who moved to Italy or anything?”

Rather than respond, Isabel shivered. A strange feeling began growing in her chest, and the longer she stared at the photographs, the stronger it grew. She felt drawn to the paintings like a woman dying of thirst to an oasis. “Mels, I have to go see these paintings in person. Now.”

She looked up at Melody, who had frozen mid-bite. The petite blonde woman shook her head, her perfect ringlet curls bouncing against her face. “They’re all the way in France, Izzy. There’s no way you can travel that far in your condition. Besides, five minutes ago you didn’t even want to look at them.” Melody waved her hand and Isabel frowned. Yes, travel wouldn’t be easy, but shehadto see these paintings!

“I feel just fine, Mels. The doctor said my blood counts were normal and I seem to be in remission. The tricky part will be saving up the money, not my health. And I don’t really know what changed, honestly. It just…did.”

Perhaps Melody could have fought harder, but this was far from the first impulsive thing Isabel had suggested. Most of the time, her crazy plans went by the wayside as soon as the next interesting thing happened by. So instead of fighting, Melody shrugged. “I guess you’ll just have to start saving up, then. I’ve got to get back to work. It was so nice to see you outside of sick person jail.” Melody finished her bagel and stood with a stretch, gave Isabel a squeeze, and headed for the Trax station.

* * *

Salt Lake City, Utah, United States. July 25, 2006

Isabel stood in the waiting area of Concourse A at the Salt Lake City airport, a small bag over her shoulder and the weight of anxiety over her heart. In just 30 minutes she would board Delta flight DL3245 to Paris. She located an empty seat and clutched her bag in her lap, suddenly regretting her insistence that her parents say goodbye at security.

Staring through the windows at the tarmac, this whole thing began to feel like an awful idea. What 28-year-old woman boarded her very first flight alone to cross the ocean and visit a country she knew hardly anything about? Especially one whose very blood threatened to kill her at a moment’s notice? To see an art exhibit?

Isabel Frantz, that’s who. She opened her bag and pulled out a well-worn magazine, again flipping to page 15. Despite spending hours pouring over the images during the last year, the urge to see them in person never lessened. She felt like a horse on a lead, trusting her owner wherever they led.

She replaced the magazine and triple-checked her boarding pass, the gate number, and the time. Everything would be fine! She’d studied the map of Paris until she felt like she could navigate those ancient streets with her eyes closed. She knew the operating hours of the Louvre, the most popular times and least popular times to visit.

And so she took a deep breath, wrapped her arms back around her bag, and stared at the clock until the boarding announcement sounded through the terminal.

* * *

Paris, France. July 26, 2006

Isabel zipped her suitcase and patted the pocket where her passport lay nestled between her magazine and her homebound boarding pass. “Now you three stay safely right there, you hear me?” she said, staring at the zipper as if she expected a response.

Today was the day. She felt a shiver of excitement take up residence in her spine and shook it out to stop the tingling in her chest. Barely a cloud marred the perfect sea of blue above as Isabel exited the hotel and started up the street toward the Louvre.

The whole thing felt like a dream. The bustle of the city around her, the lilt of French tickling her ears. Fresh bread and other baked goods called to her from either side of the street, the shops peeking out between brightly blossomed bushes.