Page 24

TWENTY-FOUR

Awakening

Vivianne

Rousing from a dreamless sleep, I stretch languorously. My toes curl as I thrust my hands overhead, fingers digging into the soft folds of a downy pillow. Bright sunlight streams through floor-length windows, making me blink against its harsh glare. Gauzy white curtains sway gently on a light breeze, their movement hypnotic. Squinting, I attempt to clear my vision, rubbing away the crusty residue that coats my eyes.

Wait! Where the hell am I?

I bolt upright. Heart hammering, I clutch at…A silk nightgown? I didn’t bring a silk nightgown to Paris, and this isn’t my hotel room. I scour my mind, seeking the last intact memory.

Paris. I’m in Paris.

At least, I was…

Now, I’m in a king-size bed. Overhead, a Victorian canopy stretches toward the ceiling.

Chosen by my father, my hotel is the epitome of luxury, but the bed in my hotel room doesn’t have a canopy.

I glide my hand over the white bedsheets beneath me. They’re smooth as silk, exquisite linen, almost buttery to the touch. I clutch the down comforter to my chest while I struggle to stitch together the holes in my mind.

Okay, what do I remember?

I arrived in Paris, checked into my hotel, and then took a foot tour of Montmartre.

The memories unfold in a painful tangle.

The next day, my driver took me to the embassy, where I met Larson. Paul was there, and we visited the crime scene and the museum. After a quick trip to his studio, Paul took me to dinner and lunch the next day.

Okay, where are the gaps?

It’s hard to piece together what happened after that.

First, what time of day is it?

From the angle of the sun cutting through the window, it’s late morning. Meaning I’ve lost a portion of a day.

There’s nothing in my memory after the late lunch with Paul.

Not even fragments.

The harsh light from the window makes me squint, and my head aches.

Why is it so bright? And why does my head hurt?

I run my tongue over the cracks in my lips.

Why is my mouth so dry?

My gaze sweeps around the room again, taking in the canopy overhead and the yards of fabric and thick ropes holding back massive curtains at each pillar of the bed.

It’s fit for a king and is placed in the middle of the room—an odd arrangement but not unheard of in larger homes. The walls are gilded in old-world elegance. Each molded panel painted in a light yellow, the details burnished in shimmering gold leaf.

Portraits adorn the walls, regal-looking men and women dressed in the Victorian style.

There’s a door off to the left; the flash of a mirror suggests it functions as a bathroom. A sitting area perches to my right, a clawed Victorian chair and resting settee angled to take advantage of the view from the bank of windows stretching to the soaring ceiling.

I crane my neck to take in the expanse overhead. Even the ceiling is painted. Hues of yellow and gold frame a painting of the sky. Trompe l’oeil trellises rise in graceful arches, filled to bursting with budding vines entwined in the lattice. Puffy clouds provide a playground for cherubs who flit around, shooting arrows at one another.

The entire room is a breathtaking work of art, lost on me and the hammering of my heart.

I swing my legs around and give a start at a pair of fur slippers waiting on the marbled floor. Gingerly, I slip one on, not surprised it’s a perfect fit. Whoever brought me to this place seems to have taken note of every detail.

My stomach clenches because I don’t know what that means.

Am I a guest?

Or a prisoner?

My bladder pinches, spasming with the need for relief. I head to the en suite bath. The grandeur of the main room continues in the bathroom, bringing me to a breathtaking halt.

Gold-gilded frames of the finest craftsmanship are adorned with tiny sculptures of cupids, unicorns, lions, and dragons. The mystical creatures engage themselves in a whimsical dance.

Instead of portraits, landscapes fill the wall, and one abstract work of art steals my breath.

The painting begins as a white swan, the graceful head and neck the only identifiable parts of the bird. The real magic is in the body and wings.

The artist turned the three-dimensional bird into a movement of light, shadows, and darkness. I stand for several long moments in open admiration and then look for a signature. Oddly, there is none.

Now, what to do? A stack of towels, hand soaps, and even a toothbrush are placed beside the sink—everything a guest would need.

A large stone shower fills one corner of the bathroom and a soaking tub perches on clawed feet beside it. Is that a steam shower? I pull back a small closet door.

No, it’s a steam room.

My skin itches from the lack of humidity in the air. I shouldn’t linger, but a great weariness fills my bones. I rarely drink, and when I do, I moderate my alcohol. I don’t remember drinking, but I certainly feel hungover.

A dragging sensation pulls at my body, and I consider crawling back in bed. My gaze trips around the room; I’d love to sit in the sauna for a few minutes.

Where are my clothes from the previous day? Whoever my host is, they provided everything so far.

I turn on the steam room, knowing it will take time to reach the required temperature, and then return to the bedroom to find my clothes. I could have missed them. Then, I pause, curious why I’m acting so calm.

A steam shower and my clothes? These are the thoughts at the forefront of my mind?

Granted, I have no idea where I am, but I don’t feel in danger. I haven’t woken in a dungeon tied to the wall in chains. Whoever is taking care of me set me up in elegance.

It feels a lot like home.

Tall windows draw me forward, and the long length of gauze curtains shifts in a breeze generated from what looks to be heating registers built into the floor. The harsh light has me blinking again, bringing back the pain of my headache.

I pull back the curtains and gasp at the majesty of snowcapped mountains.

Not Paris.

The ground is blanketed in white, and the sky is covered in thick, billowy clouds. Fat snowflakes drift in the wind, swirling in a mystical dance. In the distance, the surface of a lake glitters with flashes of silver, reflecting the rays of the sun peeking through the clouds.

A glance around the room fails to reveal my clothes, but if my host provided everything else, why not that?

I return to the bathroom and head to another set of doors. My clothes from the day before are cleaned, pressed, and hung. Even my panties and bra are laundered.

That means someone stripped me, placed me in the nightgown, and put me to bed.

A beep sounds behind me. The sauna is ready. A quick sweep for video cameras reveals nothing obvious. I strip out of the nightgown, but I put on my clothes instead of heading inside the sauna.

Saunas and showers will come later. I glance in the foggy mirror.

“Time to discover where you are.” My pep talk fails to soothe my nerves, but I refuse to allow fear to cripple me to inaction. Too many questions spin before me. I could cower in this room until my host decides to show himself or herself, or I could meet them on my terms.

Time to open the outer door and seek answers.

The painting of the white swan draws my eye again. The sweep of feathers and the way they disintegrate on a swirling breeze have me wondering,

Who painted that piece?

And why does the world not know of them?

Art speaks to me at the level of my soul, and this painting reminds me of something I’ve seen before. Now, if I could only remember what that might be.