He’d been ever more surprised to discover his illustrations had been so near for so long. He’d searched for them in vain for years, even to the point of dispatching his second in command to scour most of Western Europe. Lorenzo had returned empty-handed and without prospects.
After dealing with the Emersons, the Prince intended to interrogate Vitali about the identity of the Swiss family. Then he’d send an envoy to Switzerland to discover how and from whom they’d acquired his property.
He knew one thing and the thing gave him cold comfort—whoever had stolen the illustrations from his house was not of his kind. This meant that the thieves, whoever they were, were long dead.
He’d tortured and killed his entire staff of servants in the days after the theft. He knew some of them had to have been involved, even unintentionally. But he’d never been able to discover who’d been involved or how.
With such thoughts in mind, the Prince faded into the background of the gala, as was his custom when he mingled with human beings. He had no interest in their petty pursuits or inane conversations. He was present for one purpose and would not be distracted from his goal.
He waited until he saw the Emersons steal away from their guests and ascend the large stone staircase to the second floor. He trailed them from a respectable distance, easily distracting the security guard who was posted at the foot of the staircase.
When he arrived at the second floor he found the corridor abandoned.
He followed the Emersons’ scents to the Botticelli room. Peering through the door, he saw them entangled in a passionate embrace.
With scant reflection, he decided to enter the room and admire the artwork, but to do so unseen. It had been some time since he’d viewed the works of the Uffizi in person. The affairs of state kept him busy, as did his other pursuits.
He scaled one of the interior walls and suspended himself from the ceiling, taking care to be silent in his movements. This was an old trick of his kind when they wished to observe human behavior unseen. It was amazing how few human beings ever bothered to look up.
While the Emersons kissed and whispered to each other, the Prince took a moment to appreciate The Birth of Venus and the copy of Botticelli’s original Primavera, an immense feeling of superiority and satisfaction swelling his chest.
With respect to Primavera, he knew what no one else in the world knew. He held his secret knowledge tightly, like a precious jewel.
His self-congratulatory thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Emerson, who grabbed her husband suddenly and pulled him to the corridor.
The Prince was about to follow them when he noticed a new addition to the room, near where the Emersons had been kissing.
Dropping soundlessly from the ceiling to the floor, he strode toward the work. A few feet away he stopped.
On the wall opposite The Birth of Venus was a large black-and-white photograph of Mrs. Emerson. She was in profile, eyes closed and smiling. Her long dark hair was being lifted by a pair of hands.
It was an extraordinary image, even to his cold and cynical gray eyes. Its beauty was made poignant by the knowledge she was ill.
His eyes traveled to the words that had been posted below the photograph. It was a quotation from Dante,
«Deh, bella donna, che a’ raggi d’amore
ti scaldi, s’i’ vo’ credere a’ sembianti
che soglion esser testimon del core,
vegnati in voglia di trarreti avanti»,
diss’io a lei, «verso questa rivera,
tanto ch’io possa intender che tu canti.
Tu mi fai rimembrar dove e qual era
Proserpina nel tempo che perdette
la madre lei, ed ella primavera».
—Dante, Purgatorio 28.045–051.
“Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love
Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks,
Which the heart’s witnesses are wont to be,
May the desire come unto thee to draw
Near to this river’s bank,” I said to her,
“So much that I might hear what thou art singing.
Thou makest me remember where and what
Proserpina that moment was when lost
Her mother her, and she herself the Spring.”
The Prince scoffed and turned on his heel. He hadn’t liked Dante in life and he liked him even less in death.
Beatrice was a different case. . . .
Let the Emersons view themselves as modern incarnations of Dante and Beatrice. It mattered not. Mercy was not part of the Prince’s nature and not all the romantic love in the world would change that fact.
The professor would pay for his thievery, and his wife would mourn him. In those events, justice would be served.
Anxious that perhaps the Emersons had fled the building, he entered the hall, following their scent down the corridor.
In the distance, he could hear voices and muffled sounds.
He approached silently, almost floating across the floor.
Desperate groans and the rustling of fabric filled his ears, along with the twin sounds of rapidly beating hearts. He could smell their scents, the aromas heightened due to their sexual arousal.
He growled in reaction, baring his teeth.