Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
After a full circuit, they were back to the first room and the Rossetti. Unlike the Muse, this bold female figure had dark hair.
The painting next to it, though …
Nicole approached.
She recognised it immediately as John William Waterhouse’s Hylas and the Nymphs. It wasn’t as large as she’d always thought it would be. In fact, it was smaller than life-size, but perhaps the large antique dresser in front of it visually shrank it.
It didn’t have an easy varnish to peer beneath, so short of robbing it, she wasn’t sure how she’d be able to glean any of its secrets, at least not in the way her mother had given them clues so far.
So she looked deeper.
Mythological and art historical details glowed to life in her mind, highlighting each aspect of the painting in gold as she took in the composition, the light and the palette: the dusky greens and celestially pale Nymphs.
There were seven in all, their eyes like dark moons, their bodies so pale in the inky water they glowed.
Delicate fans of lily pads floated on the emerald surface and covered their lower bodies.
They all shared that blood-russet hair, threaded with different types of flowers.
Some were tiny white speckles, some sun-gold and unfurling like the one in the hair of the central Nymph who was drawing Hylas gently down into the water.
‘What are you thinking?’ Remi murmured beside her.
One element stood out above the others. The theme of a lure …
the epic, destructive power the Muse had.
The very thing that reminded Nicole so much of the power inside her: the lure of those Empyrean impulses, the lure of desire.
And Remi – the lure of her Siren song. It was painted in every stroke of Hylas’ body as he leaned closer to the Nymph whose upturned face had enraptured him.
Nicole couldn’t help but be more convinced by this piece and its quiet lure than Etty’s flagrant naked Sirens and their beach of bones in the other room.
This painting called to her.
She imagined the room darkening, the piece lit differently, and realised: this was one of the paintings Professor Westmoore had talked about in her Introduction to Art History lecture in Estwood.
‘… I am here. Trapped … as if in a house of water,’ the Muse had said.
A house of water …
It had been strange phrasing, not only because the Muse lived in an apartment. But if she’d meant an aquarium, like a caged animal, why hadn’t she said that?
A house. Of water.
There were so many paintings here of Sirens and water. But …
Her gaze dropped to the gleaming plaque.
Waterhouse.
‘Waterhouse was one of the most well-known Victorian painters,’ Nicole said, answering Remi. ‘He was heavily inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites and so much of his work had delicate-featured, red-haired women like the Muse. Westmoore had one of his paintings in her collection, too: A Mermaid.’
Back then, Nicole had thought the painting was just one of the many depictions of supernaturals in the professor’s private collection. But how could it be a coincidence that Westmoore had a Waterhouse painting and now Nicole was faced with another?
She took out her phone to call her father and dislodged the audio tour. ‘Dad, I need you to look up the painting Hylas and the Nymphs and tell me what the flowers mean.’
It took a few moments as he explained each of them. But the final one had her lips curling into a smile.
‘The white water lily,’ he said, ‘is called Nymphaea alba.’
They couldn’t get the next clue from the Muse until they brought her a flower, and the Nymphs were the secret-keepers … trapped in a Waterhouse painting.
Nicole’s smile grew. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ She hung up. ‘It’s that one.’ She pointed to the bright lily floating in the dark water between the Nymphs.
She hesitated a moment before reaching for the table in front of it, apologising under her breath.
Then climbed on top of the priceless furniture.
‘Er, Nicole?’ Remi asked. ‘Whatcha doing?’
‘I need to get a closer look.’ Hopefully Luca would be working his Nazen magic on the cameras.
A zinging sound informed her that Remi had activated a small shield of her mother’s that could deflect human interest.
But not for long.
‘You’ve got one minute, unless someone gets too close,’ Remi warned.
Nicole knelt on the dresser and peered closer, hesitant to touch it without gloves.
A whisper of instinct had her Empyreal turning its eternally watchful attention on the painting too.
Something brushed against her face. She jerked back, but could have sworn the Nymphs’ inky-black eyes had turned to her.
It made her think of everything the Muse had said: how she was deemed responsible for others’ actions. How desire was not to be feared. How blame had been written on a woman’s body, and how she wanted a flower back.
‘It’s this one,’ she said.
‘Okay, but what does that mean?’ Remi asked. ‘Tell me you have an idea for how to get this thing out of here and why it’s not glass.’
‘I don’t think we need to take the whole thing,’ Nicole said. ‘Maybe it will just …’ She pressed her lips together.
She wished she had a pair of gloves.
‘You’re going to have to touch it,’ Remi said, over the countdown of the tech.
Nicole sucked in a pained breath. Touching a masterpiece was going to send her to artistic hell.
Hesitantly, her finger reached out, like the questing reach of Michelangelo’s Adam, and lightly touched the lily in the painting.
The canvas rippled like a pool of water.
She didn’t have a second to be pleased, to tell Remi. Because something wet and fleshy wrapped around her wrist.
Then dragged her into the painting.