Waking the Dead

They say a painting can have a life of its own…

In the case of Ghosts in the Mind by Henry Sebastian Hubert, that’s more than just an expression. This painting is reputed to come to life—and to bring death. The artist was a friend of Lord Byron and Mary Shelley, joining them in Switzerland during 1816, “the year without a summer.” That was when they all explored themes of horror and depravity in their art.…

Now, almost two hundred years later, the painting appears in New Orleans. Wherever it goes, death seems to follow.

Danielle Cafferty and Michael Quinn, occasional partners in solving crime, are quickly drawn into the case. They begin to make connections between that summer in Switzerland and this spring in Louisiana. Danni, the owner of an eccentric antiques shop, and Quinn, a private detective, have discovered that they have separate but complementary talents when it comes to investigating unusual situations.

Trying to blend their personal relationship with the professional lives they’ve stumbled into, they learn how much they need each other. Especially as they confront this work of art—and evil. The people in the portrait might be dead, but something seems to wake them and free them to commit bloody crimes. Cafferty and Quinn must discover what that is. And they have to destroy it—before it destroys them.

Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

LET THE DEAD SLEEP

THE UNSEEN

THE UNHOLY

THE UNSPOKEN

THE UNINVITED

AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

THE EVIL INSIDE

SACRED EVIL

HEART OF EVIL

PHANTOM EVIL

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

THE KEEPERS

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

THE KILLING EDGE

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

* * * * *

Look for Heather Graham’s next novel

THE CURSED

available soon from Harlequin MIRA

Waking the Dead

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In memory of my in-laws, Angelina Mero Pozzessere and

Alphonse Pozzessere, who first introduced me to

Massachusetts, wonderful Italian food—and the historic

and incredible city of Salem.

And to Dee Mero Law, George Law, Doreen Law Westermark,

John Westermark, Kenneth Law, Bill, Eileen and Eddie Staples,

and “Auntie Tomato,” Gail Astrella.

Thanks for the very strange, fun and quite incredible road trips to Salem!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Extract

Prologue

June 1816

The Shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland

LIGHTNING FLASHED, CREATING a jagged streak in the angry purple darkness that had become the sky—day and night at once, or so it seemed.

Henry Sebastian Hubert hunched his shoulders against the strange chill that permeated the evening. The sky’s darkness was never-ending; the rain and the cold were foreboding. He’d heard that in America, there had been June snow in some of the northern states. Here, in Geneva, it always seemed dark, damp and wretchedly cold—but certainly no worse than it had been in England.

Another twisted arrow of light slashed across the eerie black sky, illuminating the lawn that stretched before the lake. Percy Shelley, Claire and Mary Godwin, and George, Lord Byron had arrived. Mary was calling herself Mary Shelley on this Continental jaunt but Shelley had a legal wife in England. Claire—well, Claire was Claire. He could hear her laughter as they approached, high-pitched and sounding rather forced.

The young woman tried so hard. She’d been Byron’s lover in London, and did not seem to understand that Byron sought nothing more permanent. But through Claire, Byron had met Shelley, and his admiration for Shelley was complete and enthusiastic. And among their foursome, Claire was the only one who spoke French decently, making her a definite asset.

Henry was enamored of them all. “There they come,” he said aloud. “The brilliant, the enchanted.”

Behind him, he heard a strange sound and turned. Raoul Messine, the butler who’d come with the castle, was also looking toward the water.

“You were about to speak?” Henry demanded.

“No, monsieur. It is not my place.”

Henry stared at him. Messine was thin as a stick; he had a pinched face and resembled a skeleton in black dress wear. He had served the late Lord Alain Guillaume and, Henry had been assured, was the finest servant to be found. Of course, Lord Guillaume had been a hedonist—and some said that Raoul Messine provided him with any pleasure his heart desired. Alain Guillaume had met with an early grave, drawing his sword against authorities who’d been sent to search for a missing servant. Afterward, Messine had properly interred his master in the castle’s crypt. Henry had rented the castle from the lord’s son, Herman, who had moved to London years before his father’s death and preferred to remain there. Apparently, the son had taken after his mother and had no interest in his father’s cruel pleasures.

Messine suited the dreary stone walls of the castle, blackened with growth and age.

“Speak—as if it were your place!” Henry insisted.

Messine shrugged. “The depraved,” he said. There was something strange about the man’s eyes. He said the word depraved as if it were a compliment.

To Henry, both the word and the tone seemed odd coming from a man who had served the likes of Lord Guillaume. Unless he’d enjoyed serving his master—and perhaps taking part in his exploits? Henry didn’t know yet, but he was curious.

“They simply discard convention, my dear fellow. That is all,” Henry said. “They have great minds and great imaginations!”

“Indeed, sir, and you are their equal—with your paintbrush,” Messine told him.

Hubert wasn’t sure he could begin to equal the brilliance of Shelley in any measure, but he was grateful that the man had come with his interesting party of guests.

A moment later, those guests dragged their small rowboat ashore—Claire still laughing. Covering their heads with shawls and jackets despite the fact that they were already drenched, the four of them ran toward the great gates to the small, fortified castle Henry had rented.

The House of Guillaume was nothing like the beautiful Villa Diodati Lord Byron had taken near the water, nor did it in any way resemble the massive and beautiful Castle Chillon across the lake. Originally built during the Dark Ages, around 950 AD, when the area had been under the control of the Holy Roman Empire, the castle had drafty halls. The rooms were small and sparse and only one place, the south tower room, gave him enough light to paint. It was a wretched rental, but at least the enclosure no longer housed farm animals. But Guillaume offered four strong walls, four towers and a small courtyard that led to a keep with a majestic hall and a number of usable rooms. As long as Henry’s servants kept fires burning constantly, it was bearable.

And, most important, he had lured George, Lord Byron, here—along with Percy Bysshe Shelley and his young lover, Mary Godwin. The party also included Mary’s stepsister, Claire, who had surely come in hopes of regaining her place as Lord Byron’s mistress, and the striking young John Polidori, a writer of sorts himself, but hired by Lord Byron as his personal physician.

What made the castle an exceptional choice despite its discomforts was the impression it allowed him to give others—that he was a moody artist making his name in the avant-garde world, where the dark side of human nature, religion and science were intriguing the finest minds of his day.

Thanks to family money, he could afford this place. Nothing better, perhaps—but the castle sufficed.

“Henry!” Claire was the first to greet him, running to where he stood at the gates, throwing herself in his arms. She was soaked and didn’t care in the least that she dampened him, as well.

He gave her the mandatory hug and stepped back. “Welcome!” he called cheerfully as they ran up. “Welcome, welcome, get under the portcullis, my friends, and we’ll make a dash for the house! I’m so glad you’ve arrived!”

“Did you doubt us, dear fellow?” George asked, giving him a hug, as well. The hug was enthusiastic; he wasn’t sure if George was testing him. Lord Byron enjoyed outrageous behavior, although he toned it down in London, lest his words not receive the respect they deserved when he voiced his opinions in the House of Lords. He was often condemned for his poetry, ostracized by society—and yet his political rhetoric sometimes held sway.

“We’re delighted to see you, Henry,” Mary said. She had such a sweet smile. While she’d chosen the bohemian lifestyle—running off to the Continent with Shelley when he was legally married to another woman—there was still a sense of charm and old-fashioned morality about Mary. Henry was in love with her himself, he realized. “Any outing is exciting these days,” she went on. “The weather is so very dreary.”

“Yes, man, and we’re quite frozen solid,” Percy said, slipping his arms around Mary and grinning at Henry. “You’ve a fire, I believe.”

“A big fire, and a great deal of delicious, mulled brandy,” Henry promised. Messine had already sent two other servants down to the lake. They’d gather his guests’ luggage from the boat.

Henry greeted Polidari, who was bringing up the rear, carrying his own bag.

“It will be good that I am a physician, since we’ll all be catching our deaths of cold!” Polidari told them.

They raced across what had once been the inner courtyard and was now the only courtyard that led to the giant double doors and the hall. Raoul Messine was there, and he held the doors open for them, handing warmed towels to the sodden guests as they made their way in. Henry followed last, closing the great doors as he entered. Mary was already before the fire, wrapped in the towel, a delicate tendril of damp hair resting upon her pale cheek. At least the hearth was massive and the fire burned warmly. But even with the fire and the many lamps set in sconces around the hall, the castle seemed dark, shadowed, forbidding.

“I love this glorious and faded homage to a day gone past!” Byron announced. He dried his hair as he looked around. “Ah, suits of armor standing guard, macabre paintings of lords and ladies long dead, shadows here, there, everywhere. How fitting that we should come here to work, old friend, for you’ve heard of the task we’ve undertaken?”

“Ghost stories,” Henry replied.

Shelley nodded. “We are to create creatures of the eerie darkness within our souls, faces so horrid that not even a mother could give them love...scenes so terrifying that none may escape. Mary had a dream—she’s writing her dream. I’ll take that brandy, Henry, my friend. Brandy has a way of setting the mind to sights within it!”

“Henry, you must write a story,” Mary said. She touched the edge of one of the swords on the wall and said, “Ouch! Oh, indeed, these remain ready for battle!”

“Ah, my love, this was a fortified castle in the Dark Ages—filled with torture and screams!” Shelley teased her, taking her hand. “You’re bleeding.”

“Just a drop,” Mary insisted. “Nothing of concern.”

“Blood! Ah, as this great ruined hulk of an old edifice deserves. Or so we would say in our stories!” Byron said.

“They’ve got me working on one,” Polidori told Henry. “You, too, must be seduced into the madness of this circle.”

Claire whirled around the hall before the fire. Her clothing was still sodden and clung to her form, tempting the eye, and yet, Henry thought, Lord Byron seemed displeased rather than tempted. Of course, he’d heard that Byron would bed anyone who was pretty enough and that he tired of his conquests—male and female—as quickly as he enjoyed them.

“Henry is an artist!” Claire said. “George Byron, you paint with words. Henry uses a brush.”

Byron pushed by Claire to stand near Mary and Shelley. “Yes, indeed,” he declared. “Henry is a true artist. And he must join us in our madness, and while we create stories of normal circumstances suddenly distorted, out of focus, corrupted by monsters, he must do so on a canvas!” Byron paused to kiss the finger Mary had pricked and met her eyes. “He must paint with rich colors and darkness—as we do with words. Ah, yes, he must paint...with the color of blood!”

They were asking him to join their private yet so privileged adventure.

“It’s a challenge I should love!” Henry assured the group.

“What shall he paint? Oh, what shall he paint?” Mary asked.

“He need but gaze around this castle,” Shelley said. “There, above the fire! That old baron looks like a skeleton ready to step out of the portrait and into this very room. And there—the way those figures hold the armor, as if they could come back to life and cut down everyone before them. Ah, the tapestry with the saints bending down to succor the lepers! Those poor, vile afflicted beings could run wild in starvation, and rip the damsels helping them asunder.”

“The swords above the fire!” Claire exclaimed.

“The gauze curtains,” Mary said. “I see in them a ghost.”

“A creature that rises from the sea or falls from the heavens?” Byron asked. “A tree being, with skeletal fingers that reach out to entangle in a young girl’s hair...and curl around her throat? What kind of monster, Henry, shall you paint?”

Henry smiled. “I shall paint deceit—and with it, the worst monster I can conjure up.”

“And what will that be?” Polidori asked.

“Man,” Henry told them. “The depth and darkness and depravity of the human soul. I shall let the very devil into my heart and mind, and he shall teach me!”

“Ah, wickedness. Wickedness is in the mind!” Mary declaimed. “And the soul that is bathed in blood!”

Beyond the castle walls, lightning struck again. The fury of the thunder that followed caused the very earth to tremble.

“Then, dearest Mary, I shall paint with blood,” he promised. “And with all the dark despair that ever have lived within these walls. Yes, I shall paint with blood.”

Chapter One

THE HOUSE WAS off Frenchman Street, not a mansion and not derelict. It sat in a neighborhood of middle-class homes from which men and women went to work every day and children went off to school. The yard was well-kept but not overmanicured; the paint wasn’t peeling, but it was a few years old. In short, to all appearances, it was the average family home in the average family neighborhood.

Or had been.

Until a neighbor had spotted the body of the woman on the kitchen floor that morning and called the police. They’d entered the house and found a scene of devastating chaos.

Michael Quinn hadn’t been among the first to arrive. He wasn’t a cop, not anymore. He was a private investigator and took on clients, working for no one but himself. However, he maintained a friendly relationship with the police. It was necessary—and, in general, made life a hell of a lot easier.

It also brought about mornings like this, when Jake Larue, his ex-partner, called him in, which was fine, since he was paid a consultant’s fee for his work with the police...and his personal pursuits could sometimes be expensive.

“You know, Quinn,” Jake said, meeting him outside, “I’ve seen bad times. The days after the storm, gang struggles in our city and the usual human cruelty every cop faces. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Jake—Detective Larue—was sent on the worst and/or most explosive cases in the city...or when something bordered on the bizarre.

Jake was good at his job. He was good at it, Quinn had long ago discovered, because he’d never thought of himself as the be-all and end-all. He took whatever help he could get, no matter where he got it. That was how cases were solved, and that was why he was willing to call Quinn.

Good thing he was back in the city, Quinn thought. He’d just arrived a few hours earlier. Danni didn’t even know he was back after his weeks in Texas—he’d meant to surprise her this morning.

Quinn looked curiously at the house. “Drug deal gone bad?” he asked. It didn’t seem like the type of home where such a thing happened, but there was no telling in that market.

“I’ll be damned if I know, but I doubt it. Get gloves and booties. We’re trying to keep it down to a small parade going through,” Larue said.

Quinn raised his brows. It was almost impossible to protect evidence from being compromised when that many people were involved. But Larue was a stickler; he’d set up a cordoned path to the porch. There were officers in the yard, and they were holding back the onlookers who’d gathered nearby. The van belonging to the crime scene techs was half on the sidewalk and cop cars crowded the streets, along with the medical examiner’s SUV. The only people who had passed him were wearing jumpsuits that identified them as crime scene investigators.

“Dr. Hubert is on,” Larue said.

Quinn liked Ron Hubert; he was excellent at his job and looked beyond the norm when necessary. He wasn’t offended when another test was suggested or when he was questioned. As he’d said himself, he was human; humans made mistakes and could overlook something important. His job was to speak for the dead, but hell, if the dead were whispering to someone else, that was fine with him.

“First things first, I guess. The entry hallway,” Larue said.

There was no way to avoid the body in the entry hall. The large man lay sprawled across the floor in death. Hubert was crouched by the body, speaking softly into his phone as he made notes.

“The victim is male, forty-five to fifty years. Time of death was approximately two hours ago or sometime between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. Cause of death appears to be multiple stab wounds, several of which on their own would prove fatal. Death seems to have taken place where the victim has fallen. There are abundant pools of blood in the immediate vicinity.” He switched off his phone, stopped speaking and glanced up. “Please watch out for the blood. The lab folks are busy taking pictures, but we’re trying to preserve the scene as best we can. Ah, Quinn, glad to see you here, son.” Pretty much anyone could be “son” to Dr. Ron Hubert. He was originally from Minnesota and his Viking heritage was apparent. His hair was whitening, but where it wasn’t white, it was platinum. His eyes were so pale a blue they were almost transparent. His dignity and reserve made him seem ageless, but realistically, Quinn knew he was somewhere in his mid-sixties.

“He was stabbed? Have you found the weapon?” Quinn asked.

“No weapons anywhere,” Larue answered. “This is—we believe but will confirm—Mr. James A. Garcia. His family has lived in the area since the nineteenth century. He inherited the house. He was a courier who worked for a specialty freight company.”

“The woman in the kitchen, we believe, is his wife, Andrea. It looks as if she was slashed by a sword,” Hubert said. “Make your tour quick, Detective,” he told Larue while nodding grimly at Quinn. “I need to get the bodies to the morgue.”

Quinn accompanied Larue to the kitchen. He couldn’t begin to determine the age of the victim there; only her dress and the length of her hair suggested that she’d been a woman. To say that a sword might have been used was actually a mild description; she looked like she’d been put through a meat slicer. Blood created a haphazard pattern on the old linoleum floor and they moved carefully to avoid it. “There’s more,” Larue told him, “and stranger.”

Upstairs, another body lay on a bed.

“Mr. Arnold Santander, Mrs. Garcia’s father, as far as we know. Shot.”

“Gun? Calibre?”

“Something that blew a hole in him the size of China. And there are two more.”

Another bedroom revealed a fourth body—this one bludgeoned to death. Quinn couldn’t even guess the sex, age or anything else about the remains on the bed.

“Maggie Santander, the wife’s mother,” Larue said.

The fifth body was downstairs by the back door. Compared to the others, it was in relatively good condition.

“This one is a family aunt—Mr. Garcia’s sister, Maria Orr. What I’ve been able to gather from the neighbors is that Maria Orr picked up the Garcia children to take them to school. She was the drop-off mom and Mrs. Garcia was the pickup mom. Maria often stopped by for a coffee after she took the kids to school and before heading to her job at a local market. Mrs. Garcia was a stay-at-home mom and looked after all the children in the afternoon.”

Quinn hunkered down by the body and gingerly moved the woman’s hair. He frowned up at Larue. “Strangled?”

“That’s Hubert’s preliminary finding, yes,” Larue replied.

Quinn stood. “No weapons anywhere in the house? The yard?”

“No. Obviously, the techs are still combing the house. I have officers out there questioning neighbors and going through every trash pile and dump in the vicinity and beyond. The city’s on high alert. I’m about to give a press conference—any words of wisdom for me before I cast everyone into a state of panic?”

One of Larue’s men, carefully picking his way around the corpse, heard the question and muttered, “Buy several big dogs and arm yourself with an Uzi?”

He was rewarded with one of Larue’s chilling stares. “All I need is a city full of armed and frightened wackos running around,” he said. “Quinn, what sort of vibe are you getting here? Anything?”

Quinn shrugged. “Was there any suggestion that they could have been into drugs or any other smuggling?”

“The poor bastard was a courier, a baseball coach, a deacon at his church. The mom baked apple pies. No, no drugs. And it sure as hell doesn’t look like one of them killed the others and then committed suicide.”

Quinn spoke to Larue, describing the situation as he understood it. “The grandparents were in bed—separate beds and rooms, but I’m assuming they were old and in poor health. The wife was cleaning up after breakfast, while the husband appeared to be about to leave the house. I think the aunt had just arrived and saw something—but didn’t make it out of the house. She was running for the rear door, I believe. You’d figure she’d be the one shot in the back, but she wasn’t. She was caught—and strangled. The different methods used to kill suggest there was more than one killer in here. What’s odd is that the blood pools seem to be where the victims died. No one tracked around any blood, and there are no bloody fingerprints on the walls, not that I can see. Yes, we have blood spatter—all over the walls.” He shook his head. “It should be the easiest thing in the world to catch this killer—or killers. He or she, they, should be drenched in blood. Except...your victim trying to escape via the back hallway was strangled. There’s no blood on her whatsoever, and you’d think that if the same person perpetrated all the murders, there’d be blood on her, as well. Unless she was killed first, but that’s unlikely. It looks like she was running away.”

“So, the bottom line is...”

“Based on everything I’m seeing, I’m going to suggest more than one killer,” Quinn said. “Still, they should be almost covered in blood—unless they wore some kind of protective clothing. Even then, you’d expect to find drops along the way. It seems that whoever did this killed each of these people where we found them—and then disappeared into thin air.”

Larue stared at him, listening, following his train of thought. “You didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know,” he argued.

“I’m not omniscient or a mind reader,” Quinn said.

“Yes, but—”

“Your men should be searching the city for people with any traces of blood on them. It should be impossible to create a bloodbath like this and not have it somewhere. And the techs need to keep combing the house for anything out of the ordinary.”

“This much hate—and nothing taken. Implies family, a disillusioned friend...or a psychopath who wandered in off the street. They say this kind of violence is personal, but there are plenty of examples to the contrary. To take a famous one, Jack the Ripper did a hell of a number on his last victim, Mary Kelly, and they believe that his victims were a matter of chance.”

“They were a ‘type,’” Quinn reminded him. “Jack went after prostitutes. What ‘type’ could this family have been? My suggestion is that you learn every single thing you can about these people. Maybe something was taken.”

“Nothing seems to have been disturbed. No drawers were open, no jewelry boxes touched.”

Quinn nodded, glancing at his former partner. Larue was in his late thirties, tall and lean with a steely frame, dark, close-cropped hair and fine, probing eyes. There were things he didn’t talk about; he was skilled at going on faith, and luckily, he had faith in Quinn.

“That’s why I called you,” Larue said. “I’m good at finding clues and in what I see.” He lowered his voice. “And you, old friend, are good at finding clues in what we don’t see. I’ll have all the information, every file, I can get on these bodies in your email in the next few hours. Hubert said he’ll start the autopsies as soon as he’s back in the morgue.”

“Mind if I walk the house again?” Quinn asked him. “There’s something I want to check out.”

“What’s that?”

“Like I said, I’m surprised more blood wasn’t tracked through the house. But what I do see leads back to James Garcia.”

“One would think—but you’re trying to tell me that James Garcia butchered his family—and came back to the hall to slash himself to ribbons?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I agree with you that it’s virtually out of the question. I’m just saying that the only blood trails there are lead back to him. There’s no weapon he could have done this with, so...that tells me someone else had to be in the house. They got to the second floor first and murdered the grandparents, headed down to the kitchen and killed the wife, then caught either the aunt or James Garcia. But you’ll note, too, that there’s no blood trail leading out through the doors. Like I said, whoever did this should have been drenched. It seems obvious, but surely someone would’ve noticed another person covered in blood. Yes, this is New Orleans—but we’re not in the midst of a crazy holiday with people wearing costumes and zombie makeup. And even if the killers were wrapped in a sheet or something protective, it’s hard to believe they could escape without leaving a trace.”

“What if they had a van or a vehicle waiting outside?” Larue asked.

“That’s possible. But still...I’d expect some drops or smudges as the killer headed out. I’m going to look around, okay?”

“Go for it—just keep your booties on and don’t interrupt any of my techs. Oh, and, Quinn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank God you’re back.”

Quinn offered him a somber smile. “Glad you feel that way.”

He left Larue in the hallway, giving instructions to others, and supervising the scene and the removal of the bodies.

At first, Quinn found nothing other than what they’d already discovered. Of course, he was trying to stay out of the way of the crime scene unit. They were busiest in the house; he knew they’d inspected the garage but concentrated on the house, so he decided to concentrate on the garage.

He was glad he did. Because he came upon something he considered unusual.

It was in between two cans of house paint.

He picked up the unlabeled glass container and studied it for a long time, frowning.

There’d been something in it. The vial looked as if it had been washed, but...

There was a trace of red. Some kind of residue.

Blood? So little remained he certainly couldn’t tell; it would have to go to the evidence lockup and then get tested.

He hurried back in to hand it over to Grace Leon, Larue’s choice for head CSU tech when he could get her. She, too, studied the vial. “Thanks. We would’ve gotten to this, I’m sure. Eventually we would’ve gone through the garage. But...is it what I think it is?”

He smiled grimly. “We’ll have to get it tested. But my assumption is yes.”

* * *

The giclée—or computer-generated ink-jet copy—first drew one’s gaze from across the room because of its coloring and exquisite beauty.

Foremost in the image was a dark-haired gentleman leaning over a love seat where a beautiful woman in white lay half-inclined, reading. He could be seen mostly from the back, with only a hint of his profile visible, and he presented her with a flower. The scene evoked the type of mysticism and nostalgia that could be found in the work of the pre-Raphaelite painter John Waterhouse.

Movement, life, seemed to emerge from the image. It was complex; the viewer felt a sense of belonging in the scene, being part of a living environment.

Behind the love seat was a great hearth, like that in the hall of a medieval castle. Above the hearth was a painting of a medieval knight, sans helmet; to each side of the image were massive plaques that bore the coat of arms of the House of Guillaume, with crossed swords below each. To the left, a massive stone staircase went up to the second floor and to the right, a hallway leading to another region of the castle, presumably the kitchens. It was guarded by a pair of 1500s suits of armor, standing like sentinels. And yet it felt like a scene of modern—nineteenth-century modern, at least compared to the medieval background of the castle—bliss.