Releasing the latches of the box, she opened the lid. Then she rose to her knees from where she’d been sitting back on her heels and carefully removed a leatherbound tome.
Phin gently slid the empty box aside so she could set the impressively thick book in front of her.
“There was one tale…that always struck me more deeply than the others,” she murmured. “I would stare at the images for hours…”
Her voice faded and she gave a small shake of her head. Clearing her throat, she gently opened the book and began to turn toward the page she sought.
Phin’s body buzzed with energy as he saw the vibrant paintings and Sanskrit covering each page. So many images in an array of styles that clearly extended over centuries.
“Most of these are reproductions,” she explained quietly, “copied from the originals in order to complete the history contained herein.”
“Fascinating,” he breathed in genuine awe.
The woman next to him nodded as she silently paged through the book, obviously seeking one image in particular. When she found it, she took a deep breath and smoothed her hands over the open pages. On one side was Sanskrit text, likely a description or tale to accompany the stunning painting in lush colors that filled the opposite page.
Phin noticed right away that the decorative border contained depictions of honeybees that appeared strikingly similar to the one featured in the necklace. His heart sped and his brows furrowed as he leaned in a bit closer.
The main image was a beautiful portrayal of a traditional wedding. The bride and groom stood together beneath a bower of flowers withfamily spread out around them. The couple held hands as they gazed into each other’s eyes. He noted immediately that the bride bore an undeniable resemblance to the woman in the portrait Mishra had given him. And to Eleanor.
A shock of awareness sparked along his nerves. Trepidation. Fear.
Though the scene appeared to be a happy, hopeful one…he couldn’t ignore the one ominous detail. At the edge of the painting, mostly concealed by the foliage, was the camouflaged head of a serpent.
A chill danced down Phin’s spine and he quickly shifted his focus to the accompanying text. He’d tried to learn Sanskrit some years ago but without a great deal of practice had only managed a very rudimentary understanding. With that, all he could garner from the text was that it was indeed a marriage. He also recognized the words formaharajaandglorious loveand something about a lost or broken agreement.
“This story doesn’t have a happy ending,” he murmured.
Though spoken quietly, his words seemed to startle her, as though she’d gotten lost in the painting and was surprised to find him next to her. She turned her head. Her eyes were wide when he lifted his gaze to meet them. A haunted glimmer lay in their dark depths.
For a moment, he felt as though he were looking into the eyes of the bride herself. The chill of fear spread into his blood.
After a poignant moment, she gave a small shake of her head. “No,” she whispered. “It does not.”
They stared at each other. Silent and contemplative. A heaviness seemed to surround them. It was the weight of history and emotions too intense to remain buried in the past. He’d felt the same many times before in his adventures—whenever he’d encounter some relic of tragedy and loss.
But this went deeper. It was more intimate. Immediate.Present.
Finally, parting her lips to take a deep breath, she looked back tothe book. Her fingers drifted slowly over the image.
“Like my grandmother, the bride was the beloved daughter of a great and powerful maharaja of a Rajput kingdom. As is customary, she was betrothed in childhood. Her intended was the heir of a neighboring kingdom and their union would have reinforced a long-standing alliance between the two very powerful families.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, sometime before she was to marry, she fell in love with another. She begged and pleaded for her father to break the marriage contract so she could be free to choose the husband of her heart. It is said that the maharaja loved and doted upon his only daughter and he agreed to her impassioned request. He paid a fortune in compensation and believed that his friendship with the other maharaja would transcend the broken betrothal. It was an error in judgment he would deeply regret.”
Phin was almost afraid to ask even though he could already imagine the outcome. “What happened?”
With elegant fingers, she turned the page.
The next painting was starkly different in tone and imagery and emotion. The same garden setting, now featuring a large wedding feast, was no longer one of hope but of gruesome death. The bride and groom and everyone in attendance lay slumped on the table or fallen to the ground in a mass assassination. And there, at the edge of the page where he’d spotted the hidden serpent, a man dressed head to toe in black strode away from the scene, something clutched in his hand.
A spark of recognition flared brightly in Phin’s mind. With a low sound, he shifted closer to better see what the man carried.
It was a jeweled necklace.Thenecklace. Being stolen by the assassin after he must have torn it from the bride’s cold body.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“It’s the same,” she said, confirming what he already knew. Turning the page back to the wedding scene, she added, “What should have been a symbol of love and constancy was stolen by the man sent toexact revenge. This occurred generations ago. So long ago, the story has passed into family legend. The necklace was never seen again after that day. Until now.”
“Unbelievable.” He lifted his gaze to hers, barely inches away. “It’s the same necklace.”
“Though I only saw your drawing for a moment, I felt the truth of it.”
