‘Excuse me, excuse me, coming through.’
A shrilly voice, definitely not that of an angel, travelled from the right and there suddenly appeared, resplendent in all her magnificence, a stick-thin woman who could have graced the cover of any magazine, and could fit in it with inches to spare and demanding considerable magnification to become visible to the naked eye.
Eager to share her curiosity and a few tit bits of gossip, she drew to the side of a like-minded creature and uncanny look-alike, which was not surprising as they both belonged to a charmed and exclusive circle of high fashion and high off-the-scale maintenance. She began to chat to her companion in hushed conspiratorial tones. The stick thin woman instantly became the subject of several conversations in the room.
‘Who on earth was that? I don’t think I’ve seen her before, although there is something familiar about her. Can you shed any light?’
‘Oh, that’s La Ducesa de Mori Astir. You know, the widow of the former French ambassador to the Court of St James and the fourth richest man in France. She’s of course loaded. By passing away he did her the biggest favour, you know, because she really deeply despised him. He popped it only four years after they got married and there were no kids from any of his former three marriages, so she got the lot. And of course she collected from her own previous five marriages very respectable sums, hoarding it all, too much for her to make a dent even with all her spending. And her habit I hear is notorious and deeply ingrained, impossible to shake off, but of course it is unnecessary to do so. Who would want to give up such an exquisite habit or addiction? “Money troubles” is definitely not part of her vocabulary.’
‘What’s she doing these days? Surely she doesn’t need to work. Shopping her way through all her millions out of boredom no doubt, but not making much headway as you have so eloquently put it?’
‘Oh, she is solely in the pursuit of fun and she has, surprisingly, become an avid and very serious art collector and a very knowledgeable one at that. She gives lectures, you know.’
‘Collector, ha! Hoarder you mean. That woman has no taste, absolutely none, none whatsoever. She doesn’t know the first thing about it. She wouldn’t know the difference between Art Nouveau and Art Deco or Regency and Georgian, if it hit her on the head.’
Aristo and Katerina were accompanying Elli in a show of charitable force. They were enjoying the event, but were on high alert for anything unusual which would be difficult to detect as the tension and excitement in the room was palpable and rising.
Aristo’s brother, Vasilis, looking very tall and distinguished in his perfectly-and-expensively-tailored suit was quietly talking to a well-known art collector. Aristo could feel Vasilis was up to something, mischief was an irresistible drug for him, and he made an instant decision to watch him closely.
In the meantime, Aristo and Katerina circulated and mingled with the crowd, and as expected at these events, greeted old friends and acquaintances, business rivals and allies and stroke conversations about inconsequential matters and, of course, art and particularly the auction itself.
Aristo stole another glance at Vasilis and his companion. The art collector was gesturing wildly, appearing to be explaining something to Vasilis who was listening attentively, and, either found or pretended to find difficult to understand, which infuriated and tested the patience of the art collector whose gestures became increasingly intense, his flailing arms slicing through the air and sent flying to all directions, like a wind indicator gone insane.
The collector’s pale face was becoming worryingly animated and turning a gradual beetroot red. He appeared close to imploding. He was clearly extremely distressed. Aristo was intrigued. If only he was a dandruff speck on that suit.
Aristo swallowed hard, but a faint smile of amusement coloured his face. Vasilis was up to his usual games, entertaining himself and relishing the discomfort and confusion his antics caused in others. Childhood memories, long dormant, rushed in and Aristo remembered when they used to come to blows as kids because of Vasilis’ irresistible pull to play pranks and to tease.
Vasilis’ teasing and pranks were built to last, causing the maximum effect and bringing people to the end of their tether, to the point of almost bursting with the impulse to strangle him. That was until Aristo got the hang of Vasilis’ mischievous nature. In all honesty, back then, Aristo was not much better himself, and he still had not rid himself of the vestiges of plain naughtiness, disguised as adult eccentricity.
As Aristo was thinking about this, his eyes wandered and settled on the far side of the hall, on a mismatched couple deep in conversation. The man was short and squatty and a monocle graced one eye like a glorified reverse-engineered eye-patch. When the man turned, that one huge eye was disconcerting. How quaint, Aristo thought. 19 ^th century, you have an escapee. Come and claim your own.
Next to the man, standing at a seemingly impossible over six-foot tall, was a woman dressed in a sari, decked in jewels, and, even from this distance, Aristo could tell they were all very real and very valuable indeed. She exuded a peculiarly intense aura, a mixture of arrogance and raw sexual energy. Despite the distance separating them, Aristo sensed unease and a feeling of dread.
He was intrigued by that woman. He was rooted to the spot studying her. His feet started to move involuntarily, taking him towards her, entirely trapped by her guiles and dragged into her clutches. Everything was slowly darkening with only her the only light in the room. It was as if Aristo could not see anyone or anything but her.
She unexpectedly turned and fixed Aristo with a painfully piercing interrogating stare, at the same time charming and full of hatred, a femme fatale. Her stare achieved what Aristo’s will could not and stopped him in his tracks. She continued her discussion without a hitch. But her mouth formed a kiss. Was she mocking Aristo or was she warning him? Aristo did not know what to make of it.
Soon he would have his answer, as suddenly her face appeared in front of him, almost touching his. Unless Aristo was mistaken her action was a threat. He looked in the direction of where she stood and she was still there talking to her companion as if nothing was happening.
Could she, in some way, be at two places at the same time? Aristo suddenly felt as if legions of fiery lassos were smacking him on the face and giving him, he didn’t know what degree burns, if that was possible.
‘I will crush you in battle. I hope you will be ready and at least put up a good fight, for my entertainment you understand. I like a good challenge.’
‘I’ll be ready.’ Aristo said, defiant as always, and made a gesture as if dismissing a fly. ‘It’s a date. I look forward to it.’
Aristo tried to calm himself. He closed his eyes and breathed hard, taking long deep mouthfuls of air. The darkness and the dizziness began to subside and he was back in the hall again. He wondered how long he had been in that strange trance.
He surreptitiously looked around, surveying the hall to see, with relief, no change, no panic, nobody staring at him. He realised that he had only been in that state for only a fraction of a second that seemed like an eternity.
Katerina had witnessed it all, but decided not to interfere and break whatever spell Aristo was temporarily under. She felt the tense moment and feared unpredictable consequences if she had cut the brain duel short.
‘Aristo, who is she?’
‘She is the Madame Marcquesa de Parmalanski, leader of the Ruinands.’
The Madame Marcquesa leaned closer to her companion to compensate for the height difference, her voice hushed, barely a whisper.
‘I have acquired a strange device, a cube from a member of the Order of Vlachernae. I want to know how it works. I could not power it up. I’ve tried everything I could think of, but it persistently remains a lifeless lump of crystal. I want to know how members of the Order travel in time and whether this cube is the key. And I want to know what kind of fuel it uses, because whatever it is, it’s nothing I or our specialists have seen before. Any ideas?’
‘Have you tried taking it to the wise men of the Tower?’
‘Those old hacks? Well, no, you know I don’t trust them enough to throw them. They spend their time poring over those ancient texts of theirs. They know nothing of the outside world or progress. They are dangerous recluses, charlatans, not worthy of reverence let alone any measure of respect. How they continue to hold sway over us is beyond me.’
