He looks at me, expression wary but yielding.

“And if that’s the case, then I think you should paint something here. Create something beautiful, grand, everlasting, whatever you want. And as soon as you’re finished, we’ll mount it alongside your friends. Leaving it unsigned, of course.”

“I’m far past the point of needing my work to be recognized,” he says, looking at me, eyes filled with light.

“Good.” I nod, motioning toward the blank canvas. “Then I expect to see a work of pure inspired genius with no ego involved.” Hand on his shoulder, giving him a nudge when I add, “You should probably get started though. Unlike us, this night is finite.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

I glance between the painting and Damen, palm pressed to my chest, at a complete loss for words. Knowing whatever I say could never describe what’s before me. Absolutely no words will do.

“It’s so—” I pause, feeling small, undeserving, definitely not worthy of an image so grand. “It’s so beautiful—and transcendent—and”—I shake my head—“and no way is that me!”

He laughs, eyes meeting mine when he says, “Oh it’s you all right.” Smiling as he takes it all in. “In fact, it’s the embodiment of all your incarnations. A sort of compilation of the you of the last four hundred years. Your fiery hair and creamy skin hailing straight from your life in Amsterdam, your confidence and conviction from your Puritan days, your humility and inner strength taken from your difficult Parisian life, your elaborate dress and flirtatious gaze lifted straight from your London society days, while the eyes themselves—” He shrugs, turning toward me. “They remain the same. Unchanging, eternal, no matter what guise you wear.”

“And now?” I whisper, gaze focused on the canvas, taking in the most radiant, luminous, glorious, winged creature—a true goddess descending from the heavens above, eager to bestow the Earth with her gifts. Knowing it’s quite possibly the most beautiful image I’ve ever seen, but still not getting how it could really be me. “What part of me is taken from now? Other than the eyes, I mean.”

He smiles. “Why your gossamer wings, of course.”

I turn, assuming he’s joking until I see the serious expression marking his face.

“You’re quite unaware of them, I know.” He nods. “But trust me, they’re there. Having you in my life is like a gift from above, a gift I surely don’t deserve, but one I give thanks for every day.”

“Please. I’m hardly that good—or kind—or glorious—or even remotely angelic like you seem to think.” I shake my head. “Especially not lately, and you know it,” I add, wishing I could hang it in my room where I could see it every day, but knowing it’s far more important to leave it right here.

“You sure about this?” He glances between his beautiful unsigned painting and those of his friends.

“Absolutely.” I nod. “Imagine all the chaos that’ll ensue when they find it professionally framed and mounted on this wall. And I mean the good kind of chaos, by the way. Besides, just think of all the people who’ll be called upon to study it, trying to determine just where it came from, how it got here, and who could’ve possibly created it.”

He nods, glancing at it one last time before turning away. But I grab his hand and pull him back to me, saying, “Hey, not so fast. Don’t you think we should name it? You know, add a little bronze plaque like the other ones have?”

He glances at his watch, more than a little distracted now. “I’ve never been much good at titling my work, always just went with the obvious. You know: Bowl of Fruit, or Red Tulips in a Blue Vase.”

“Well, it’s probably better not to name it Ever with Wings, Angelic Ever, or anything remotely like that. You know, just in case someone does recognize me. But how about something a little more—I don’t know—story like? Less literal, more figurative.” I tilt my head and gaze at him, determined to make this work.

“Any suggestions?” He looks at me briefly, before his gaze begins to wander.

“How about—enchantment—or enchanted—or—I don’t know, something like that?” I press my lips tightly together.

“Enchantment?” He turns toward me.

“Well, you’re obviously under some kind of spell if you think that resembles me.” I laugh, watching his eyes light up as he laughs along with me.

“Enchantment it is.” He nods, back to business again. “But we need to make this plaque quick—I’m afraid we—”

I nod, closing my eyes and envisioning the plaque in my head, whispering, “What should I use for the artist—anonymous or unknown?”

“Either,” he says, voice hurried, anxious, eager to move on

Choosing unknown because I like the sound of it, I lean forward to inspect my work, asking, “What do you think?”

“I think we better run!”

He grasps my hand and pulls me alongside him, moving so fast my feet never once touch the ground. Racing down the long series of halls, taking the stairs as though they’re not even there. The entry door just within view when the whole room goes bright and the alarm begins to sound.

“Omigod!” I cry, panic crowding my throat as he picks up the pace.

Voice hoarse and ragged when he says, “I didn’t plan on staying so long—I—I didn’t know—” Stopping as we reach the front door just as the steel cage descends.