The Fortune Teller(2)
“Ms. Cavnow, so good of you to come,” the woman said, clasping both of Semele’s hands as if she were a friend.
“Thank you. The honor’s mine.” Semele stepped inside, momentarily feeling like Alice in the Looking Glass transported to a different world. It wasn’t the grandeur that was unsettling so much as the feeling that she had been there before, as though she had buried a time capsule and suddenly rediscovered it.
Her feet felt like they were floating as she crossed the foyer; the black-and-white Art Deco marble drew her eyes. The entry hall was downright operatic and had more square footage than her apartment back in Brooklyn. It rose three stories high with a spiraling staircase that announced itself on a high C from the front door.
She crossed the hall and walked under a carved archway to the living room, where she was greeted with a breathtaking view. A wall of glass windows framed the distant Alps, and sofas divided the room geometrically. The space reminded her of a cozy ski lodge with its earth tones and leather—there was even a roaring fire in the stone fireplace.
Theo Bossard stood in front of the mantel. He was staring at the fire with his back to the door.
When Semele entered he turned around. She stopped walking, struck by the force of him. She fought to push the sensation away—the same déjà vu she’d had on the plane ride, only now it was stronger.
The feeling that they had met—would meet—vibrated at her core. Somehow she already knew this moment, down to the last detail: Theo, in his cashmere sweater; the way he stood; the way he emanated poise; his black hair and amber eyes, which added to the austere air surrounding him.
When their gazes met, she tugged at her jacket, self-consciously pulling it around her. “My condolences on your father’s passing,” she offered, finding her voice.
Theo inclined his head, seeming to see straight through her carefully crafted persona, the expert manuscript appraiser, only thirty-two, remarkably young for her achievements. She dressed in high-fashion vintage, wore only mascara and lipstick, and sported a sleek Ziegfeld bob that looked straight from the twenties.
Theo Bossard should have been charmed, been charming—given her a smile, a handshake, a welcoming gesture—but instead he looked at her with an unsettling seriousness, as if he had something important to say. The whole encounter left her unbalanced.
“Thank you, Semele,” he murmured in a voice so soft she barely heard him at all. Then he said nothing more the entire meeting.
If their introduction seemed odd, the attorney was happy to fill the silence. She launched into a monologue about the expectations of the estate, though she had already discussed the details with Semele over the phone.
“We’ve reserved you a room at the Grand H?tel Suisse Majestic, right across from Lake Geneva,” the attorney explained. “The family driver will pick you up in the mornings; the chateau’s chef can prepare your meals.…”
Semele could barely focus on what the woman was saying—she was too distracted by Theo. He was trailing several steps behind, keeping his gaze on her the entire time. Never had she been so unnerved by someone.
They headed to the room that housed the collection. Marcel Bossard had a special gallery situated off the main library, cloistered off from the rest of the estate.
Semele stepped inside and momentarily held her breath.
The enormous wood-paneled room contained every scroll, book, manuscript, and codex of the collection. A high-tech system controlled the temperature, humidity, and lighting, and all the works were locked away in electronic glass cases.
The attorney handed Semele several keys along with the codes to deactivate the security system, so she could come and go as needed.
“Four times a year a conservator from Geneva’s Rath Museum comes to inspect the works for any damage and readjust the temperature settings,” the woman explained, giving Semele a crisp nod. “Marcel took every precaution to protect his investment.”
“Very impressive.” Semele agreed.
She glanced at Theo and gave him an encouraging smile that he didn’t reciprocate. He continued staring at her with unwavering intensity. She cleared her throat and turned away, deciding it would be best to ignore him.
*
When Semele arrived at the chateau the next day, she was filled with jittery nerves at the thought of seeing Theo again. Eager for a distraction, she spent long hours holed up in the gallery, appraising each piece and deciding its fate.
Most of the Bossard collection spanned from around A.D. 300 to the end of the Renaissance. She also cataloged twenty significant works from Classical Antiquity.
The collection included gospel books illuminated with pictures so stunning they looked like stained glass brought to life, scrolls of parchment detailing Roman battles, letters written by St. Augustine in A.D. 412, and a pristine collection of Greek manuscripts on botany, zoology, astrology, and astronomy from about A.D. 350. There was also a Bible embellished in twenty-four-karat gold from Constantinople, but the most jaw-dropping piece was an original Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye from the 1400s, the first book ever printed in the English language. Only eighteen copies existed.
Semele was already looking ahead to the work she would need to do once she got back home. This was going to be the auction of the year, if not the decade. Her firm would hold a sale in New York for the most valuable pieces, and she would create smaller collections to donate to a select list of libraries and museums. The three weeks she had in Switzerland were barely enough time to sort everything out.