The Forgotten Room(100)
But I imagined now, as I navigated through my daily routine, a little of what it must have been like, my knees nearly buckling from the weight of my own burden as I took each step. I kept remembering Danny telling me that a person got used to it. I just had to hope that he was right.
“Kate.”
My hand froze on the banister. I’d seen Cooper leave with Caroline an hour before, which was the only reason I’d left the dark privacy of Dr. Greeley’s office. Cooper was leaving today, and I didn’t want to see him, to offer him a cheerful good-bye while Caroline and Dr. Greeley looked on. I didn’t want my mask to crack and reveal my true feelings.
“Kate,” Cooper said again.
I braced myself, then turned around to face him, but nothing could prepare me for the way the skin tightened over my bones. He stood on the landing where he’d just exited the elevator, holding his hat and cane, his eyes dark and brooding, and I almost gave in then. But I forced myself to keep hold on the railing, to forbid my feet from taking a step forward.
“Have you been avoiding me?” he asked, his consonants slipping, his accent more prominent since he’d been spending time with Caroline.
“No, of course not,” I stammered. “There’s just a lot of paperwork . . .” I stopped, watching as he moved to stand directly in front of me.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m just so busy . . .”
I was interrupted by three burly orderlies approaching the large bookcase behind where Cooper and I were standing. The corner of the oversized piece of furniture had been protruding into the hallway since the first attempt to move it several weeks before. I wasn’t sure what had precipitated them being there now, but I was grateful for the interruption.
“Excuse us, Doctor,” the largest man said. “We’ve been instructed to move this piece of furniture down to the lobby.”
“It’s no problem. We were just finishing up here.”
Cooper responded by taking my elbow and moving me back toward the elevator to give the men room. He continued to hold on, as if he were afraid that I would escape, as we watched the men grapple with the bookcase and slowly begin their descent down the stairs. I watched in morbid fascination, glad they were at a hospital with readily available medical help should it be required.
While still listening to the grunts of the men, I looked up at Cooper, determined to shake his hand and give him a brisk good-bye. But his eyes were focused on something behind me, the light in his eyes so strange that I had to turn around to see what it was.
The removal of the bookcase had created a wider hallway, but it had also laid bare the wall behind it. But the wall wasn’t bare, exactly. A mural eight to ten feet wide and just as high stretched across the plaster, its brilliant colors not dimmed by time because of its protected spot. But that’s not what mesmerized me; not the exquisite artistry of the piece or even the size and scope of it or the fact that the mural had been hidden behind a piece of furniture for decades. I’ve seen this before. Yes, that’s what it was, although I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d seen it. Only that I recalled every detail, from the glimmering metal of the sword to the look of fear in the dragon’s eye.
“It’s Saint George slaying the dragon,” Cooper said, his voice almost reverential.
“Yes,” I said. At least I think I spoke aloud. We were both cautiously moving forward, oddly hesitant to approach, as if the dragon were real and could do us harm.
Cooper leaned down to where the artist had scrawled his signature. He stared at it for a long time before standing, his brows knitted together. “I don’t understand. I know this artist. The brushstrokes, the use of colors, the . . .” He fought to find the right word. “The movement,” he finished. “It’s undoubtedly his, but that’s not his signature.”
I moved to stand next to him and studied the name in the bottom right corner. “H. Pratt.” I looked up at Cooper. “Who did you think it was?”
He shook his head. “Does this look familiar to you? Do you recognize the style? It’s the same as in the sketches, isn’t it? The same artist.” He frowned at the signature. “But I know this artist, and it’s not H. Pratt.”
I studied the mural for a long time, trying to forget how familiar this particular scene was and focus instead on the artistic style of it. I frowned at the swirl of paint that showed the cerulean sky, and then down toward the way the pigmented light reflected off the dragon’s scales. My eyes widened as I remembered. “Yes,” I said, recalling all of those art exhibitions my mother had dragged me to when I was a little girl. “Augustus Ravenel.” My voice was breathless, as if holding back the two simple words.
“Exactly. Augustus Ravenel.” He paused. “My grandfather.”
“But . . .” I stopped, my own mind yawning open as I realized where I’d seen it before. “My mother had this exact mural on her bedroom wall that her mother, Olive, painted for her. I never saw it, but this is how she described it to me in such detail. It’s almost as if I had actually seen it before.” I stared at the mural, at the signature that seemed right and wrong at the same time as all the pieces in the puzzle slowly circled in my brain, each trying to slot itself into the correct space.
Our eyes met in mutual understanding. Cooper put his hand on my arm as if to anchor himself. “It would seem that Harry Pratt and Augustus Ravenel are one and the same.”