The Collector's Curse

【23】Locked for a Reason

My hands trembled as I tried to single out the most likely key. In the blink of an eye, I'd rushed from the kitchen upstairs to the door, and now I was on a mission to finally sort this out. Whatever was behind this door, this mystery that called to me was about to end.

The first key was a miss, not even fitting in, and the second one refused to turn. Their metallic sound, which seemed so loud in all that silence, made me wince with worry. I was breaking Ulrik's trust, and it felt wrong. But he couldn't demand trust so early in the relationship, could he? It was something that one earned over time, and his mysterious ways had done nothing to put my doubts at ease.

When the sixth key that I tried turned, I froze. This was it. This normal-looking brass key was my way to the truth. Dismissing the gut-wrenching guilt, I completed the turn, then a second one, until the bolt opened fully.

"Just a peek," I whispered to myself. It couldn't hurt, could it? And with Yuko busy and Ulrik gone, it was my best shot at it.

After one deep breath to gather my courage, I twisted the handle and opened the door. I almost expected it to be empty, like a trial, something meant to drive me mad and test my loyalty. But the dark room illuminated on its own, probably thanks to a sensor, and it was far from empty.

In fact, it was full to the brim with paintings, sculptures, cabinets, and what looked like folders. But nothing was displayed in a proper manner; it was more of a storage room, with paintings stacked together and sculptures gathered in a corner. My eyebrows twisted with confusion, and that was when I realized how naive I'd been. There was no way I could leave it at just a peek. I had to understand why those were off-limits.

So, as I should have foreseen, I entered the room. The first thing I approached was a marble bust, and  I immediately noticed the likeliness. In the perfectly executed features carved in stone, I recognized Ulrik, or at least someone who very much resembled him. I fought the urge to graze at the smooth and polished texture, impressed by the craftsmanship and finer details. Still perplexed, I headed toward a painting that was covered by a cloth. It was a portrait in a style that reminded me of Johannes Vermeer, with old clothes from the 17th century and a background that matched. And the face painted in oils there also reminded me of Ulrik in an uncanny way.

More and more confused, I unveiled more paintings, which all represented Ulrik, either alone or surrounded by others. His beloved features were hard to miss, even if there was sometimes a beard eating away half of his face, or a wig covering his blond hair.

"What the hell," I mumbled to myself.

My first instinct was to think he hired artists to have his likeness drawn through time like this. Because as a lover of art, maybe he enjoyed the idea of being transformed into the medium himself, posing as one might have done back then and getting a replica of what an old painting might have been.

It was his wealth, after all, and I couldn't judge him for what he did with it. It was still weird, though.

But my inspection of the paintings told me they were originals. During my studies, I'd learned how to recognize an original from a counterfeit or an imitation. And while it would take some chemical tests to confirm my suspicions, those looked like the real deal, given the crackings, the discoloration of the varnish layers, and the techniques.

From what I found, they went as far as the 13th century. The drawings from then weren't as precise, and I might have never recognized Ulrik had I not known the pattern. But there he was, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and powerful build, dressed in a knight's armor.

Wholly confused, I moved on to one of the cabinets, only to retrieve an old album from it. In there, I found old pictures in period outfits. And while the paintings left room for doubts, given that they were the artists' interpretations, the pictures didn't. There he was again, clean-shaved as I knew him, or with a beard, a mustache... Exactly like in the paintings.