the other side of the living room. While she waited for him to return, she wandered about, sipping her wine. It was cool and delicious and she let the taste linger on her tongue.
She first went over to his bookshelf, which encompassed an entire wall. His interests appeared to be wide-ranging. Music, science, history, philosophy, art. He owned books on every subject imaginable.
One shelf, however, was full of thick, leather-bound books. She leaned closer as she read the titles.
Tyrocinium Chymicum by John Beguinus. Cheiragogia Heliana: A Manuduction To the Philosopher's Magical Gold by Raphael Iconius Eglinus. The Cure of Old Age, and Preservation of Youth by Roger Bacon, A Franciscan Friar. Fascilicus Chemicus by Arthur Dee.
She took one of the books off the shelf and read the front piece. Medicina instaurata , or A Brief Account of the True Grounds and Principles of the Art of Physick. With the Insufficiency of the Vulgar way of Preparing Medicines, and the Excellency of such as are made by Chymical Operation by Edward Bolnest.
She paged through the book but none of what she read made any sense. She put it back on the shelf and wandered over to the paintings on another wall. Like Tristan's books, they reflected a variety of tastes, eras and styles, including Mannerism, Neo-classicism, and Primitivism. She recognized most of them from her brief time in college studying art history. They weren’t originals, of course, but nicely reproduced prints. Her mind ticked off the artist and the titles of the works.
Agnolo Bronzino’s An Allegory of Cupid with Venus . Jacques-Louis David’s The Oath of the Horatti . Pablo Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
Her eyes widened when they lit on the next painting. The last time she had seen it was in a college textbook. Even then, it had intrigued and fascinated her. But seeing it here now, in Tristan’s condo, sent a tingle of pleasure through her.
It was Max Ernst’s Attirement of the Bride .
She moved closer to the painting. The background was comprised of classical architecture. But Ernst had undermined the classicism in the painting by placing within its setting bizarre, erotic images.
A naked woman, masked and wearing a long, thick cloak of red feathers was escorted to her wedding by a green-winged birdman. It was one of her favorite paintings though she had to admit it disturbed her as much as it fascinated her.
She stared at it for a long moment, trying to fathom what kind of man would own such a painting. There was more to Tristan Drake, she realized, than met the eye. She looked around, wondering if he had any shunga prints displayed but didn’t see any.
She moved on, taking sips from her glass of wine. She was starting to feel quite nice, her body warming, her nervousness dissolving. She stopped in front of the wall upon which the weapons were displayed. She didn’t know much about weaponry but all of them seemed to be from times long past.
There were a few swords of varying lengths, most of which had ornately designed pommels and grips. Her gaze lighted on an elegant rapier with finely wrought metalwork on its cup-hilt. She couldn’t help imagining Tristan with his dashing good looks wielding such a beautiful weapon in defense of a lady. As he’d done that night at the club.
A Japanese samurai sword in a gold-lacquered scabbard dominated the display. Alongside it hung two flintlock pistols. The rest of the weapons also appeared to be not only from centuries past but also from other cultures.
There was nothing strange about collecting ancient weapons, but as she stared at them she noted that although they were obviously well cared for, they also looked used. She didn’t think they were replicas and, if they weren’t, they had to have cost a pretty penny. Her mother was into antiques and it was quite an expensive hobby.
She finally wandered over to the piano. The sheet music on it was a jazz composition by someone named Art Tatum. She stared at the
She first went over to his bookshelf, which encompassed an entire wall. His interests appeared to be wide-ranging. Music, science, history, philosophy, art. He owned books on every subject imaginable.
One shelf, however, was full of thick, leather-bound books. She leaned closer as she read the titles.
Tyrocinium Chymicum by John Beguinus. Cheiragogia Heliana: A Manuduction To the Philosopher's Magical Gold by Raphael Iconius Eglinus. The Cure of Old Age, and Preservation of Youth by Roger Bacon, A Franciscan Friar. Fascilicus Chemicus by Arthur Dee.
She took one of the books off the shelf and read the front piece. Medicina instaurata , or A Brief Account of the True Grounds and Principles of the Art of Physick. With the Insufficiency of the Vulgar way of Preparing Medicines, and the Excellency of such as are made by Chymical Operation by Edward Bolnest.
She paged through the book but none of what she read made any sense. She put it back on the shelf and wandered over to the paintings on another wall. Like Tristan's books, they reflected a variety of tastes, eras and styles, including Mannerism, Neo-classicism, and Primitivism. She recognized most of them from her brief time in college studying art history. They weren’t originals, of course, but nicely reproduced prints. Her mind ticked off the artist and the titles of the works.
Agnolo Bronzino’s An Allegory of Cupid with Venus . Jacques-Louis David’s The Oath of the Horatti . Pablo Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
Her eyes widened when they lit on the next painting. The last time she had seen it was in a college textbook. Even then, it had intrigued and fascinated her. But seeing it here now, in Tristan’s condo, sent a tingle of pleasure through her.
It was Max Ernst’s Attirement of the Bride .
She moved closer to the painting. The background was comprised of classical architecture. But Ernst had undermined the classicism in the painting by placing within its setting bizarre, erotic images.
A naked woman, masked and wearing a long, thick cloak of red feathers was escorted to her wedding by a green-winged birdman. It was one of her favorite paintings though she had to admit it disturbed her as much as it fascinated her.
She stared at it for a long moment, trying to fathom what kind of man would own such a painting. There was more to Tristan Drake, she realized, than met the eye. She looked around, wondering if he had any shunga prints displayed but didn’t see any.
She moved on, taking sips from her glass of wine. She was starting to feel quite nice, her body warming, her nervousness dissolving. She stopped in front of the wall upon which the weapons were displayed. She didn’t know much about weaponry but all of them seemed to be from times long past.
There were a few swords of varying lengths, most of which had ornately designed pommels and grips. Her gaze lighted on an elegant rapier with finely wrought metalwork on its cup-hilt. She couldn’t help imagining Tristan with his dashing good looks wielding such a beautiful weapon in defense of a lady. As he’d done that night at the club.
A Japanese samurai sword in a gold-lacquered scabbard dominated the display. Alongside it hung two flintlock pistols. The rest of the weapons also appeared to be not only from centuries past but also from other cultures.
There was nothing strange about collecting ancient weapons, but as she stared at them she noted that although they were obviously well cared for, they also looked used. She didn’t think they were replicas and, if they weren’t, they had to have cost a pretty penny. Her mother was into antiques and it was quite an expensive hobby.
She finally wandered over to the piano. The sheet music on it was a jazz composition by someone named Art Tatum. She stared at the
Similar Books
