Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

told it’s a very old name.” As she spoke, her eyes took in the extraordinary etchings, paintings, armor, and framed pages from illuminated manuscripts that lined the hallway. They were more striking than even the Louis XV rug whose plush length softened the stone floor. “According to family legend, the first girl born in every generation is given Serena as part of her name. It’s been that way since the twelfth century, one Serena per generation.”
    “Dammit, Paul, where is she?” demanded a rusty, irritated voice. “I could die before I—”
    “We’re in the hall,” Carson cut in quickly. Then he said softly to Serena, “I’ll apologize in advance for Mr. Warrick. He is rude, arrogant, and brilliant.”
    “I’ll try to concentrate on the last part.”
    “We all do,” he said ironically. “Some days it’s easier than others. This way.”
    Serena didn’t know if the space she entered was officially called a “great room,” but it should have been. French and Italian antiques lined the walls and made graceful conversational groupings that any museum would have been proud to own. The Warricks seemed to have a special fondness for the ornate. Ormolu decorated or held everything that could support its gilded splendor. She was certain that the porcelain thus displayed was the best of Sèvres, the crystal was hand carved, and the furniture was signed by the master craftsmen of their times.
    Though it wasn’t Serena’s style, she smiled at the luxurious result and admired the painstaking artistry that went into each piece.
    Then she saw the medieval French tapestry hanging on the far wall and all thought of furnishings vanished. The complexity of the hanging could only be fully understood by another weaver: the delicate weft, the intricacy of the pattern, the hachure technique of blending colors so that there appeared to be many more than the medieval palette of two hundred, the gold and silver threads among the fine wool, the thousands of hours of work, and the keen eye that first imagined and then taught others the design. Unicorn and aristocratically dressed maiden, knights arrayed for battle, colorful tents where favored members of the court rested after a picnic of wine and cheese and meats; the tableau was a slice of time that had survived to cross the years into the twenty-first century.
    The tapestry’s humanity cried out to Serena. Aristocrat or peasant, knight or knave, all people hungered for food and rest and beauty. The weaving both described and understood the imperfections of human nature and the fleeting perfection of a certain moment in time.
    Motionless, she simply absorbed the faded yet extraordinary tapestry that had been woven and embroidered by nameless workers so many centuries ago. Silently she saluted the long-dead men and women who had created such beauty from nothing but a handful of threads.
    “—stand there like a sheep caught in headlights. Bring that portfolio to me!”
    Belatedly Serena realized that there were people in the room. They were all but hidden by the magnificent furnishings.
    “Father,” a woman’s voice said wearily, warily, “there’s no need to be that rude. Not everyone is used to living with antiques that once graced the castles of French and Italian kings.”
    “And queens,” Serena said, looking back to the far wall. “That’s a woman’s tapestry. Extraordinary. Except in the Louvre, I’ve never seen anything to touch it.” Reluctantly she turned her attention from the enthralling woven portrait of a time long lost. “I’m Serena Charters.”
    “Of course you are,” the old man retorted. He was thin, quick, had wispy white hair and hands that looked delicate despite their enlarged knuckles. He seemed more like a vigorous seventy than nearly one hundred. “Anyone else wouldn’t have been allowed past the front gate.”
    “This is my father, Mr. Warrick.” The woman was like her voice: of medium coloring except for her skillfully