The Collector of Dying Breaths by M. J. Rose Page A

grand fireplace. Two smaller ones on either side of the couch. Four van Gogh drawings of flowers, graphite on paper under glass, graced the north wall. One Aubusson rug covered the parquet floor under the couch; another Aubusson lay under the grand Bösendorfer piano near the windows. Scattered across its ebony surface were six Fabergé enamel frames set with semiprecious and precious stones. The photographs inside were all of a young girl with an older man. Jac guessed it was Melinoe with her father.
    Alexander Cypros had been a renowned collector, and clearly his daughter had not only inherited his possessions but also his passions. A fashion icon, she was often on the international best-dressed lists and referred to as an eccentric for her outrageous costumes. Nothing was too outré or bizarre for Melinoe’s taste. When she was young, she’d been one of Yves Saint Laurent’s muses. She started more trends than she followed.
    Now, being here, surrounded by the spoils of her fabulous fortune, Jac was even less surprised that Melinoe had charmed Robbie. He appreciated beauty, and clearly so did this collector. It wasn’t the value of these objects that struck Jac, but rather how exquisite each and every one was. Not just another drawing, but one that brought out the very essence of what made van Gogh such a master—and to have several of such quality. It was astonishing.
    “We didn’t have to do much work here. This floor—the main rooms—had been altered the least over the centuries,” Serge said.
    As he led her through a dining room, another drawing room, down hallways, she was in awe of all she saw. It was like being in a small museum. At the same time it was exhausting. Jac’s eyes were too full. She couldn’t take in the nuances of the pieces any longer.
    They had reached the kitchen area.
    “This is the only part of the house where Melinoe and I argued. She wanted it taken back to a true fifteenth-century kitchen. It would have been quite a conversation piece, but cooking here would have tried any chef. Modernism won. But there are several details I kept.”
    The floor’s ancient marble tiles had been repaired but showed their age. The beams were scarred with dark burn marks and wormholes. The walls were made of thick plaster and crackled like a Renaissance oil painting.
    “We’ve used some unusual methods to bring the room back to what it was, and then sealed it that way to prevent further destruction while allowing the look of it to stay,” Serge explained.
    “I think it’s wonderful.”
    “Do you like to cook?”
    “Not much, actually.” She laughed. “But something about this kitchen is very inviting.”
    “Your brother said the same thing.”
    She felt a fresh stab of missing Robbie. “He loved to cook,” she said.
    Serge nodded. “I know. He cooked for us several times. One evening Melinoe had a grand fete, and Robbie made us an amazing Moroccan tagine. He also made some French classics that were better than I’ve ever had in a restaurant.”
    “He made his onion soup, then?” Jac asked.
    “Yes!”
    “It’s our great-grandmother’s recipe. We have a handwritten book of them. It wasn’t the most precise recipe, but it was always perfect.” She recited it. “ ‘One onion for every person. One knob of butter for every onion. Caramelize the onions. Then add one ladle of veal stock and one of white wine for every person and let it cook while you take care of the bread.’ ”
    Serge laughed. “As long as you know what a knob of butter is, you’re fine.”
    “No one ever did quite know. But Robbie was so good with intuiting measurements. It showed in his perfumes as well, of course.” Jac had wandered to the windows and looked out.
    “That’s our vegetable garden,” Serge said. “With all this land, the wildlife, the sheep and the barn, the house is fairly self-sufficient.”
    She turned around and noticed a door in the corner of the room. There was nothing special about it.