Plasma Cat

Ch. 14: Unity

The painting had been made in 1783 by a renowned Parisian painter, Jacques Pompidou. He was once considered to be the world's finest portraitist, but his name had since slipped into obscurity since this painting was the only one of his thousands of works to have survived the fires of the Revolution. It was a grand item, twelve feet wide and four feet tall. Sarah wondered how long it must have taken Pompidou to paint it. Weeks? Months? Perhaps even years.

Of course, it must have been difficult to paint such a thing without a model. The painting depicted Baron Bertrand Kowalski as a Winged Hussar at the Battle of Vienna in 1683. There was a great deal of evidence to suggest that the Baron had not only never served with the Winged Hussars, but that he had also not participated in the Battle of Vienna in any capacity whatsoever. In fact, if their family records were correct, he would have been nearly ninety years old at the time of the battle, which was concerning since he was recorded to have died at the age of sixty one.

And yet, the painting hung in the foyer, the crown jewel of her family's possessions. It's age and size alone made it valuable. No one really cared if it depicted the truth or a lie.

"So," her mother's quiet voice inquired from the staircase, "you've come back. Again."

Sarah let out a sigh. "I've forgotten something. Again."

She began climbing the stairs, purposely ignoring her mother.

"You're always welcome here," her mother said in her characteristically snide tone, "after all, this is your home. All this, your birthright. It's only a matter of time, you know."

Sarah didn't respond, she simply kept walking until she reached her old bedroom. It was filled with boxes and boxes of old belongings that she had no use for, but her parents refused to throw out. That was the problem with old families like hers, she thought to herself. Their past was so grand and awe-inspiring that it made the present seem dull and plain. And so they were stuck in the past. Who could blame them?

Behind boxes and boxes of random junk, she found her desk. And in the top drawer of the desk, she found the old watch.

"Ah," her mother remarked. She had followed her into the room without asking. She did things like that, all the time. Wandering into every corner of the house as if she were a ghost. Sarah was starting to suspect that she actually was nothing but a ghost.

As Sarah turned to leave, her mother blocked her.

"He's just down the hall," her mother began.

Sarah just sidestepped the old woman and made for the door.

"Are you really so bitter?" her mother complained. "Are you really so heartless?"

Sarah stopped. She had told herself over and over again that she wouldn't say anything, but she just couldn't help herself.

"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" she asked. "Do you really think this... this act is going to change anything? I left a long time ago, and you and him both made it clear that you couldn't care less. After all, you had Gabriel."

She turned around to face her mother. Her mother had tears in her eyes. Of course she did. So typical.

"Does anything matter to you besides your... your legacy?" Sarah demanded. "Anything at all? Can't you see it's all dead knights and soldiers and rotting books and silly, vain paintings? Because if that's the case, I'm warning you and him both, keep me out of the will. I will tear this house down and burn everything in every one of those endless storage rooms if you leave it all to me. This isn't my home, mother. It was Gabriel's. It always was. And I got out of the way just like you always wanted. So leave me alone."