She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the building from this angle. She always arrived by car, sweeping up the boulevard and being deposited directly outside. It seemed strange from this perspective. A shiver ran down her spine. She stepped forward to cross the street and then hesitated. She’d go to the hotel and grab a coffee before she went inside.
As she entered the hotel a slither of unease ran down her spine. She stopped for a moment and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She used to come here often and the staff greeted her with their usual warmth. She shrugged. She must be imagining things.
She continued on her way to the rear of the hotel where there was a small but exclusive café. After she placed her order she looked around, suddenly aware of the different accents and languages. In this quarter of Katajanokka, the pattern of industry had continued from the old days with a polyglot of import and export industries with nations from around the world. The Warehouse had been at the center of all this industry and so she was used to conversations being carried on around her in different languages and had become skilled in a few of them. But Russian, she’d never learned beyond the basics. And it was Russian she could hear now.
She turned and glanced at the group of men who were speaking in a low murmur. Even if she could understand Russian they were too far away for her to hear. The man in the group who was obviously in charge, sat back quietly as he listened to the other two men talk, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at her.
She turned away instantly. She was used to men looking at her, but not like that. There was no admiration in his eyes—they were too cold but still intent. He looked… dangerous. The word popped into her mind and sent a chill down her spine. She took the coffee and cake and, without turning back, walked quickly through the hotel and back into the sunshine.
She walked briskly to her building, and around the back, using the old key to unlock the black metal grille, before raising it and punching the security code into the keypad. The grille and key were effective but the warehouse also had state of the art security.
She closed the door firmly behind her and rolled her shoulders which she suddenly discovered were tense. She looked around the showroom. She felt inclined to stay there in the safety of the displays and computers, let the beautiful surroundings bathe over her like a warm balm. But that wasn’t what she was here for.
Instead she walked to the rear of the showroom and up the old staircase that led to her mother’s room. The morning sun slanted through the high arched windows and criss-crossed over the dark jewel-like colors of the rugs that were strewn over the waxed floor boards. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm air. Her mother had always been able to create a home from a building and her loyal staff had changed very little in the ten years she’d been gone.
She glanced toward the doors at the rear of the studio. They were firmly closed. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked around the room, picking up pieces, examining them and remembering why they had been special to her mother, before placing them carefully back where she’d found them. She could feel something of her mother there, but not in a menacing way anymore. She didn’t know what had changed, but something had. Something in her had changed, she suddenly realized.
It was no longer solely her mother’s studio, it was now also hers. She felt she shared it with her mother. She might never fully come to terms with her mother’s death but, by working on the same pieces, she’d found some kind of acceptance for what had happened. She stood by the door, looking around, waiting for the familiar feelings to overwhelm her. But they didn’t come. They were there, she knew, still lurking at the back of her mind, but she could control them, they didn’t swamp her like they had before.
She looked across to the window seat but she wasn’t tempted to retreat there like she’d always done. This time she walked over to the plan chest that stood behind her mother’s desk and rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for. She withdrew the painting and placed it on the desk and smiled. Then she took the carefully folded sketch she’d tucked into her jacket pocket and smoothed it out on top of the painting. She’d gotten it right. She’d remembered every detail.
With her finger she traced around the lines of the joined initials of her mother’s and her name, entwined together. Her mother had been working on the design before she’d separated from her father. A kielo—lily of the valley—the Finnish national flower which her father had bought her mother every day until they’d grown apart. Stylistically it was simple—the delicate cluster of white blossoms shaped like tiny bells wrought from platinum and gold, complementing and highlighting the diamonds Taina had chosen for it.