The Poet Prince Read Online Free PDF Page A

the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
    Like the White Queen, Maureen had learned to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast. And now, with the arrival of Destino in her life, the number was often far more than that. Maureen mused on this, laughing a little at the sculpture as she stood in admiration of it. Her life had become something to rival Alice’s most fantastic adventures. Here she was, a savvy and educated woman of the twenty-first century, about to embark upon a trip to Italy—to take lessons from a teacher who called himself Destino and who claimed to be immortal. And yet like Alice before her, she accepted this extraordinary character as an almost natural part of the strange landscape that her life had become.
    Maureen allowed herself a few more precious minutes at the sculpture before heading back toward Fifth Avenue and the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her time was limited at the Met, as she had to prepare for her book launch, so she would focus on one area of the museum and give that her full attention rather than try to see as much as possible.
    After purchasing her ticket and attaching the Met button to her collar, she made the determination that today she would focus on the medieval gallery. Her research into the grand contessa, Matilda of Tuscany, had instilled within her a new fascination for the Middle Ages. Further, her prolonged excursions to France had given her a strong appreciation of Gothic art and architecture.
    It was a sublime choice. She took her time, really giving each piece its due. She was particularly taken by the extraordinary wooden sculptures from Germany with their unequaled craftsmanship and delicacy. A number of the treasures reminded her of the life-changing experiences that had shaped her destiny while in France. Maureen sighed deeply her contentment, taking in the beauty of it all and enjoying the brief respite that art brought to her life.
    As she entered the second large gallery, dominated by an enormous Gothic choir screen, something drew her attention to the far right of the room. While most of the artwork in this gallery was sculpture, one painting was displayed at the far right from the corridor entrance. Moving to get a closer look, Maureen gasped as she found herself standing, transfixed, before the most beautiful life-sized portrait of Mary Magdalene she had ever seen.
    Notre Dame.
Our Lady.
My
Lady. For Maureen, there was no escaping her. Not now, not ever.
    Her eyes welled with tears, as they often did when confronted with a beautiful image of this extraordinary woman who had become her muse and master. As Maureen stood eye to eye with her, she realized quickly that this was no ordinary religious icon. This Magdalene sat enthroned, majestically beautiful in her crimson robe and flowing red-gold hair. In one hand she held the alabaster jar with which she was said to have anointed Jesus; the other, cradled in her lap, held a crucifix. She was surrounded by angels, trumpeting her glory. Moving closer, Maureen bent her knees to better view the lower portion of the painting. Kneeling at the Magdalene’s feet were four men in pristine white robes. Hoods covered their heads completely, with only the narrowest slits where the eyes should be. There was something cultish and bizarre about their appearance. The kneeling figures were strange characters at best, sinister at worst.
    Maureen could feel her heart racing and that strange sensation of heat around her temples that she had come to recognize when something pricked at her subconscious, something that should not and could not be ignored. This painting was important. Terribly important. She scanned her memory for any mention of this work in her research,but none came. While writing her books she had become familiar with dozens of paintings of Mary Magdalene in the world’s