By the time the Peugeot made its way out of the many boroughs and districts that made-up London, Vera had failed to realize the passing of the time until the lack of buildings became magnifying, so much so that there were no longer clusters of villages, and now, a blanket of pure white snow created a veil of serenity. While her thoughts of the von Goethe’s kept her primarily occupied, it was when she realized that Sam, Shay and her were now alone in the English countryside that the internal battle of the problem with Shay. She recalled the stiffness in his words, and while her opium-sourced headache had readily subsided, it still felt as if there were a heavy pressure behind her eyes, and up to her forehead. All she wanted was to retreat to the comfort of her bed, and find peace. Deep down, in her heart, she knew that she had to say something to Shay, and she didn’t care if her brother was present. She would apologize to him later. Breaking the silence, as Sam sat alone on the bench in the front of the French car, Shay and Vera shared the back bench.

“Shay…” Vera began, finding immediate regret filling her mind as she spoke his name, regret at breaking the silence that is. As she gazed ahead at the stretch of road before them, Vera noticed Sam’s eyes flickering back at her at the sound of her voice in the rear-view mirror. “I wanted to apologize to you. When Sam and I had that fight, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I suppose you could say, that I was a bit selfish, and that you didn’t deserve the heat of my anger.” Twisting in her seat, she tipped her head to the side as her eyes tried to search his face for any sign of emotion. “I’m terribly sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.” When she finished speaking, her teeth sank into the flesh of her bottom lip as she pursed them together in angst. Unexpectedly, Vera reached her hand for Shay’s, and with an affectionate caress, attempted to convey unspoken words, that she still held the same feelings for him. Then, with a flick of her eyes, she made certain that Sam kept his focus on the snow-covered road in front of the car, and leaned over to Shay, dropping her voice low to a whisper so that only he could hear.

“I still love you.”

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[i]1045 February 2nd, 1920 – Von Goethe Manor – Nottingham, England[/i]

	Driving north of London, and slightly to the north-east, the rolling hills of England revealed the sleepy village of Nottingham. In comparison to London, Nottingham’s population was significantly smaller, one that Vera estimated to be between three to four-thousand. Outside the windows of the Peugeot, she took note of the lack of civilian life. The early February snow-fall had come down in thick swaths, measuring around half a meter on the ground in some snow drifts. While her gaze remained fixed on the passing scenery, a wave of familiar nostalgia washed over her. This drive reminded her of the railway to London from Liverpool. A twinge of sadness made her yearn to see the comforting face of her mother, and her mind wandered back to her yester years as a child.

“Make certain that you have your facts straight, eh? You’re Conway and Abigale O’Doyle, meeting Albert and Clara von Goethe for a friendly luncheon. Herr Goethe is a Monet enthusiast, and Frau Goethe is a bit on the nosy side, so be careful what you say around her. Vera, no, I’ll call you Abigale now to get into the swing of things. Abigale, you are a poet, and a painter. And you Conway, you’re an investor in British archeological expeditions in Egypt and Persia, as well as an admirer of Monet. Remember, the objective is to locate the Monet painting for Mr. Tindall. We’ll deal with pilfering the painting later. As for me, if they ask, my name is Bernard Rivers, you’re recently hired chauffeur. Don’t forget that you told them you purchased a new home on the outskirts of Liverpool. Am I missing anything else?” Sam inquired, breaking the lengthy silence between the three of them. 

“I think you remembered everything, Sam.” She said, nodding her head in agreement. 

“Good. Try to be non-conspicuous as possible.” He advised. For some reason, this vaguely reminded him of the war, perhaps it was the notion that anything could go wrong, and from his experience, would go wrong. 

	Another eight kilometers, and the sight of the von Goethe manor appeared like a beacon in the monotony of the snow. A lengthy cobblestone road appeared as Sam turned off the main road, the Peugeot rumbling towards the looming, red-brick manor. Even now, from a distance, dark grey tendrils of smoke rose from the chimney’s. Not before long, a wrought iron gate, surrounded by impenetrable snow-covered boxwood hedges appeared. Behind the gate, in a respectable brick shack, sat the gatehouse. As Sam climbed out of the cab of the car, he left the engine running. As luck would have it, or rather, that the von Goethe’s were indeed expecting the O’Doyle’s, a man in a grey wool coat emerged from the gatehouse, and approached the gate. From the back seat of the car, Vera could distinguish him to be an older gentleman, for he had a greying mustache, and the skin on his face sagged with apparent age, she guessed him to be no older than forty or fifty at the most.

“What be yer business ‘ere?” 

“Hullo good sir!” Sam called back, flashing a friendly smile, “I have with me, Mr. and Mrs. Conway O’Doyle. They’ve come to call on the Herr and Frau for their appointed luncheon today! Will yeh let us pass?” Sam quickly imitated the man’s accent in hopes to gain his favor.

“Aye! O’course my lad! Let me ‘andle the gate ‘ere right quick. They were expectin’ them, told me to be on the look-out for yer lot.” As he spoke, the gatekeeper fumbled with the lock securing the gate, until a pleasant click could be heard. There, he pulled at the gate and secured both doors of the gate. Sam had climbed back into the cab of the Peugeot, and waited for the gatekeeper. Shortly after, he waved the car forward, only to stop them before they could carry on.

“Nah then, follow this ‘ere road, ‘twill take ye right up to the main house. Ye may park right outside the door, so the missus won’t ‘ave to dirty ‘er dress with all o’ this snow.” Then, the gatekeeper waved them on through, and the Peugeot rumbled on past him. Turning in her seat, Vera stole a glance at the gatekeeper, watching him as he locked the gate in place again. Silently, she swore inwards, that gate would prove to make it difficult to smuggle the painting out after all. Or so she thought.