by Alex P. Berg
Shay. Why hadn’t we stuck together? We knew there’d been a killer on the loose, or at least we’d suspected as much, yet we still split up. I cursed myself for such stupidity, but I stopped short of giving myself a proper thrashing. After all, how many times had I gone and done my own thing and emerged unscathed? Shay, too. She was strong, intelligent, independent. She didn’t need me constantly hovering over her shoulder. As detectives, we accepted a certain measure of risk as an inherent part of our jobs. Besides, by having split up prior to Angela’s attack, it ensured one of us was still in the real world, where Shay undoubtedly was kicking ass and taking names as she figured out what had happened to me. I’d wager Rodgers and Quinto were on the prowl by now, too, assuming the drug-dealing kid hadn’t backed out of his promise.
Still, I couldn’t count on outside help getting me out of my current mess. Detectives hadn’t saved Nell.
I knuckled my forehead, thinking of everything the youngest Vanderfeller had told me about Angela’s visits, specifically her exits. According to her, Angela hadn’t done anything special when leaving. Rather, the paintings—there was more than one portal to the outside, I’d learned—had responded to her. She’d simply walked right up to them, the colorful haze parting around her, and stepped through to the outside. The solid cloud hadn’t closed around her immediately, so she theorized perhaps Angela had the power to carry others with her through the portal, but fat lot of good that would do me.
As adamant as Nell was, though, I couldn’t convince myself she was right, and not simply because I didn’t want her to be. If Angela was the only one who could traverse the portals, she must’ve been the one to transport Clarice’s corpse here, so at the very least she was a co-conspirator in her mother’s murder, but why? What was her motive? I didn’t know her well, if at all, but so far the evidence Shay and I’d gathered didn’t point in Angela’s direction. Money, love, and power, those were the traditional motives for murder. From what I’d gathered of Angela, she seemed thoroughly loveless, except perhaps for her obsession with her younger sister, and in the event of her parents’ deaths, she’d be last in line for the inheritance. So what could’ve driven her to kill?
And there was another oddity. The fact that Nell had found the body on her own. According to Nell, Angela came to the art world only to visit her. Dumping a body here would signal a substantial change in behavior for Angela, especially because she hadn’t bothered to tell Nell she’d done so. Wouldn’t she know Nell would find her mother’s corpse? Wouldn’t a sister who supposedly cared for the other let her know about the murder, even if the reasoning and explanation behind it was a fabrication?
No. Someone else had done it. Someone else had exited the art world. I just had to figure out how.
The pencil among my fingers twirled and spun, twirled and spun, keeping my hand busy. Between it and Sydney’s marble globe, I felt I might be developing a tactile obsession.
I froze, the pencil sticking between my middle and ring fingers. I stared at it. I wasn’t the only one who liked to twirl things between my digits.
A crazy idea coalesced in my mind. Shay might disagree with me, but then again, according to her, this entire world shouldn’t exist. Perhaps a dose of the impossible was just what I needed to get out.
I rose to my feet, my neck giving me a twinge, and headed back up the path. I hadn’t specifically given Nell instructions about what to do while I experimented with the portal, but her curiosity had kept her close. I found her hidden among a patch of reeds at the side of the pond, dipping her feet into the water and idly kicking them back and forth.
“Nell,” I said, my pencil still in hand. “Mind if I ask another question?”
She eyed the ripples streaming from her feet. “I suppose.”
“The paintings in this world. Not the portals to the outside, but the ones that transport you to different parts within. You said Angela came here, created them?”
Nell glanced up. “Oh, absolutely. There were only a few portals at first. The manor, the grounds. But Angela would always come back, create more and more. More spaces, more paintings, more portals. To keep me happy. To help me get around.”
“And how does she create the in-world portals? The paintings?”
Nell laughed, music to ears that sorely needed it. “You’re silly. She painted them, of course.”
I felt my heart rate rise. “How did she do that?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did she paint those pieces? With what?”
Nell’s laugh faded, and her brows drew together. “Uh…with a brush? And paint?”
“With her brush.”
“Whose else would she use?”
A smile crept onto my face. “Excellent. Excellent…”
Nell’s eyes narrowed. “Are you thinking you can paint your way out of here, Mr. Daggers? Because Angela is the only one who can do that. Unless you’re also a painter. Are you a painter, Mr. Daggers?”
I shook my head. “No, but that’s not what’s on my mind. I do have one more favor to ask, though. Could you take me on a tour of the portals that lead to and fro in this world? I have somewhere I’d like to go, and I’m not quite sure how to get there.”
34
I’m glad I asked Nell for directions. As I’d already suspected based on the white nothingness that hovered at the horizon and outside the windows inside the manor, one couldn’t travel freely between places as one could in the real world. Take, for example, the portal at the edge of the woods that led to Clarice’s body. It wasn’t merely a shortcut, but rather a portal to a new world, a new universe formed and contained within a medium of canvas and pigmented oils. One more turn down a hallway and the corridor itself faded to white, just as the horizon of the estate did. In fact, each world stretched only to the edge of the painting that governed it, for each world was centered around one of Angela’s works, each of them surrounded by the same whirling mess of colors that shielded the painting through which I’d entered. The landscapes stretched farther than the domestic paintings, but they all had their limits, and even when the portraits depicted the same scenes, they led to separate worlds.
Without Nell’s guidance, I would’ve been lost by my second jump through a frame, but I didn’t use her simply as a living trail of crumbs. I sought something specific.
“Here you go,” she said, waving her hand toward another of the within-world paintings. “This is the only way in or out of this one. Kind of hard to get to, isn’t it?”
I tried not to let my heart soar, but seeing Angela’s studio staring back at me from within the intricately-wrought frame gave me a boost of hope. I stepped forward, grabbed its edges, and climbed through.
My feet touched lightly on the studio floor. Like every other one of her creations, the workshop had been artfully crafted, resembling the real thing exactly except for the one spot where the illusion couldn’t extend. An endless sea of white had replaced the wall where the entrance to the room should’ve been, a large eight by ten foot painting hanging in the void and surrounded by a thick fog of swirling colors and translucent air. Like the other portals I’d come across, I assumed this one also showed a portrait of the manor from our viewpoint, but I couldn’t figure out of where. The picture was a light brown blob flecked with darker splotches and a line like a bell curve that dipped and rose again from one side to the other.
I switched my attention to the studio center where another large in-progress painting stood upon an easel. It depicted the Aldermont as seen from the front lawn, but only the most general of strokes had thus far been applied. Only because of its condition was I certain it wasn’t another portal. Apparently in this magical fabricated universe, paintings could be portals to the outside world, portals to further within, or regular paintings that did nothing more than provide an outlet for wayward glances. A stool stood in front of the painting, a palette full of paints resting upon it, but nothing rested upon it in turn.
I
cursed before recalling Nell was right behind me. Even if her real age was closer to fourteen than her perceived seven, that didn’t make it acceptable for me to start impersonating a sailor. Besides, just because the object of my desires wasn’t lying in plain sight didn’t mean it wasn’t squirreled away somewhere. It would have to be a spare, after all. Better to keep it safe, but where?
I moved to the nearest stack of paintings and started flipping through them. Perhaps it would be hidden between them, discarded on the floor and covered with a thin layer of dust.
“Mr. Daggers?”
I glanced back. Nell had followed me. I got the feeling that to her I was nothing more than a curiosity, like a dwarf who’d traveled to a remote dark elf jungle settlement and now suffered the snickers and giggles of elf children who pulled on his beard and spoke in whispers about his height. “Yes?”
“What are you looking for?”
“A talisman.”
“What’s that?”
“Like a charm, or a lucky bracelet. An object of power.”
“Oh… Why?”
I settled the pile of artwork back against the wall. “Because it might be my ticket out of here.”
“Are all police investigators as stubborn as you?”
“Only about half of them. The other half get pushed around by guys like me.”
I chewed on my lip. It wouldn’t be on the floor. That would be careless. Too easy for it to get lost. In a safe maybe? Or locked away in a desk?
I moved further into the studio, skirting more piles of canvasses stretched over frames. The sheer size and quantity of the works made my problem collecting mystery novels seem more manageable.
I reached the back wall and bent over, peering behind another angled stack. The top edge of the backmost work hovered off the wall, hinting at an interloper underneath.
“Aha!” I put my shoulder into the pile of paintings and shoved them to the side, revealing a faded cabinet, about waist high and covered with stains. Its surface bristled with bottles of paint of every color, their hues merging at the edges to become a muddled swamp not unlike the magical barrier preventing my exit from the dream world.
I grasped the top most drawer and pulled. Nothing there but glue and an assortment of colored chalks.
I heard Nell behind me again. “What if you can’t find your talisman, Mr. Daggers?”
“I’ll find it.” The second drawer had a collection of colored pencils, fountain pens, and bottles of ink inside.
“But what if you can’t?”
I pulled on the last drawer, but it didn’t budge. A small keyhole peeked from underneath the handle. “Then I’ll keep looking.” I tugged again, to no avail.
“But what if you keep looking and you never find it, ever, because its nowhere to be found, because I’m right?”
“Look, I’m going to find it, okay!”
I yanked on the drawer a third time. The entire face came off in my hand with a snap, almost sending me to the floor. I steadied myself on the edge of the cabinet and dumped the liberated wooden plank on the floor. Dust tickled my nose as I peered into the hole. Something gleamed within.
I reached in and pulled it out. A perfect replica of Angela’s dragon brush, complete with brightly stained bristles pouring from the creature’s mouth.
I blinked and stared. “I found it. I actually found it.”
“That’s a talisman?” said Nell. “Looks like Angela’s brush to me.”
The wood felt cool to the touch, the scales carved into its sides smoothed from wear. I didn’t suffer a sudden rush of power from holding it, but hadn’t thought I would. “It is a brush. And a talisman. I hope, anyway.”
Nell’s brow furrowed. “I thought you said you weren’t going to try to paint your way back to the other side.”
“I’m not, but that doesn’t mean the brush isn’t important. Think about it. You said Angela uses this brush, or the real world equivalent, to draw the portals within this world. Clearly, it’s some combination of the brush’s power and Angela’s own that provides that magical spark, the ability for creation. But intrinsic power isn’t needed to enter the world. You proved that, as did I when I entered, not to mention someone else if my theories about your mother are correct. You and I may be here, but they aren’t. They used something to let themselves in and out. The brush.
“Think about it. If the brush weren’t important, why would Angela hide a duplicate? And in a hard to find spot in the hardest to reach room in all the within-world? Because she wanted to make sure she’d have a spare in the event she somehow fell inside without bringing her brush with her. She always brought it, you told me. Always.”
Nell shook her head, as if disappointed. “You can’t leave, Mr. Daggers. What you see is home.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I skirted the young girl and headed to the center of the studio, the dragon brush firmly in hand. The painting hovered at the far end, depicting an unknown portion of the real world and surrounded by a slowly swirling mass of thickened air dotted with dark hues.
I tightened my grip on the brush, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
The air parted in front of me, like water rolling off the deck of a ship. I gasped. I stuck out a hand, and the fog fell back further, reeling from my touch as if I were a leper.
I turned, my voice giddy. “Nell! It works! Look!”
The youngest Vanderfeller stood near the easel, shrinking back toward one of the passages between the stacked art. Her eyes had widened and her smile disappeared. She glanced at me with terror and shook her head, quickly, vigorously, no.
“But Nell, look! The path is opening. We can leave. You can leave. After seven years, you can finally return.”
Again, she shook her head, sinking among the shadows.
“Nell… You have family out there. Family who cares about you. You can’t stay here forever.” I took a step toward her.
She cut loose with a terrified cry. “No! Don’t. Leave, if you want. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s been seven years, but if it has, why can’t I stay another seven? A hundred? Why not forever? This is my home, Mr. Daggers. Don’t take it from me. Don’t pull me away. I beg of you, please.”
I paused, my heart breaking. Nell had never elaborated on why she’d entered the art world or why Angela had put her there, but I’d developed some theories. Painful theories. Why else would she rather stay, alone, trapped in time, instead of head back to a world where people lived and laughed and loved?
“I won’t force you, Nell. Not now. But I will be back. First for your mother, and then hopefully for you.”
Nell shuddered at that last part, but what else could I promise? My commitment to justice was absolute, and a seven-year-old girl’s fear wouldn’t stop me from righting a wrong.
I turned to the hovering painting and crossed the remaining distance with a few determined strides. As I reached it, the painting came into focus. Rather than a dark, stained surface, it was the back of another painting, with the curved line I’d seen a hanging wire.
I reached out and touched it. The wire felt cool, hard, and decidedly real.
With the dragon brush still in hand, I leaned forward, pushed on the center of the painting, and fell.
35
Canvas pressed against my hand, and I felt a pop, though without the associated wetness or nausea from my first ride through the Art-o-Whirl. I stumbled, falling to the ground as pieces of artwork clattered to the floor around me. With all the grace of a ballerina amputee, I landed on my backside in a pile of paintings, my bottom stretching the canvas of the work beneath me. Above me, dark beams crisscrossed to and fro, held up by thick columns of brick that rose like centenarian trees.
The attic. I was back in the garret, amidst the stacks of paintings that had been ejected from Angela’s studio for lack of space.
I blinked, adjusting to the light, of which there seemed to be precious little. The scale
d surface of the dragon brush bit into my hand. I loosened my grip and tucked the talisman into my coat pocket next to Daisy for safekeeping, then turned my attention to getting vertical. I swung my arm to gain momentum, heaved myself off the painting, and rose to my feet. Turning, I found one of the attic windows. Through it, I spotted a glimmer of deep blues and violets alongside a dim burst of orangey red.
Was it dusk already? Had I spent half a day inside the art world? If that were the case, wouldn’t my stomach have let me know? I’d skipped breakfast, yet I didn’t feel hungry in the least. Of course, Nell hadn’t aged a day, so the fact that my stomach hadn’t protested perhaps wasn’t the oddest part of the experience.
I lifted the scattered paintings more or less back into place before heading to the nearest exit. There, I paused long enough to slap my forehead and groan. Of course the hatch downstairs was still closed and latched. Why wouldn’t it be?
I sighed. From the hatch, I worked my way to the nearest window. There, I climbed back out and proceeded to reenact my daring escape from earlier. Despite my previous roof traversal experience, the nighttime attempt involved substantially more bladder clenching. For one thing, although the darkness of night did wonders to obscure the length of the drop awaiting me should I fall, it did nothing to assuage my overall fear of falling to my death. The bigger problem, however, was the route I took.
I dropped down to the third floor balcony, expecting to find the door from earlier, but some jerk had gone and replaced the thing with a window. In fact, they’d replaced the entire balcony with a smaller one, a sort of ornamental faux balcony that probably wasn’t intended to support my weight. To make matters worse, despite Fezig’s claims to the contrary, the window was neither open nor unlocked. I blamed the cool weather.
