“Thank you,” I said. “Nice to meet you. My friend Dante is going to be working with you.” I almost couldn’t suppress my glee. I couldn’t wait to talk to him about this.
“That’s right, he is. I’m looking forward to meeting him today. He left me some fresh cookies he baked.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“I like him already.” Etan turned back to Aurelia. “Generally, our guests will be taking their tea service between the hours of two and five in the afternoon, but I know you have a busy day and wanted to sign off on it all this morning. It is to your liking, I hope?”
“Excellent.” She nodded firmly. “And Haven, what did you think?” They both looked at me.
“Delicious and really beautiful too.” My eyes darted quickly to both of our nearly undisturbed tiered trays.
“Thank you. Well, don’t let me keep you any further. I’ll let you finish. Bon appétit, mesdemoiselles.” He bowed slightly and strode off to the kitchen.
Aurelia leaned back in her seat, folded her arms, and said, “He’s just lovely and so talented.”
“He seems it.”
“But, now, where were we?”
I didn’t say a word; I just poured more tea for myself, the leaves collecting in the mesh of the tea strainer. The pot was still so hot that the handle burned me. She leaned forward now, looking right into my eyes. I folded my hands in my lap and straightened my back, prepared to receive whatever she would tell me.
“If I were a person who read these,” she said, pointing to the wet black leaves collected before me, “I fear they might say that you could very well be eaten alive here.” I felt my heart drop. My jaw dropped too. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not at all.” She smiled, and with that she folded her napkin into a precise isosceles triangle and rose from the table. “Thank you so much for joining me. I’ll be looking forward to seeing your work.”
She breezed out. I watched her until she disappeared out of sight. And then I let my head fall over the back of the chair and my breath rush out of me. So much of what she said, those disorienting questions I couldn’t sort out, echoed in my mind. I had the sense that my life would always be divided into the pre-Aurelia and post-Aurelia eras.
The only silver lining of the encounter this morning was that for the hour or so we were together, I had managed to forget the strange warnings of that mysterious book that lay in my room.
8. What’s with the Book?
The gallery was a welcome hideaway for me, and I fired up the computer and my giant TV monitor prepared to get lost in work. The photos shuffled past me, no clunkers to speak of from the Outfit. I could probably let the thumbnails fill the screen, close my eyes and point randomly, and I’d get a stunning group of shots with which to impress Aurelia tomorrow (if she was capable of being impressed at all). It was too easy, and it didn’t engross me the way I needed it to. I decided to camp out in the library instead, scanning the shelves for more history tomes until Lance appeared.
“Hey, morning, how’s it going?” He sounded surprised to see me. “Did you get breakfast yet? I’m starved and thought I’d check out the kitchen in the—”
I wasn’t listening. A thread hung loose at the bottom of my sweater and I pulled at it, twisting it around my finger. If I wasn’t careful I would end up unraveling the whole thing. I couldn’t hold back: “Hi. Yeah, so what’s with the book?” It came out hostile to my ears, but he seemed to hear differently.
“Good stuff, right? Thought you’d like it. There’s another one here too.” He scanned the long table, littered with stacks of books. “Did you get to the part about the vault?”
“Yeah. No. Not that book. The other one,” I whispered. I don’t know why—it was as though if I said it too loud then it would definitely mean it was for real.
“Whaddya mean?”
“Just promise me you’re not playing a joke on me.”
“What? What are you talking about?” He looked at me like I was losing it. I searched his face for any flicker that he might be on the verge of fessing up to having written it, but there was nothing there.
“Forget it.” I shook my head. “Maybe it was the Outfit or something weird.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” I thought for a moment. “This is crazy, but can you show me again where you found that book with my name on it?”
“Sure, yeah,” he said, confused. He waved me over to the side of the table. “I’ve emptied almost all of the boxes, but it was toward the top of this one here. Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks.” I stood over it looking down, like it was a well that might just throw coins back up at me. Then I knelt down, shuffling through and finding only more history books, more old classics. I don’t know what I expected.
Lance had resumed shelving books but must’ve heard me stop rustling. I realized he was watching me from behind those glasses.
“You okay?” he asked finally. “You’re acting kinda weird.”
“Yeah. I know,” I said. “Sorry. Fine, thanks.” It wasn’t my most convincing performance. I actually would have liked to tell him, to get it out in the open, about these creepy threats. Maybe it would sound less scary if I said it out loud. But it seemed safest not to just yet. “Thanks again.”
“Sure.” He shrugged and went back to work.
So did I. Sequestering myself in the gallery, I tied my hair back in a tight ponytail—always a sign I’m getting down to business—and decided not to leave until I’d made some headway. In no time, I had the entire Outfit finished and had printed eight-by-tens on the glossy photo paper loaded into the printer. I had lingered longer than necessary on the pictures of Lucian. My favorite ended up being the one of him walking toward me at the end. Maybe I was reading too much into that one, but I liked the movement of it. And that undone tie, of course. I considered printing one for myself. But it would be mortifying if anyone were to find out I had this picture in my room, like something I’d clipped from a magazine and taped in my locker. I stopped myself, attempting to refocus.
It was midafternoon, and I was in the process of Photoshop-zapping Dante’s barely there zit when a faint knock rattled the door. Gentle as it was, I still jumped up in my seat and yelped.
Lance appeared in the doorway with his hands up, surrendering. In one hand he held a white paper bag with the LH insignia.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“No, no, it’s me.” I tightened my ponytail, pulling a few loose strands back from my face, and took a deep breath. “Just a little skittish today. What’s up?”
“Dante made us sandwiches.” He handed me the bag.
“That’s sweet of him.” I peeked inside. “He’s going to be a great mom one day. How’s his day going with the boss?”
“I don’t know. He just came by for a second. He wanted to come see you but he seemed anxious about getting back.”
“Yeah, he makes fun of me, but he’s capable of getting just as freaked out about everything. He usually just hides it a lot better than me.”
Lance nodded, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe. He looked away for a moment and then back at me, and away again. Finally, he said, “So, I kind of have a favor to ask too.”
“Okay, try me.” I swiveled my chair to face him. “What can I do?”
He exhaled, ready to lay it on me. “Not sure if you noticed yesterday, you know, with the pictures. But I have this gnarly scar here.” He touched the spot just under his glasses, below his right eye.
“Oh. No, I mean, just a little, it’s hardly noticeable.”
He returned his hands to his pockets, looking away again. “I just wondered, if it’s not too much trouble, do you think there’s any chance you could . . . I mean, you have Photoshop and stuff, right?”
“I do.” I completed his thought for him. “And I will. If that’s what you want.”
He ruffled the back of his hair, like he had earlier, his relief slipping out. “That would be
great, actually, if you could just get rid of it. It kinda bugs me.” He looked up. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. I understand,” I said, my voice solemn. I considered telling him about mine, but I just wasn’t sure. Maybe sometime I would.
“Thanks. Really appreciate it,” he said again. “I’ll, um”—he pointed to the door—“let you get back to it.”
Once he’d left, I pulled up his pictures. Just as I suspected, the ones without his glasses were the best by far. There were angles to his face you didn’t see in daily life, sharp lines along his jaw. His awkwardness didn’t come through in the photos. And the slight squint of his eyes—a deep, melting brown—as he tried his best to look where the camera was, where I was, made him appear concerned and serious, even protective. I decided I liked his clunky frames best when they hung on his shirt collar. They looked so much better there than shielding his face.
Photo chosen, I zeroed in on my target, enlarging his scar on my screen for a better look. I wondered how he had gotten it. Its texture was like mine, the quality of a burn, but his was much more faint and just one stripe, not an unsightly trio like mine. Don’t we always think we have it worse than everyone else? But his was on his face, and even covered by glasses, surely he felt its presence always. I tapped at that cut on my cheek. He had been polite not to ask me about it. Now I understood why.
A few taps shook the door softly and I jerked again, but my heart didn’t stop midbeat like it had minutes before. Progress.
“Someone’s getting high-maintenance all of a sudden,” I called out, my back to the door as my hand clicked at the mouse fast, fast, fast to minimize the picture on my screen—I didn’t want him knowing I’d been looking at his scar so closely. “So what else needs fixing now?”
“Well, for one thing, my manners. They could use a complete overhaul.”
It wasn’t Lance’s voice.
I whipped around in my seat. Lucian stood just inside the doorway. Suit-clad again, tie snugly knotted.
“Hi . . . hi,” I stammered, unable to hide my surprise.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He stepped farther inside. “But I think—no, I know—I owe you an apology.” He kneeled at my feet. His musk and cedar scent whirled around me.
“Oh? I don’t know what you mean.” I tried to play it cool.
“Last night . . .” He paused, serious. “I’m afraid I had some business to take care of and it just dragged on. So I’m sorry.” His gray eyes pulled me in, grabbing hold and refusing to let go.
“Oh, no big deal.” I shrugged.
“Well, I believe I owe you.”
I didn’t see any reason to dispute this. “I’m not one to go challenging anybody’s beliefs.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.” His eyes wandered to my desk, finding the stack of photos I’d already printed out. He stood back up, reached over me, and grabbed them.
“I’m not finished yet.” I swatted to try to reclaim the stack but he just held them farther away.
“Have you gotten to mine yet? Don’t I get approval rights?”
“I was under the impression I had complete creative control.” I said it just jokingly enough.
“Is that right? Well, we’ll just have to see.” He leaned up against the desk, his body toward me. Dante’s picture was on top. He held it up and examined it. “Nice.”
“Thanks.” I was embarrassed. And it was about to get worse: his picture was next in the stack.
“Here we go.” He held it close, hand on his chin. I’m sure he was surprised I’d even taken a shot of him walking toward me. “Now, the dilemma,” he started. My face fell. “How do I compliment the photographer without sounding horrifically vain?”
“I think you just did.” I smiled and looked away involuntarily. “I’m glad you like it.”
He flipped through the rest of the stack, one by one, looking at each shot of the Outfit and then placing it on the table. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“It’s all an illusion. I just choose really good subjects who do all the real work.”
Lucian sat a few feet away and yet I could feel his breath. “Well, your strategy is obviously working. Either that or, you know, you’re actually talented or something.”
“Thanks, yeah, tough call.” I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with compliments, so it seemed easiest to bat at them, to volley. He was watching me, studying my face—though hopefully not that awful scratch. I kept talking as a distraction, if nothing else. “I kind of like how people transform when I look at them through that lens, or later when I see a picture I’ve taken and it captures something more than the surface of this person.”
“So you have x-ray vision then? I knew there was something about you.”
I shook my head, embarrassed. “No, but I just mean—” I picked up the shot of Dante on the table and dissected it with my eyes. “I feel like sometimes you can see someone’s soul in a photo. It seeps out if you catch them unguarded for just a second.”
Lucian took his from the pile and held it up. “Did you get mine?”
I looked from the photo to the real flawless honey-skinned face, and back again. “I’m not sure yet.” It was the truth. I didn’t know anything about him yet, but I wanted to know everything. I wanted to spend every minute with him. I wanted him to feel the same way about me. And I wanted to feel this pulsing in my veins forever.
I see.” He nodded, thinking. “Then that’s it. I think it’s going to have to be dinner now.”
“Dinner?”
“I just don’t see any way around it. Friday?” He gave me that look, the one I was getting so addicted to.
“Sure.” I could barely hear myself over my beating heart.
“Friday, then.” He rose to his feet.
“Friday,” I repeated, though it still wasn’t fully sinking in. He smiled.
“And be careful, would you?” He leaned in and his warm lips found that injured spot on my cheek. I felt the heat of his kiss on my skin even after he had pulled away and slipped out the door.
Shockingly, I worked with a new efficiency after my surprise visitor. It may have been the lingering effects of the adrenaline rush of having him near. I flew through my retouches on Lance’s photo, and chose my own photo, settling on the one I’d snapped just as Lucian had interrupted me that day. With a little Photoshop work, my scars, which had edged out from my tank top, were gone.
It wasn’t until I was back on the basement level that it occurred to me that I didn’t want to be in my room. I changed course, knocking next door. Lance opened up.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Hi. Just thought I’d see if Dante was back yet.” My voice had a breathy tremble to it.
“’Fraid not,” he said. “I think they’ve got him working pretty hard today.” A book lay upside down and open on his bed, a black-and-white postcard of old-time Chicago beside it.
“Yeah.” I was running out of things to say but I couldn’t bear to leave and face that strange book of mine. “Hey, do you want to, like, hang out? I mean, I was just going to read; you could bring your book; it’ll be like study hall . . . or whatever.” I sounded weird, even for me, but I couldn’t quite tell him that I was scared to be alone in my room.
“Sure,” he said. “Your room is nicer than ours. Probably neater too.” He kept the door propped open with his leg and reached back to the bed to grab his book. “I drastically bring down the neat quotient of our room.”
“Well, I’m kind of messy too, so you’ll feel at home,” I said unlocking my door, then pausing. “And I didn’t even make my bed today. That’s awful. Sorry.”
“I haven’t made my bed in years.”
“Well, even so—” I flung the covers back up, tucking them into the mattress, and fluffed the comforter and pillows. Lance scanned the room, probably comparing it to his own.
“You know what we need at this place?” he asked.
“Windows.”
“Yeah. And a TV.”<
br />
“No kidding.”
“It’s like we’re on a reality show where we never get to watch TV because that would be so boring for everyone else to watch.”
I assessed my housekeeping skills. “Better,” I said to the newly made bed. I picked up the crumpled scrubs I’d thrown off getting dressed this morning and folded them, sticking them in the top drawer. It occurred to me I probably didn’t want that book of mine lying out in the open, but a quick scan showed, oddly, it was nowhere to be found.
“Question: where did Capone work when he was in prison?” Lance asked.
“I know this—he did the laundry.”
“Correct,” he said. “Question: where are we supposed to do our laundry?”
“There I’m stumped. I know it’s down here somewhere.”
“Yeah, that’s all I know. We’ll have to go looking for it.”
“Sounds good.” I slipped off my shoes and sat down, curling up my legs. He did the same on the corner of the bed. Neither of us spoke for a while; we read quietly and that was just fine. It was just a relief to have him sitting there with me. After about an hour of this, two spirited knocks banged at the door.
“Room service!” Dante’s voice rang out. Lance reached over and opened the door. A white-tablecloth-covered cart carrying silver-dome-topped plates and wineglasses filled with water wheeled into the room, Dante grinning behind it.
He totally doesn’t want to like you and doesn’t know why he does, but he maybe sort of does,” Dante offered as an analysis. Unable to hold back, I had just shared my Lucian encounter in painstaking detail. “No offense. I think he’s falling for your mind, you know?”
“What every girl wants to hear,” I joked back.
“I don’t get the appeal,” Lance said, shrugging. Girl talk wasn’t quite his thing. When I thought about it, I couldn’t believe I was talking about things like crushes with this guy I never really knew from my AP Euro class.
Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Page 10
