Stealing Infinity, page 29
I mean, I could be wrong, but at first glance, that book looks just like the object I saw in the Unraveling.
The one carried by the girl who disappeared and reappeared in the maze below my window on my first day on this rock.
The maze that doesn’t actually exist in this modern-day version of Gray Wolf, though surely it once did, or else I wouldn’t have seen it.
There’s a symbol engraved on the cover. Is it a pentagram or some other sigil? From where I sit now, it’s impossible to make out.
I start to lift off my seat, hoping to get a better look, when Song says, “A word of advice?”
I pause in mid-stand, then settle back onto the cushion.
“You need to be more careful,” she says.
“I’m…not sure what you mean.” I lean toward her, eager to hear more, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like what she tells me.
Her shoulders go slack. She presses a hand to her chest, fingers seeking comfort from the aquamarine talisman that hangs from her neck. “It’s like, you work so hard to make Blue,” she says, voice quietly wistful. “Mostly because it’s so lonely being a Green or a Yellow. But then, even once you’ve managed to reach the goal, become an AAD, and make friends with people who swear to have your back, you can still disappear without a trace, and not a single one of those people will go looking for you.”
“Is that…” My mouth has gone so dry, I’m forced to clear my throat and start again. “Song—is that what happened to Anjou? Did she just…disappear?”
96
“According to Roxane, Anjou asked to go home.” Song’s gaze lights on mine. Her lip is a snarl, but there are tears clouding her eyes. “Home.” She shakes her head. “Am I seriously expected to believe that?”
“So…it’s not at all possible that it might be true?”
Song closes her eyes, lets a few silent beats pass, before she says, “Does that sound even remotely possible to you? Do you actually believe Arthur would willingly let any of us leave?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, didn’t Roxane go away for film school?”
“Is that what she told you?” Song rolls her eyes. “Look, there’s a reason this place is so off the grid. It’s because Arthur can’t afford for anyone outside of Gray Wolf to know what really goes on here. Can you imagine if the outside world learned that time travel is real? It would upset the balance of everything. The result would be chaos. Not to mention all those who’d try to abuse it.”
I heave a deep sigh. It’s something I’ve tried not to think about—the huge glaring secret Arthur has tasked us with keeping. To Song, I say, “And how can we be sure Arthur’s not trying to abuse it?”
Song looks at me in alarm, as though I’ve just put a voice to something that’s strictly forbidden.
“I mean, there’s got to be more to all this than just stealing jewelry and art—”
Song cuts me off before I can finish. “If there is, I’ve yet to see it. Arthur is guilty of being a hoarder of history, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe he’s out to change the course of it.” She waves a hand in dismissal. And even though I don’t fully buy it, I know better than to push it. “Anyway,” she says. “When it comes to being at Gray Wolf, no one goes home. We’re all lifers. Well, at least the lucky ones are. The ones who don’t disappear.”
“Disappear?” The word leaps from my tongue, and I’m glad I’m already sitting because my legs have gone so shaky, I doubt they’d be able to hold me.
It reminds me of what Elodie said: With any luck, you’re going to be here with us for a very long time.
At the time, I had no idea what she meant. I’m pretty sure I still don’t.
Before me, Song just shrugs. And while she doesn’t strike me as being particularly open to questions, in a tentative voice I ask one anyway. “But exactly how did Anjou disappear? Because from what I can tell, there’s no viable way off this rock. Or at least not without Arthur’s consent.”
Song shrugs. “She disappeared the same way most of them do—” Her brown eyes fix on mine in a way that causes my belly to churn. “She went on a Trip and never returned.”
A sudden chill spreads through my body, as I imagine Anjou stuck somewhere in a time in which she doesn’t belong. Then I remember how close I came to getting stuck in 1745 Versailles, and my spine turns to ice.
It can happen so easily. Too easily.
“Still, there must be something we can do—” I start, my voice fading when I realize that no one is going to do anything except look the other way. Just like when Elodie’s Tripping partner failed to return, and now Anjou, and who knows how many others.
“I don’t even know where they sent her. Nobody does except the people working the control room, and believe me, I’ve tried to find out and they’re not talking.”
There’s a hollowed-out pit forming deep in my gut. I haven’t felt this hopeless, or this scared, since the first night I arrived.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cringing at how inadequate it sounds, but not knowing what else I can possibly offer. My hands twist together as my gaze nervously flounders about the room before coming to rest on the leather-bound book. “Can—can I take a look at that?” I ask, motioning toward it.
Song tilts her head to the side, her gaze roaming the length of me, as though trying to determine whether or not she can trust me. “Some other time,” she says. Then, from out of nowhere she adds, “Just so you know, magick has always been the currency of the oppressed.” With a solemn smile, she stands, signaling the end of our conversation. “I’m serious about that promise,” she says, as I rise to my feet, hoping my shaky legs will carry me as far as the door. “You can’t tell anyone about what you found, or anything else I just told you.”
“You have my word,” I say, noting the way her hand hovers over the keypad as though she’s not quite ready to let me go.
I try to sneak a glance past her shoulder, hoping to get another look at the book. But the way Song shifts makes me wonder if she’s purposely trying to block it from view.
“And that includes Braxton,” she says, her dark eyes blazing on mine.
I squint at Song, unsure what she’s getting at.
“I don’t want you mentioning any of this to him.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m not sure why he’d care, but—”
“But you don’t really know Braxton, do you?” There’s a quiver in her jaw that stands in stark contrast to the stubborn tilt of her chin, and the sight of it only fuels my unease.
I glance between the door and her. I’m really starting to regret having come here.
“In fact, you don’t really know anyone here. You haven’t been around long enough to hear all the stories.”
Stories? What stories?
To Song, I say, “Maybe you could tell me one?”
She purses her lips, as though trying to decide. After a moment, she says, “We’ll talk later. Soon, okay? There is something I want to tell you. But not today.”
“You know where to find me.” I shrug.
That is, if I don’t disappear.
Song pushes her thumb to the keypad, and a second later the door springs open. I’m halfway down the hall when she calls after me. I turn, a look of trepidation worn plain on my face. But she just smiles sadly and says, “Thanks.”
97
The next week passes by in a blur.
The days are busy with the usual routine of classes and mealtimes spent with my fellow Blues, but with Braxton still gone, the nights are unbearably long.
I miss the heat of his kiss, the sound of my name whispered from his lips.
I miss the comfort of his arms banded snugly around me, the feel of his body pressing hard against mine.
And I have no idea when he’ll be back, when we’ll be able to resume that part of our life.
When a Chopin piece blares from my slab, I can’t help but groan. The long slog back from the Autumn Room where I transition from laughing with friends to the tomblike quiet of my own room is when the loneliness really sets in.
Except tonight doesn’t unfold in the usual way. Because just as we’re spilling out the door and into the hall, my slab buzzes with a new message, and I’m surprised to find it’s from Arthur.
AB: A surprise awaits. Follow the arrow.
Normally, a surprise is considered a good thing. But a surprise with Arthur attached makes me wonder if he’s finally getting around to the debriefing he mentioned after my Trip. And if he is, I have no idea what to expect.
“You coming?” Oliver hangs back as Song, Finn, Jago, and Elodie continue toward our rooms.
I shake my head and proceed to where Arthur sits in one of those small electric carts that zoom around the outer reaches of this place.
He motions for me to take the seat beside him, then navigates a complex series of hallways in a state of complete and utter silence that leaves me so anxious, by the time he parks and leads me to a bank of elevators, my knees are literally shaking.
“You’re nervous.” He shoots me a look of amusement and ushers me into the elevator car where we quickly descend deep into the bowels of the academy.
When the panels slide open, we head down a short, dimly lit hall. At the end, he pauses before a brushed metal door, where he looks at me with a gaze glinting with something known only to him. “Ready?” he asks.
The best I can do is shrug. The threat of hyperventilating overrides any curiosity I can drum up.
“Welcome to the Vault!” With a push of a button, the thick steel door opens to a sight so wondrous, my jaw literally drops. “Go on, have a look—feast your eyes!” He grins. “There’s nothing like your first visit.”
To put it simply, it’s a museum to end all museums. An enormous, climate-controlled storeroom filled with the most wondrous, important, impactful paintings, sculptures, jewels, letters, trinkets, artifacts, historical objects, and mementos the world has ever known. And as I struggle to take it all in, I have the terrible sinking feeling that all these wonders before me are real. And that it’s people like me—the Trippers, the chrononauts—who are responsible for putting them here.
Suddenly, I understand that all the beautiful works I’ve seen around Gray Wolf aren’t the products of the skilled team of forgers and craftsmen Arthur keeps on staff. No, their job is to copy the greatest works of art, which the Trippers then exchange for the real ones.
“I can tell by the look on your face that you understand what this is really about.” Arthurs’s voice echoes throughout the high-ceilinged room.
I nod. It’s all I can do. I mean, what’s the proper response when one reveals that it’s the museums that house all the fakes? The real art is here.
“You’re shaken,” he says, without a trace of judgment. “It’s shocking, I know. But what you need to understand is that modern society doesn’t deserve these great works. Why should a masterpiece like the Mona Lisa be reduced to mere background fodder for hordes of narcissistic selfie takers? It’s absolute blasphemy to treat her with such disrespect! How often have you stood before a great work, only to hear some boorish tourist announce to the room at large, “I could paint that!”
Arthur pronounces “tourist” in the same cringey tone as a church lady whispering a profanity she overheard.
He reels on me then, those obsidian eyes sparking in a way I’ve never seen. “No! I want to tell them—you couldn’t paint that, write that, design that, build that, compose that, or film that. And, more importantly, you didn’t do any of those things. Not because you lack the time, as you claim, but because you lack the genius, the inspiration, the courage, the curiosity, the generosity of spirit, and the creative drive required to create a thing of beauty. You’ve never peered deep into your soul and asked the sort of questions required for such an act.”
He pauses, allowing enough space for the words to properly land. “When society turns its back on true artistry for the pursuit of banality, then no, they don’t get to visit Leonardo’s masterpiece just because they happen to be vacationing near the Louvre and want to check it off a bucket list. Leonardo da Vinci did not labor so that his work could be viewed through the glazed eyes of an unruly tour group less interested in truly seeing it than posting to their social media feeds so everyone will know they have seen it. Leonardo created because it allowed him to touch the divine, and when we view his works properly, we get a glimpse of that, too.”
I swear his eyes are misted with tears, but he does nothing to hide it. He’s not the least bit ashamed. This is a man with a passion for beauty like I’ve never seen. And while I know it’s wrong to rob the world of these treasures, in a strange way, I also understand Arthur’s point. To love something so deeply can make you fiercely, obsessively protective.
“And now—” He places a hand on my shoulder and steers me deeper into the space. “I get to indulge a favorite moment of mine, when I watch one of my students choose a painting to hang in their room.”
I respond with a look of stunned silence, prompting Arthur to say, “I assumed you’d heard about these visits to the Vault.”
“I have,” I tell him. “I just…”
“You don’t think you deserve a reward,” he says. As usual, his laser-sharp vision cuts right through me.
“I didn’t solve the puzzle.” I shrug. “I was right on the verge, but then—” When I look at him, I find his gaze locked on mine, and my mouth goes so dry, I struggle to finish the thought. “Well, then I ran out of time.”
“And the cards?” he asks. “I noticed they didn’t make the trip back.”
“I was confronted and…” I inhale a shaky breath, stare down at my feet. “I lost them.”
Arthur looms before me, examining me with such white hot intensity, I feel as though I’m about to ignite under the glare of his lens. “Come,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I want to show you something.”
98
Arthur leads me past infinite rows of magnificent works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Matisse, O’Keefe, Botticelli, Kahlo, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Velázquez, and more, then stops before another door that blends into the back wall so seamlessly, it’s impossible to distinguish it until I’m standing directly in front of it.
“Few at Gray Wolf have seen what I’m about to show you,” he says. “And certainly, none of the Blues. Before we proceed, you must promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
In the short time I’ve been in the Vault, I’ve glimpsed so many masterworks, it makes my head spin. So, what could he possibly be hiding beyond this secret door?
Still, I give him my word, then watch as the door opens, the overhead lights blink on, and Arthur leads me to a glass display case positioned in the center of the room. “I present to you, my most prized possession in this entire collection—the Antikythera Mechanism.”
He turns to me, as though expecting me to…I don’t know, applaud? Jump up and down and shout out in glee?
Instead, I stand awkwardly in place, glancing between him and some ancient scraps of time-worn metal, wondering what it is that I’m missing.
“So…” I steal a moment to rummage through my brain, searching for the sort of response that’ll work to convey the appropriate amount of interest, while also concealing my current state of confusion. “It’s the, uh…original, then? Which means, somewhere out there, there’s a…fake?”
The creases in Arthur’s forehead deepen, and for a man whose face rarely reveals what he’s thinking, his disappointment is worn plain to see. “I thought for sure you’d recognize it,” he says.
I move closer, screwing up my face and squinting, but all I see is an old pile of—
Before I can even register what’s happening, my hand instinctively shoots for the display case, fingers pressing against the glass, causing small half domes of fog to bloom around the pointed tips of my nails. Like a video set on time-lapse, I watch in astonishment as this ancient fragment of metal miraculously restores itself to its original glory.
Its case is made of a finely oiled wood.
The mechanism inside gleams with golden dials and knobs, a set of inscriptions I can’t decipher, and an assortment of stones and jewels that stand in for various planets and stars.
The restoration is so extraordinary, so exquisite in its craftsmanship and design, I can’t help but gasp at the sight.
But even more startling are all the memories the vision unearths. Like stumbling upon an old family album, my mind eagerly flips through a collection of faded pictures of long-forgotten afternoons spent with my dad.
The two of us sitting cross-legged, leaning over a heap of objects spread across a soft braided rug as he patiently teaches me how to reassemble the Antikythera Mechanism he keeps locked away in a drawer.
And how sometimes he’d hide the pieces around the house, then task me with using clues from the tarot cards to discover where they were…
His was a copy, of course, made of cheap plastics and dented bits of metal. But next to my prized set of model horses, it ranked right up there among my favorite diversions. Possibly because the only times I was allowed to play with it were when my mom was away. On those days, before her car had even pulled out of the drive, I’d start begging my dad to take the secret puzzle out of hiding.
Though I can’t remember him ever saying no, I can clearly recall the look of sadness he wore as he watched me reassemble, then disassemble the various parts.
In the movie screen in my mind, I view a clip of the unmistakable glint of sorrow clouding his gaze, as my dad held up a gleaming gold ball and said, “Tell me about this piece—tell me everything you know about the—”
From somewhere nearby, the gravelly scratch of a throat being cleared yanks me out of the reverie and back to reality.
The one carried by the girl who disappeared and reappeared in the maze below my window on my first day on this rock.
The maze that doesn’t actually exist in this modern-day version of Gray Wolf, though surely it once did, or else I wouldn’t have seen it.
There’s a symbol engraved on the cover. Is it a pentagram or some other sigil? From where I sit now, it’s impossible to make out.
I start to lift off my seat, hoping to get a better look, when Song says, “A word of advice?”
I pause in mid-stand, then settle back onto the cushion.
“You need to be more careful,” she says.
“I’m…not sure what you mean.” I lean toward her, eager to hear more, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like what she tells me.
Her shoulders go slack. She presses a hand to her chest, fingers seeking comfort from the aquamarine talisman that hangs from her neck. “It’s like, you work so hard to make Blue,” she says, voice quietly wistful. “Mostly because it’s so lonely being a Green or a Yellow. But then, even once you’ve managed to reach the goal, become an AAD, and make friends with people who swear to have your back, you can still disappear without a trace, and not a single one of those people will go looking for you.”
“Is that…” My mouth has gone so dry, I’m forced to clear my throat and start again. “Song—is that what happened to Anjou? Did she just…disappear?”
96
“According to Roxane, Anjou asked to go home.” Song’s gaze lights on mine. Her lip is a snarl, but there are tears clouding her eyes. “Home.” She shakes her head. “Am I seriously expected to believe that?”
“So…it’s not at all possible that it might be true?”
Song closes her eyes, lets a few silent beats pass, before she says, “Does that sound even remotely possible to you? Do you actually believe Arthur would willingly let any of us leave?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, didn’t Roxane go away for film school?”
“Is that what she told you?” Song rolls her eyes. “Look, there’s a reason this place is so off the grid. It’s because Arthur can’t afford for anyone outside of Gray Wolf to know what really goes on here. Can you imagine if the outside world learned that time travel is real? It would upset the balance of everything. The result would be chaos. Not to mention all those who’d try to abuse it.”
I heave a deep sigh. It’s something I’ve tried not to think about—the huge glaring secret Arthur has tasked us with keeping. To Song, I say, “And how can we be sure Arthur’s not trying to abuse it?”
Song looks at me in alarm, as though I’ve just put a voice to something that’s strictly forbidden.
“I mean, there’s got to be more to all this than just stealing jewelry and art—”
Song cuts me off before I can finish. “If there is, I’ve yet to see it. Arthur is guilty of being a hoarder of history, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe he’s out to change the course of it.” She waves a hand in dismissal. And even though I don’t fully buy it, I know better than to push it. “Anyway,” she says. “When it comes to being at Gray Wolf, no one goes home. We’re all lifers. Well, at least the lucky ones are. The ones who don’t disappear.”
“Disappear?” The word leaps from my tongue, and I’m glad I’m already sitting because my legs have gone so shaky, I doubt they’d be able to hold me.
It reminds me of what Elodie said: With any luck, you’re going to be here with us for a very long time.
At the time, I had no idea what she meant. I’m pretty sure I still don’t.
Before me, Song just shrugs. And while she doesn’t strike me as being particularly open to questions, in a tentative voice I ask one anyway. “But exactly how did Anjou disappear? Because from what I can tell, there’s no viable way off this rock. Or at least not without Arthur’s consent.”
Song shrugs. “She disappeared the same way most of them do—” Her brown eyes fix on mine in a way that causes my belly to churn. “She went on a Trip and never returned.”
A sudden chill spreads through my body, as I imagine Anjou stuck somewhere in a time in which she doesn’t belong. Then I remember how close I came to getting stuck in 1745 Versailles, and my spine turns to ice.
It can happen so easily. Too easily.
“Still, there must be something we can do—” I start, my voice fading when I realize that no one is going to do anything except look the other way. Just like when Elodie’s Tripping partner failed to return, and now Anjou, and who knows how many others.
“I don’t even know where they sent her. Nobody does except the people working the control room, and believe me, I’ve tried to find out and they’re not talking.”
There’s a hollowed-out pit forming deep in my gut. I haven’t felt this hopeless, or this scared, since the first night I arrived.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cringing at how inadequate it sounds, but not knowing what else I can possibly offer. My hands twist together as my gaze nervously flounders about the room before coming to rest on the leather-bound book. “Can—can I take a look at that?” I ask, motioning toward it.
Song tilts her head to the side, her gaze roaming the length of me, as though trying to determine whether or not she can trust me. “Some other time,” she says. Then, from out of nowhere she adds, “Just so you know, magick has always been the currency of the oppressed.” With a solemn smile, she stands, signaling the end of our conversation. “I’m serious about that promise,” she says, as I rise to my feet, hoping my shaky legs will carry me as far as the door. “You can’t tell anyone about what you found, or anything else I just told you.”
“You have my word,” I say, noting the way her hand hovers over the keypad as though she’s not quite ready to let me go.
I try to sneak a glance past her shoulder, hoping to get another look at the book. But the way Song shifts makes me wonder if she’s purposely trying to block it from view.
“And that includes Braxton,” she says, her dark eyes blazing on mine.
I squint at Song, unsure what she’s getting at.
“I don’t want you mentioning any of this to him.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m not sure why he’d care, but—”
“But you don’t really know Braxton, do you?” There’s a quiver in her jaw that stands in stark contrast to the stubborn tilt of her chin, and the sight of it only fuels my unease.
I glance between the door and her. I’m really starting to regret having come here.
“In fact, you don’t really know anyone here. You haven’t been around long enough to hear all the stories.”
Stories? What stories?
To Song, I say, “Maybe you could tell me one?”
She purses her lips, as though trying to decide. After a moment, she says, “We’ll talk later. Soon, okay? There is something I want to tell you. But not today.”
“You know where to find me.” I shrug.
That is, if I don’t disappear.
Song pushes her thumb to the keypad, and a second later the door springs open. I’m halfway down the hall when she calls after me. I turn, a look of trepidation worn plain on my face. But she just smiles sadly and says, “Thanks.”
97
The next week passes by in a blur.
The days are busy with the usual routine of classes and mealtimes spent with my fellow Blues, but with Braxton still gone, the nights are unbearably long.
I miss the heat of his kiss, the sound of my name whispered from his lips.
I miss the comfort of his arms banded snugly around me, the feel of his body pressing hard against mine.
And I have no idea when he’ll be back, when we’ll be able to resume that part of our life.
When a Chopin piece blares from my slab, I can’t help but groan. The long slog back from the Autumn Room where I transition from laughing with friends to the tomblike quiet of my own room is when the loneliness really sets in.
Except tonight doesn’t unfold in the usual way. Because just as we’re spilling out the door and into the hall, my slab buzzes with a new message, and I’m surprised to find it’s from Arthur.
AB: A surprise awaits. Follow the arrow.
Normally, a surprise is considered a good thing. But a surprise with Arthur attached makes me wonder if he’s finally getting around to the debriefing he mentioned after my Trip. And if he is, I have no idea what to expect.
“You coming?” Oliver hangs back as Song, Finn, Jago, and Elodie continue toward our rooms.
I shake my head and proceed to where Arthur sits in one of those small electric carts that zoom around the outer reaches of this place.
He motions for me to take the seat beside him, then navigates a complex series of hallways in a state of complete and utter silence that leaves me so anxious, by the time he parks and leads me to a bank of elevators, my knees are literally shaking.
“You’re nervous.” He shoots me a look of amusement and ushers me into the elevator car where we quickly descend deep into the bowels of the academy.
When the panels slide open, we head down a short, dimly lit hall. At the end, he pauses before a brushed metal door, where he looks at me with a gaze glinting with something known only to him. “Ready?” he asks.
The best I can do is shrug. The threat of hyperventilating overrides any curiosity I can drum up.
“Welcome to the Vault!” With a push of a button, the thick steel door opens to a sight so wondrous, my jaw literally drops. “Go on, have a look—feast your eyes!” He grins. “There’s nothing like your first visit.”
To put it simply, it’s a museum to end all museums. An enormous, climate-controlled storeroom filled with the most wondrous, important, impactful paintings, sculptures, jewels, letters, trinkets, artifacts, historical objects, and mementos the world has ever known. And as I struggle to take it all in, I have the terrible sinking feeling that all these wonders before me are real. And that it’s people like me—the Trippers, the chrononauts—who are responsible for putting them here.
Suddenly, I understand that all the beautiful works I’ve seen around Gray Wolf aren’t the products of the skilled team of forgers and craftsmen Arthur keeps on staff. No, their job is to copy the greatest works of art, which the Trippers then exchange for the real ones.
“I can tell by the look on your face that you understand what this is really about.” Arthurs’s voice echoes throughout the high-ceilinged room.
I nod. It’s all I can do. I mean, what’s the proper response when one reveals that it’s the museums that house all the fakes? The real art is here.
“You’re shaken,” he says, without a trace of judgment. “It’s shocking, I know. But what you need to understand is that modern society doesn’t deserve these great works. Why should a masterpiece like the Mona Lisa be reduced to mere background fodder for hordes of narcissistic selfie takers? It’s absolute blasphemy to treat her with such disrespect! How often have you stood before a great work, only to hear some boorish tourist announce to the room at large, “I could paint that!”
Arthur pronounces “tourist” in the same cringey tone as a church lady whispering a profanity she overheard.
He reels on me then, those obsidian eyes sparking in a way I’ve never seen. “No! I want to tell them—you couldn’t paint that, write that, design that, build that, compose that, or film that. And, more importantly, you didn’t do any of those things. Not because you lack the time, as you claim, but because you lack the genius, the inspiration, the courage, the curiosity, the generosity of spirit, and the creative drive required to create a thing of beauty. You’ve never peered deep into your soul and asked the sort of questions required for such an act.”
He pauses, allowing enough space for the words to properly land. “When society turns its back on true artistry for the pursuit of banality, then no, they don’t get to visit Leonardo’s masterpiece just because they happen to be vacationing near the Louvre and want to check it off a bucket list. Leonardo da Vinci did not labor so that his work could be viewed through the glazed eyes of an unruly tour group less interested in truly seeing it than posting to their social media feeds so everyone will know they have seen it. Leonardo created because it allowed him to touch the divine, and when we view his works properly, we get a glimpse of that, too.”
I swear his eyes are misted with tears, but he does nothing to hide it. He’s not the least bit ashamed. This is a man with a passion for beauty like I’ve never seen. And while I know it’s wrong to rob the world of these treasures, in a strange way, I also understand Arthur’s point. To love something so deeply can make you fiercely, obsessively protective.
“And now—” He places a hand on my shoulder and steers me deeper into the space. “I get to indulge a favorite moment of mine, when I watch one of my students choose a painting to hang in their room.”
I respond with a look of stunned silence, prompting Arthur to say, “I assumed you’d heard about these visits to the Vault.”
“I have,” I tell him. “I just…”
“You don’t think you deserve a reward,” he says. As usual, his laser-sharp vision cuts right through me.
“I didn’t solve the puzzle.” I shrug. “I was right on the verge, but then—” When I look at him, I find his gaze locked on mine, and my mouth goes so dry, I struggle to finish the thought. “Well, then I ran out of time.”
“And the cards?” he asks. “I noticed they didn’t make the trip back.”
“I was confronted and…” I inhale a shaky breath, stare down at my feet. “I lost them.”
Arthur looms before me, examining me with such white hot intensity, I feel as though I’m about to ignite under the glare of his lens. “Come,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I want to show you something.”
98
Arthur leads me past infinite rows of magnificent works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Matisse, O’Keefe, Botticelli, Kahlo, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Velázquez, and more, then stops before another door that blends into the back wall so seamlessly, it’s impossible to distinguish it until I’m standing directly in front of it.
“Few at Gray Wolf have seen what I’m about to show you,” he says. “And certainly, none of the Blues. Before we proceed, you must promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
In the short time I’ve been in the Vault, I’ve glimpsed so many masterworks, it makes my head spin. So, what could he possibly be hiding beyond this secret door?
Still, I give him my word, then watch as the door opens, the overhead lights blink on, and Arthur leads me to a glass display case positioned in the center of the room. “I present to you, my most prized possession in this entire collection—the Antikythera Mechanism.”
He turns to me, as though expecting me to…I don’t know, applaud? Jump up and down and shout out in glee?
Instead, I stand awkwardly in place, glancing between him and some ancient scraps of time-worn metal, wondering what it is that I’m missing.
“So…” I steal a moment to rummage through my brain, searching for the sort of response that’ll work to convey the appropriate amount of interest, while also concealing my current state of confusion. “It’s the, uh…original, then? Which means, somewhere out there, there’s a…fake?”
The creases in Arthur’s forehead deepen, and for a man whose face rarely reveals what he’s thinking, his disappointment is worn plain to see. “I thought for sure you’d recognize it,” he says.
I move closer, screwing up my face and squinting, but all I see is an old pile of—
Before I can even register what’s happening, my hand instinctively shoots for the display case, fingers pressing against the glass, causing small half domes of fog to bloom around the pointed tips of my nails. Like a video set on time-lapse, I watch in astonishment as this ancient fragment of metal miraculously restores itself to its original glory.
Its case is made of a finely oiled wood.
The mechanism inside gleams with golden dials and knobs, a set of inscriptions I can’t decipher, and an assortment of stones and jewels that stand in for various planets and stars.
The restoration is so extraordinary, so exquisite in its craftsmanship and design, I can’t help but gasp at the sight.
But even more startling are all the memories the vision unearths. Like stumbling upon an old family album, my mind eagerly flips through a collection of faded pictures of long-forgotten afternoons spent with my dad.
The two of us sitting cross-legged, leaning over a heap of objects spread across a soft braided rug as he patiently teaches me how to reassemble the Antikythera Mechanism he keeps locked away in a drawer.
And how sometimes he’d hide the pieces around the house, then task me with using clues from the tarot cards to discover where they were…
His was a copy, of course, made of cheap plastics and dented bits of metal. But next to my prized set of model horses, it ranked right up there among my favorite diversions. Possibly because the only times I was allowed to play with it were when my mom was away. On those days, before her car had even pulled out of the drive, I’d start begging my dad to take the secret puzzle out of hiding.
Though I can’t remember him ever saying no, I can clearly recall the look of sadness he wore as he watched me reassemble, then disassemble the various parts.
In the movie screen in my mind, I view a clip of the unmistakable glint of sorrow clouding his gaze, as my dad held up a gleaming gold ball and said, “Tell me about this piece—tell me everything you know about the—”
From somewhere nearby, the gravelly scratch of a throat being cleared yanks me out of the reverie and back to reality.
