Stealing Infinity, page 9
“I’m sure you have lots of questions,” he says. “Now’s your chance to get some answers.”
I swallow hard, gaze down at the white linen tablecloth, the gleaming silver flatware, the leaded crystal water goblet with the thinnest slice of lime floating on top. “Why is it called the Spring Room?” I ask, noting that while the décor is perfectly nice, there’s nothing to distinguish it from the Winter, Summer, or Autumn Rooms.
With a look of bemusement, he waves a hand, and the next thing I know, the light warms like sunshine, the song of chirping birds sounds from every corner, a hologram of a sparkling river lined with cherry blossom trees twists along the tables, and a monarch butterfly lands on the tines of my salad fork.
The sight is so amazing, I audibly gasp.
“Go ahead, touch it,” he says.
I glance from Arthur to the butterfly, then tentatively tap the top of its wing with the tip of my finger, only to feel a shimmer of vibration reverberate all the way up my arm to the top of my shoulder. A moment later, the butterfly flits toward a field of gleaming red tulips.
“How is that even possible?” I stare after the monarch.
Arthur’s gaze narrows. “I’m sure you’ll find much about Gray Wolf that skews toward the impossible.” His fingers idly tease at the jeweled ring he wears on his right hand. Though, unlike Braxton, it’s not a nervous tell. It’s more like he wants me to notice it.
My hunch is confirmed when he catches me looking, and immediately slips it from his finger and offers it for closer inspection.
The band is gold and thick, with intricate carvings marked all around. The bezel has similar etchings and a dark glimmering ruby placed in the center.
“It belonged to Edward the Black Prince,” he says.
“Why did they call him that?” I ask. It’s not one of the questions I’d meant to ask. Then again, showing interest in Arthur’s treasures is probably a better move than the kind I might normally make.
“Some say it’s because of his distinctive black armor and jousting shield. Though there are other theories, of course.”
I have no idea what he’s hinting at. I’ve never had much interest in history. Though the irony is not lost on me that by choosing to ditch AP History so I could hang out with Elodie, I ended up here.
I return the ring, watching as he slides it onto his finger. “Looks like the sort of thing you might find in a museum.” I reach for my water glass and take a sip, even though I’m not thirsty.
“Have you visited the Louvre?” Arthur asks.
I look up in surprise. Surely, he’s well versed on the details of my completely unadventurous life. To him, I say, “I’ve made a few trips to the website.”
His eyes glint with something unknowable as he pushes at the cuffs of his burgundy sweater, exposing a set of bare wrists. I’m surprised to see he’s not wearing some big expensive watch. Then again, to a man like Arthur Blackstone, king of this castle if not planet Earth, time is his to command.
“Maybe someday you’ll visit Paris and see the Louvre in person,” he says.
I shrug. I mean, sure, I hope to visit a lot of faraway places someday. But from where I sit now, it’s like dreaming of a trip to the moon.
“Maybe I can spearhead a Gray Wolf Academy field trip,” I say, tacking an awkward snort onto the end that I instantly regret, until Arthur joins in with a surprisingly genuine, full-bodied laugh.
“Oh, I’m sure we can do much better than that,” he says, continuing to chuckle softly to himself long after the joke has worn itself out.
And while it’s nice to think I’ve managed to amuse him, and while seeing him laugh does help to humanize him, I can’t help but worry that there’s something more behind it. Because judging by the dark glint in his eyes, I get the terrible feeling that the real joke is on me.
29
The chef who serves us is French.
He’s also short, round, and wears a white double-breasted chef coat, a royal-blue neckerchief, and a white chef’s toque sunk so low on his head, I’m left with the impression of a set of bushy gray brows, a wide baguette of a nose, a thick curlicue mustache, and pretty much nothing else. He looks so much like a cartoon chef I once saw in a movie, I can’t help but wonder if, like the butterfly, he’s not actually real.
“Try not to get used to lunching like this,” Arthur says. “It’s not the normal menu.”
Though I have no idea why he’s going to such lengths to impress me, I give my full attention to the meal, and with every mouthwatering bite, I can’t help but think how much Mason would love this.
Arthur raises his glass of wine. “I would offer to pour you some,” he says. “But seeing as you still have a few classes ahead…”
“About that—” I set down my fork, determined to make Arthur understand that whatever’s going on here, whatever this academy is about, I’m not a good fit. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this—whatever this is.”
“How so?” He swirls his glass, watching the wine splash up and down the sides before he takes a tentative sip, seems to enjoy it, and takes another.
“Well, after looking at my schedule and all those aptitude tests, I’m thinking maybe I should just save you the trouble and leave before you waste any more time or money on—”
“Do you honestly take me for a fool?”
For the first time since the food arrived, Arthur has stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped fussing with his fork and knife, to concentrate fully on me. And the result makes me wish I hadn’t said anything.
“Do you honestly think I’d go to all the expense of bringing you here if I thought you had nothing to offer in return?”
I gulp. My breath grows unnaturally thin. And before I can stop it, my mouth falls wide open and a whole heap of nonsense spills out. “No. Of course not. I only meant—”
Thankfully, Arthur stops me before it can get any worse. “Believe me, I’ve seen it all.” He waves a hand that makes the cherry blossoms, the sparkling river, and the butterflies all disappear. Leaving nothing to distract from Arthur’s weary gaze and the serious ferocity behind every word. “Do you know why I’ve managed to become so successful?”
I fidget with my napkin. He can’t actually expect me to answer.
“It wasn’t because I was a tech whiz, or child prodigy, or whatever story you may have heard. It’s because I use my eyes for seeing.”
My fingers still. I have no idea what that means. I mean, don’t we all?
“I’ve been heralded as a futurist, a dreamer, an outlier, a genius…” With a turn of his wrist, he waves the accolades away like one might flick away a fly. “And it always reminds me of the quote by Schopenhauer: Talent hits a target no one else can hit. Genius hits a target no one else can see.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Press a hand to my belly and will it to calm.
“What truly separates me from everyone else isn’t the score on my IQ test. What’s lifted me above the horde is vision.” He assesses me with a narrowed gaze. “Have you ever heard of the invisible-ships phenomenon?”
I shake my head, take a nervous sip of my water.
“It is said that when Captain James Cook arrived at the coast of Australia back in 1770, the natives completely ignored their arrival because the fact that they’d never seen a ship before left them literally unable to perceive the very ship that appeared off their shores. According to the captain’s journal, not a single native looked up.”
“Is that true?” My fingers seek the stem of my water glass. “Because honestly, it sounds pretty implausible. I mean, maybe the natives did see it and they were left unimpressed by the view. Sounds to me like Cook was annoyed they didn’t all stop what they were doing to admire his ride. At best, it’s petty. At worst, it’s totally racist.”
Arthur nods. “I’ve heard the same story attributed to Columbus in 1492, and Magellan in 1520. And from what I’ve seen, you’re probably right. It’s yet another grossly exaggerated myth used to serve their own narrative. Still, while the teaching is a mess, the message is solid—most people do surrender their sight early on. They allow themselves to see only what other people tell them is possible. But I’ve always been different. Since a young age, I’ve peered at the world through a deeply curious lens, and I routinely challenge myself to see far beyond the accepted societal perceptions. Thanks to my vast collection of art, my eye for beauty is world renowned. But what most people fail to understand is that my vision far surpasses anything they’d even dare to imagine. And it all begins here.”
He leans back in his seat, lifts his wineglass to the room at large, then takes a slow, thoughtful sip, allowing me time to process his words.
But honestly, there’s not enough time in the world.
“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I stammer, cringing at my inability to grasp at his meaning. I feel like a bumpkin, even more like I don’t belong in this place. I’m not used to having conversations like this or, hell, actually using more than one fork for my meals. Clearly, he can see that. So, why does he insist on keeping me here?
“Of course you don’t understand,” he says. “Everything here is new and unfamiliar, and your coping skills could use a little work. So, rather than allow yourself time to adjust, you’ve created an idealized version of your past and convinced yourself that it’s true.”
The steady set of his gaze, combined with the slight lift of his brow, tells me he will not be played. Not by me or anyone else.
“You’ve built up quite a misty-eyed story in your head,” he continues, “but tell me—if I were to grant your wish and send you back home, what exactly would you be returning to? Go ahead, close your eyes, and tell me what you see.”
I do as he says. I mean, I close my eyes, anyway. And even though I had no intention of examining my past (basically everything that occurred up until yesterday), a string of images still manages to scroll through my brain. Here’s what I see:
I miss Mason.
I miss the version of my mom that died the day my dad left.
And that’s pretty much it.
My eyes begin to sting. So I hold a few beats before I open them again. Arthur may see right through me, but I refuse to let him know how deeply he’s gotten to me.
“Never forget that out of all the possible candidates, I chose you.” His tone is more tempered now that he’s clearly maneuvered me right where he wants me. “And because of it, you’ve been granted admission to a world you never thought possible, where you have access to everything you could ever want—including everything you never knew you wanted because your life outside was so small, it stunted your vision. Gray Wolf is not only a place of unparalleled luxury and beauty, but one where you’ll transcend all your preconceived limits, and, in time, you will come to understand that the best thing about the past is that we get to pick and choose the parts that suit us and discard all the rest.”
The most I can do is blink and breathe. It’s a lot to take in, and I’m pretty sure Arthur prefers I not interrupt.
“You have something very special, Natasha. A very rare gift you’re just now becoming aware of. And I’m going to help you hone and develop that gift into something truly remarkable.”
My fingers pick nervously at the square of linen draped over my lap as I muster up the courage to ask, “And in return?”
My gaze tentatively meets his as he pauses to sip from his wine. It’s the same question I asked Braxton. But after listening to Arthur, I’m convinced he’s expecting to get a lot more out of this arrangement than the thrill of watching an underachiever reach their full potential.
“I mean, it’s a pretty big promise, so you’ve got to be expecting something in return for all of your…generosity?”
I watch as Arthur lowers his glass to the table, placing it just to the right of his plate. His manner is so precise, so deliberate, it reminds me of the old saying: How you do anything is how you do everything. And I know that where Arthur’s concerned, everything about this lunch has been orchestrated to bring us to this very moment. He’s expertly steered me straight into this port, and I didn’t even realize it until I was already docked.
Arthur pauses long enough to center that obsidian gaze upon mine.
“In return,” he says, “you’re going to help me fulfill my greatest ambition.”
30
I sit silently before Arthur, wishing I’d never asked. This is a man who’s accomplished more in one lifetime than pretty much anyone else on the planet. So, what could he possibly be aiming for next? And what could a high school loser like me actually offer—what part does he think I can play?
“And, uh…what exactly is that?” I say, unable to hide my unease. “What is your greatest ambition, if you don’t mind my asking?”
In an instant, Arthur’s hard and angular features soften as he focuses on some distant horizon visible only to him. “Soon,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Soon, you’ll discover what Gray Wolf is really about. But not yet.”
When he returns to me, he wears an expression gilded by so much unwavering faith in my abilities, I’m suddenly willing to do whatever it takes to meet the ridiculously high expectations he’s set for me.
And yet, I’m also dreading the day I’ll eventually prove myself to be nothing more than dreadfully ordinary.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that that day will come.
If I were to make a graph of my life lived so far, it would consist of a gradual (though seriously unimpressive) incline, followed by a sudden and dramatic decline, that ultimately levels off to a long, consistent flatline of the sort that only a miracle can revive.
Is Gray Wolf that miracle?
Arthur clearly thinks so.
As for me, I’ve never been one for harboring hope.
“For now,” Arthur says, “why not just allow yourself to settle in and enjoy the process as it unfolds?”
I know the question was hypothetical, but in my head, the answer comes swiftly—because what if I don’t like what I discover?
I look to Arthur, about to respond, when the lights start to blink on and off, and the ground begins to shake.
I freeze. Please no, not another Unraveling. Never has this happened twice in one day. Before I saw the person vanish in the maze, it’d been years since the last time reality cracked and I was forced to witness the real reason my dad left.
It was after school, and just after letting myself into the house, I headed for the pantry in search of a snack. When the fluorescent lights started to flicker, I didn’t pay it any notice. It was only when the ground began to tremble and I heard two raised voices that I turned to find my parents standing next to the sink.
I called out to them, but they acted like I didn’t exist. And though I was used to the sight of them arguing, I was struck by how much younger they looked—their bright, unlined faces still new at the fight.
I zeroed in on my mom’s shaking hand and the pregnancy test pinched between her fingers. Her chin quivered, her shoulders shook, as my dad stood before her, face creased in anguish.
It took me a minute to realize I was the baby who’d made those lines appear on that stick. And my dad’s look of torment was all the proof I needed to know I’d been unwanted from the very first moment he’d learned of my existence.
“Natasha.” The sound of Arthur’s voice yanks me out of the reverie. “Are you okay?”
I snap my eyes open to find my fingers gripping the edge of the table, while the room that surrounds me is unchanged.
“Gray Wolf is home to the world’s most advanced technology.” Arthur narrows his gaze in study. “It generates massive amounts of energy, which sometimes results in the sort of effects you just experienced. Eventually, you’ll grow so used to it, you won’t even notice.”
I nod in embarrassment and mumble some excuse about not having slept well, but one look at his pointed gaze tells me he sees right through the lie.
Tossing his napkin onto his plate, he pushes away from the table. “Come,” he says.
“Where to?”
Arthur regards me with a shaded look I can’t read. “Looks like you’re ready to jump ahead in your studies.”
31
Arthur escorts me out of the Spring Room and past a crowd lingering in the hall.
It’s the most people I’ve seen since I arrived, and while the majority are somewhere around my age, give or take a few years, it soon becomes clear that Braxton was right—everyone really is wearing a Gray Wolf sweatshirt, and mine is the only green one. Most of the others are blue.
So it really is like I thought: green equals newbie.
I pick out Song from among them; she’s standing beside a boy I recognize as Finn. I give a little wave, they wave back, and as their eyes trail after us, I watch as Song tips onto her toes and whispers into Finn’s ear.
The way they watch us, looking from me to Arthur, reminds me of how the popular kids used to react every time Elodie deigned to acknowledge me at school. Their eyes scouring over me, searching for clues, trying to solve the mystery of what’s so special about her?
Now more than ever, I need an answer. Because just knowing that Arthur’s betting on me to fulfill his biggest dream has left me feeling really uneasy.
Arthur leads me down a new set of hallways I haven’t yet traveled, and when we reach the end of the corridor, he taps an earpiece I didn’t even notice he was wearing, and says, “I have Natasha Clarke here. She’s ready to jump ahead in her schedule.”
Although he’s not what anyone would consider especially tall or wide, when Arthur turns to face me, he commands such a large presence, it feels like he towers above me.
