52
As I follow the woman in the rose-covered gown, I remember the long-ago weekend I spent at Mason’s, the time his grandma was away. Since it was raining outside, we mostly hung out in his room watchingBreakfast at Tiffany’son repeat, gorging ourselves on tubs of pistachio ice cream, bags of dark chocolates, and swigs from the bottle of cheap sparkling wine that gave us both headaches.
By the time the rain was spent, we were bored, moderately buzzed, and looking for fun. Deciding to recreate a scene from the movie, we walked over to one of those big discount stores—the kind with bright orange signs permanently parked in their windows, claimingEverything Must GO!
Inside, we made straight for the party aisle, where we slipped on a pair of masks—a masquerade one for me, and a Marilyn Monroe face for Mason. Then we dared each other to pocket something remarkably cheesy but truly spectacular, a symbol of our friendship we’d then give to each other.
We took off in separate directions, in search of that one perfect gift. My stomach queasy from too many sweets and an unsteady gait I blamed on the wine, I headed first for the floral and home section, thinking I’d pick up something fun for his room, until I realized that in order to go undetected, I’d have to think on a much smaller scale.
I found my way to cosmetics, but the makeup was so garish, I went over to the jewelry department instead. After sorting through piles of bracelets, rings, and silver necklaces with colorful rhinestone pendants shaped like unicorns and parrots, I settled on a glittering tiara encrusted with crystals, then propped it onto my head and strode right out of the store with no one the wiser.
By the time I reached the designated corner, Mason was already there. I placed the tiara on him, he slid a pink princess crown ring onto my finger, and we laughed all the way back to his house. Neither of us felt the slightest bit guilty for what we had done.
And looking back now, I realize I feel only the slightest twinge of guilt. But even so, I’m quick to remind myself we were just a couple of bored kids looking for fun—the trinkets were cheap, and no one got hurt.
Though I do sometimes wonder what really made me go through with it.
Was it the wine? The sugar high?
Or am I just a natural-born criminal with a talent for theft?
And if so, is Arthur already aware of that?
Is that why he really decided to bring me here?
I follow the woman down a long hallway. When she stops to admire a painting, I figure it’s showtime.
“Saturn Devouring his Son,” I say, one hand motioning toward the canvas depicting the wild-eyed Roman god eating his own son, as the other hand sneaks into her hair, snatches the pin, and slips it into one of the many pockets hidden in the folds of my dress.
A standardspotlight of attentionmove I learned on a long-ago trip to a magic store. Simply by directing the focus toward the painting, I made sure my target didn’t notice what my other hand was doing.
Remembering what Braxton said about the need to fit in to whatever place and time I find myself, I say, “It’s quite remarkable.” My voice sounds so stilted, so unnatural, but I try again anyway. “And, I might add, quite gruesome, as well.”
“It was never meant for public consumption.” The woman speaks with an accent that’s polished and clipped. “It’s part of a collection referred to as the Black Paintings. The artist, Francisco de Goya, painted this on the plaster wall in his dining room. After his death, it was transferred to canvas. Imagine staring at this while you take all your meals.” She shakes her head, forces an exaggerated shiver. “As for me, I much prefer the one just beside it.” She gestures toward a portrait of two old men leaning over a globe, one praying, the other laughing. The sight of it sends a sudden rush of chills skittering over my flesh.
“Heraclitus,” I breathe, unaware I’ve spoken out loud until the woman turns to face me.
“Along with Democritus,” she says, and it’s only then that I realize the masked woman is Elodie.