The mural. His mural. The one Rebel posted this morning.
The robed man, wings unfurling behind him. A glowing ring light hovering like a halo above his head. The iPad clutched in one hand.
My limbs go strange and weightless, only the solid warmth of Leo’s hand keeping me upright.
Veronica rubs at the painted surface, testing how easily it might come off, then lets out a long sigh. ‘What can we do? The moment we cover it, something new appears.’
Jacopo’s voice echoes in my head from yesterday.
A beautiful blank canvas. A shame to waste.
Oh God. It’s him.
It’s really him.
It’s not until I’m at my workstation, the shock of seeing Rebel’s mural wearing off, that I realize Leo didn’t react at all. He walked straight past it like he expected it to be there. He must’ve guessed Jacopo would paint another one after he joked about it being a blank canvas yesterday. It’s the kind of needling and hint-dropping Jacopo loves.
But not Rebel, a little voice whispers. Only … what do I actually know about Rebel?
Maybe that’s the bit I’ve been getting wrong. Online, people can sound exactly how you want them to. Thoughtful. Funny. Safe. Like Rebel.
Jacopo’s the opposite. He’s loud and flirty and always half-joking. Can someone be both? I’ve resisted Jacopo’s outrageous comments and invitations in real life, but have I fallen for his charm in a different format?
I try to tune back into the room. We’re supposed to be working on mock-ups today, which mostly means a lot of heated discussion about which Venetianpainters we’re ‘drawing inspiration from’.
‘We should doLa BellaandPortrait of a Youth.’ Leo’s fingers brush against mine as he spreads out the plans for the float. It’s nothing, but my brain notices.
‘Filippino Lippi isn’t Venetian,’ I counter.
Leo’s eyebrows lift in surprise.
‘What?’ I snap. ‘I’m not supposed to know that?’
The truth is, I’ve googledPortrait of a Youth. More than once. I don’t want to admit to myself exactly why. I mean, research obviously. Just that. Nothing more.
Leo only shrugs. ‘I’ll make it work.’
That’s it. No risk. No fear. He can bend the rules whenever he likes because there’ll always be someone to back him up.
‘Fine,’ I mutter. What does it matter anyway? I’m basically the assistant, filling in the colour wash. But when it’s time to start sketching, Leo pushes the paper towards me.
‘You should do yours.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Why? So you can scroll while I mess it up? Must be nice, knowing your art career’s sorted.’
He’s already checking his phone, like he’s waiting for a text. He barely even looks up when he says, ‘Yesterday you said your parents don’t believe in you.Maybe it’s you who doesn’t believe in yourself.’
I shove the sketchpad back across the table.
‘Nope.’ He puts his phone down, slides the sketchpad towards me again, and grabs a fresh sheet for himself. ‘Follow what I do.’
I grip the pencil, trying not to notice how his straight-line brows dip as he focuses. I should be thinking about Jacopo. About Rebel. That’s the puzzle I need to solve, not … whatever this is.
The silence stretches, then I blurt, ‘So … you and Jacopo have known each other for ages, huh?’
Leo glances at me, cautious. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did he ever study art?’
