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19
That night, I’m shown a side to Danny I never expected.
Ever watchful about Arabella’s creepy omniscience, Danny and I meet after dinner on a floor of the castle I haven’t spent much time in. It’s one with classrooms on the larger side, for the equipment-heavy subjects it contains, none of which I study: chemistry, home economics, music, and art and design. When he’s not with me, Danny, it seems, spends the majority of his time on this floor.
“MacGregor likes me,” Danny explains, unlocking the door to the art department. “They all like me on this floor because I’m the sad loser who volunteers to tidy equipment stores and check inventory.” He grimaces, looking embarrassed. “Before you, I had a lot of spare time on my hands and, well, not many friends to fill it with. Spent most of my days up here. Giving me something to do was a mercy.”
I’m intrigued by Danny’s life before I arrived at Lochkelvin. He must be painfully self-conscious about his loner status, because he rarely offers to share any details, to the point it’s like getting blood out of a stone. It took me until this summer, after all, to find out he used to be a chief.
“Then, what, you went rogue? Started stealing all the shit?”
“Only out of necessity. And so infrequently that they’ve never noticed.” He shrugs. “I know stealing is bad, but I figure it’s a form of payment for looking after their stuff for years and years. And as an added bonus, MacGregor lets me work on projects in private. I did most of your headpiece for the talent show here. So if a few bits go missing here and there, he won’t mind.”
“Fifty-nine badges, though? He really won’t care?”
Danny taps the side of his head. “Why do you think I made them so small?”
The art department is a blast of color compared to the castle walls. Red, yellow and blue sheets of paper placed in geometric squares of varying sizes dominate one section of the wall, with the nameMackintoshabove them. There are paint-stained easels propped against each other, wooden artist models posed rudely, glazed vases containing old and dying flowers, and a large cupboard at the very back that isn’t even locked.
The room has the sharp, almost metallic tang of fresh paint combined with the familiar old scent of scrubbed wooden desks.
Danny shuts the door softly behind him. “I hid the stuff I used in the bottom of the cupboard,” he informs me. “You should see a black bag with gold paint inside.”
As I collect the bag, it seems like a forbidden act to be wandering around classrooms late at night. The only teacher who ever gave me that privilege was Dr. Moncrieff, and even then that was for his benefit, to assist him in the library during detention. Classrooms without the presence of other students have an unusual, eerie atmosphere about them, suddenly so much bigger and less recognizable, every creak of the castle sounding like an onslaught.
To my surprise, Danny props open the legs of one of the easels. I don’t know anything about making badges but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve a canvas.
“What are you doing?”
“He still expectssomething.” Danny clips paper onto the easel and hastily grabs a palette and paintbrush. “I can’t very well say I came in here for inspiration and have nothing to show for it.”
“I’m sure artists do that all the time,” I say wryly, and Danny rolls his eyes. “What are you going to paint?”
His mouth lifts at the corners. “You.”
This I did not expect. I stare at Danny in alarm, a stab of sudden panic scoring my chest. It’s the end of a long day; I haven’t fixed my hair in about ten hours, my eyelids are probably sagging more than a bloodhound’s, and I’m slumped over the desk like I’ve forgotten how to sit straight. I try to rearrange myself to look somewhat presentable but Danny makes a soft noise of protest from behind the easel and murmurs, “Don’t. You’re perfect.”
My heart melts at the sincerity of his words. I allow my slumped posture to return, because who needs a functional spinal column anyway.
Danny seems in his element in this room, which is surprising to me because he’s never espoused his great love for art in any detail. As he mixes globules of paint on the wooden palette in preparation to spread it across the canvas, he directs me to empty the black plastic bag.
Making badges, it turns out, uses a lot of art material, and I almost feel guilty aiding this underground madness. Objects that tumble from the bag include a thick slab of clay, a big bottle of sparkly gold paint, a lethal-looking carving knife, and a dozen or so of the narrowest paintbrushes I’ve ever seen.
Danny demonstrates the creation of the first couple of badges, cutting delicate crown shapes out of the smoothed clay using a paper stencil. He watches my initial attempts with an approving, almost scholarly eye then passes the reins over to me. Whenever I get stuck, Danny feeds me instructions from behind his easel, and I pretend I’m not the subject of a live portrait.
He looks different when he paints. His brow lowers in concentration, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. His focus on me is intense in a way that reminds me of Finlay, but where Finlay’s smart green gaze would assess me, Danny’s nut-brown eyes observe me almost in devotion.
“I think I’m done,” I say, quickly calculating the number of crowns I’ve made. I feel like I’ll be seeing crowns in my sleep. “I did a few extra so there’s more in stock.”
“Good thinking,” Danny murmurs, not taking his attention off the easel. “Gimme a sec and I’ll fire it up in the oven next door.”
There’s a lot of wizardry in the production of this kind of art that I’d been unaware of. Danny eventually peels himself from his easel with a brief apology (“I’m sorry, it’s just… this painting may be my most important.”) He removes the board with the clay crowns and carries them out of the room, giving me a pointed order not to approach the easel.
I don’t approach the easel, but I do have a look around the classroom. It’s so much more chaotic than every other room I’ve been inside in Lochkelvin, like it belongs to a crafting hoarder. Dulled pencils and stained paintbrushes cover almost every surface. Stumps of chalk have rolled their way into dusty corners, long forgotten. Under a pile of thick A2 card, I discover a small rectangular radio, its antenna flattened by the weight of the paper. It takes a while to make it work, its buttons and speakers encrusted with dried paint, but eventually music blooms into the room — soft instrumental jazz, the type you’d only expect to hear at this time of night, when its dreamy brass tendrils make a woozy sense.
When Danny returns, he’s holding the tray with polka dot oven gloves. “They need to cool and the tray’s still hot, so watch out. What’s that music?”
“I found a radio.”
