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I must have flinched just a little, because Rose paused and examined my expression. “Are you all right?”
“After that? Couldn’t be better,” I said, giving her one last quick peck—and tucking my arm close to my side.
The scar was prickling again, not just beneath the cuff but farther up my arm and toward my wrist as well. I didn’t dare check it in front of Rose, but the certainty filled me that when I did look, I’d find that the silvery mark had grown, spidering out across my skin to claim new territory of its own.
Chapter Eight
Jin
As much as I rejoiced that Rose’s home was now mine as well, down to a room reserved for me to work my creativity in, walking into my own gallery still sent a quiver of joy through my chest. This place with its white-washed walls and pale, polished floor had been a labor of love in more ways than one. The faction of witches who’d opposed us had burned it to the ground last year, and it’d taken a couple of months to see the building reconstructed.
I liked to think it’d come out even better in the second iteration. I’d been able to offer input into every aspect of the space from the ground up this time, after all.
I stopped in the middle of the main gallery room on the first floor and turned slowly, taking in the paintings I’d chosen to hang on those walls, the stands that sprouted up from the floor holding more three-dimensional pieces I’d created, some sculpted in clay or metal, some built of found objects.
Was it as cohesive and impactful a collection as the one I’d lost to the fire? It was hard to judge. Probably not, considering the previous one had drawn from several years of work and I’d only had a matter of months to replace it. I was proud of what I’d pulled together in that time all the same.
Something about the space niggled at me today, though. The balance wasn’t quite right, was it? I couldn’t put my finger on how, though. Frowning, I swiveled on my feet again, taking in every inch of the room.
A streak of orange at the corner of one painting flashed under my gaze. In a blink, the whole room flared around me.
Dancing flames and crackling heat, smoke flooding my lungs so thick and stinging a cough sputtered out of me. Panic jolted through my chest. It couldn’t happen again—all the passion I’d poured into this work—I couldn’t lose everything a second time—
“Mr. Lyang?”
The tentative reedy voice broke the illusion. The flames snapped away, leaving only the white walls and the untouched artwork as they’d been before. I dragged in a breath, my legs abruptly wobbly beneath me. The air coursed clean and cool into my mouth, but my throat still prickled with a faint rawness.
It’d been nothing real. Just a memory stirred up from my unconscious.
The college freshman the voice belonged to was peering at me nervously. I’d hired Jason to open the gallery to visitors on a few mornings during the week when he didn’t have classes so that viewings weren’t totally dependent on my schedule. It was pretty easy work—he unlocked the door, flipped the sign to OPEN, and kept an eye on anyone who came and went from the little office to the side while he caught up on his readings.
How much had I outwardly reacted to that vision of the past? I shot the kid my usual easy smile. “Hey. Just stopping by to do some work in the studio. Many visitors today?”
My casual tone appeared to reassure him. He shrugged, his slim frame relaxing. “A few tourists about two hours ago, and a couple kids from the high school doing some kind of project after that. Not a super busy day.”
We didn’t get many busy days around here. I was happy my art had caught enough attention to make it into guidebooks and the like, for the occasional travelers who were coming out to this part of the country anyway.
“Good to know I’m paying you for something,” I teased. “You can close up now if you want to head out.”
“Nah, I’ve got another hour to kill anyway before I need to get to school. If you’re good with me staying on.”
“You might as well if you’re up for it. Never know when a random art enthusiast might stop by.” I might not be bringing in much money from my pieces—we didn’t get many artbuyerswith large budgets out this way—but the bank account my dad regularly topped up from his concert earnings meant I didn’t have to worry about paying the kid. Funding my artistic lifestyle was how Dad made up for how much of my childhood he’d missed while pursuing his own creative pursuits. It wasn’t a perfect trade-off, but I’d take it.
“Oh!” Jason snapped his fingers. “You got a call first thing this morning—from that woman with the gallery in L.A. again. She seems really keen on discussing this possible show with you.”
Something odd happened in my stomach, like a twist and a flutter melded into one. I kept my smile up, but it tightened slightly. “Good to know.”
“Here’s her info, in case you need it.” He passed me a slip of notepaper. I barely glanced at it before tucking it into my back pocket.
The “possible show” only existed in Maude Arville’s mind. We hadn’t actually talked directly yet. I’d looked her up after her first call, though, wondering whether she was even legit. She did own a pretty large and apparently popular independent gallery in the city of angels.
But L.A. was several hours distant even by plane, once you accounted for getting to the nearest airport and the rest. The thought of zipping off even that far away provoked another sensation that was almost entirely twisting this time.
I headed up the stairs at the back of the building to the second floor, which was all studio now that I didn’t need any of it as a living space. Two easels, one huge and one more modest, stood at opposite ends of the room facing the broad southern windows. Across from the windows, a huge cabinet and sideboard held various odds and ends I’d picked up for my more experimental pieces, one of which sat on the sideboard halfway to completion.
That jumble of form didn’t call to me today. I paused, considering, and went to the larger canvas, already mostly decorated with a base level of oil paint. The familiar pungent smell tickled my nose.
I’d only finished the foundation of the image—with oils you needed to build up to the final work in layers. The shades of blue and yellow were only starting to hint at the shapes I’d accentuate. Even an abstract or impressionist work, as most of mine were, required a certain amount of form.
