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94
Song stands in the doorway and squints like a person who’s still in the process of waking up and hasn’t decided whether to fully commit.
“Hey, Natasha,” she says. “What’s up?”
She’s in her robe, and I don’t want to impose, but this is the sort of thing that’s probably better said behind a closed door. “Can we talk?” I ask. “Inside?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she waves me through, and the first thing I notice is that her room is not as nice as Elodie’s but also not as basic as mine.
When she catches me looking at her collection of modern art pieces, she says, “I guess you haven’t visited the Vault yet. Don’t worry, you will.”
“The Vault?” I follow her deeper into her room and take a seat on her leopard upholstered divan.
“Every successful Trip—and by successful, I mean you’ve either managed to return with a particularly difficult Get, or you’ve filched something that surprises and delights Arthur—he rewards you with a visit to the Vault, which houses his private collection of art, and where he invites you to choose a piece for your room.”
“Are you saying those pieces in Elodie’s and Braxton’s rooms—they chose them?”
Song folds herself onto a pale pink cushion and nods.
I think about Elodie’s collection—it was massive, impressive. A well-balanced mix of modern works and old masters that totally suits her, considering how she has one foot firmly placed in the old world and the other in the current one.
As for Braxton—the art he chose was darker, brooding, epic in both story and scale, and all similar in theme. A collection of contorted bodies and tortured faces that speak to the pain of being a human, striving for a touch of the divine, but constantly falling short.
And then Song—the canvas directly before me encompasses most of the wall.
“Considering your interest in art, you should really enjoy the Vault,” she says.
“How do you know I’m interested in art?” All those nights spent in the Autumn Room, I don’t remember ever mentioning that. I don’t remember saying anything particularly revealing—none of us did. Here at Gray Wolf, if you’re not Tripping to a long-ago past, you work to stay grounded in the present.
“It’s one of the reasons you’re here,” she says. “It’s one of the reasons we’re all here. Arthur has great appreciation for those with an elevated aesthetic.”
“I’m not sure my aesthetic is all that elevated,” I say. “I arrived here in a baggy hoodie, sneakers, and a dress Elodie chose worn over a pair of sweatpants Braxton loaned me.”
“I’m talking about a deep appreciation for beauty. True beauty. The kind of feel-it-to-the-depths-of-your-soul response you get when experiencing a particularly moving work of art that makes you want to climb inside that landscape, the pages of a book, or even the notes of a song, so you can know the work more intimately, maybe even live there for a while. I know you’ve felt that way, or else you wouldn’t be here. It’s not just about finding teens who live on the margins, it’s more than that. Arthur has no tolerance for anything he considers ordinary. It’s one of the reasons he abhors social media. Most of the big tech guys secretly do. But for Arthur, all those overly curated feeds—he claims it’s turning us all into clones. Everyone talks about their personal style and brand, but Arthur refers to it as a Personal Bland.”
I laugh.
“Arthur can be funny, actually. It just takes some time to see that side of him. Anyway, if you’re going to try to analyze me through my art, I’ll save you the trouble and say I like plain, simple, upfront pieces. I get my fill of shadow and mystery just walking these halls.”
I take another look at the canvas. I’m not sure I’d call that Jackson Pollock piecesimple. The well of emotional turmoil required to cover a canvas that large with multiple layers of splatters feels pretty deep to me. But if that’s how Song wants to see herself, it’s hardly my place to argue.
“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t just a friendly visit?” She stretches her arms high overhead, bends to her right, then left, but all the while her gaze remains leveled on mine.
“I found something,” I say. “Something I figured you should have.”
Her interest clearly piqued, she sweeps her curtain of long, dark hair over her shoulder and leans toward me.
I study her closely as I pass her the envelope, watching for whatever sort of reaction might play across her face before she has a chance to conceal her true feelings. But it’s nothing like that. The moment she unfolds the first note, tears begin to spill down her cheeks.
“Where did you find these?” she whispers, as though afraid of being overheard.
“Hidden behind a drawer.”
“Did you read them?” Her gaze is accusing at first, but soon softens. “Of course you did. I would’ve done the same.” She sighs. Then, “Her name was Anjou, like the pear.” She tries to laugh, but I watch as the small burst of joy quickly fades from her face. “We were together. I loved her. And I miss her every single day.”
“What happened?” I ask, watching as Song’s long, graceful fingers flip through the pile of notes.
When she doesn’t answer, I ask again, but she just wipes her eyes, tucks the envelope away, and settles her gaze on mine.
“Don’t tell anyone you found these,” she says, her voice tinged with an unspoken warning.
