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97
The next week passes by in a blur.
The days are busy with the usual routine of classes and mealtimes spent with my fellow Blues, but with Braxton still gone, the nights are unbearably long.
I miss the heat of his kiss, the sound of my name whispered from his lips.
I miss the comfort of his arms banded snugly around me, the feel of his body pressing hard against mine.
And I have no idea when he’ll be back, when we’ll be able to resume that part of our life.
When a Chopin piece blares from my slab, I can’t help but groan. The long slog back from the Autumn Room where I transition from laughing with friends to the tomblike quiet of my own room is when the loneliness really sets in.
Except tonight doesn’t unfold in the usual way. Because just as we’re spilling out the door and into the hall, my slab buzzes with a new message, and I’m surprised to find it’s from Arthur.
AB:A surprise awaits. Follow the arrow.
Normally, a surprise is considered a good thing. But a surprise with Arthur attached makes me wonder if he’s finally getting around to the debriefing he mentioned after my Trip. And if he is, I have no idea what to expect.
“You coming?” Oliver hangs back as Song, Finn, Jago, and Elodie continue toward our rooms.
I shake my head and proceed to where Arthur sits in one of those small electric carts that zoom around the outer reaches of this place.
He motions for me to take the seat beside him, then navigates a complex series of hallways in a state of complete and utter silence that leaves me so anxious, by the time he parks and leads me to a bank of elevators, my knees are literally shaking.
“You’re nervous.” He shoots me a look of amusement and ushers me into the elevator car where we quickly descend deep into the bowels of the academy.
When the panels slide open, we head down a short, dimly lit hall. At the end, he pauses before a brushed metal door, where he looks at me with a gaze glinting with something known only to him. “Ready?” he asks.
The best I can do is shrug. The threat of hyperventilating overrides any curiosity I can drum up.
“Welcome to the Vault!” With a push of a button, the thick steel door opens to a sight so wondrous, my jaw literally drops. “Go on, have a look—feast your eyes!” He grins. “There’s nothing like your first visit.”
To put it simply, it’s a museum to end all museums. An enormous, climate-controlled storeroom filled with the most wondrous, important, impactful paintings, sculptures, jewels, letters, trinkets, artifacts, historical objects, and mementos the world has ever known. And as I struggle to take it all in, I have the terrible sinking feeling that all these wonders before me are real. And that it’s people like me—the Trippers, the chrononauts—who are responsible for putting them here.
Suddenly, I understand that all the beautiful works I’ve seen around Gray Wolf aren’t the products of the skilled team of forgers and craftsmen Arthur keeps on staff. No, their job is to copy the greatest works of art, which the Trippers then exchange for the real ones.
“I can tell by the look on your face that you understand what this is really about.” Arthurs’s voice echoes throughout the high-ceilinged room.
I nod. It’s all I can do. I mean, what’s the proper response when one reveals that it’s the museums that house all the fakes? The real art is here.
“You’re shaken,” he says, without a trace of judgment. “It’s shocking, I know. But what you need to understand is that modern society doesn’t deserve these great works. Why should a masterpiece like theMona Lisabe reduced to mere background fodder for hordes of narcissistic selfie takers? It’s absolute blasphemy to treat her with such disrespect! How often have you stood before a great work, only to hear some boorish tourist announce to the room at large, “I could paint that!”
Arthur pronounces “tourist” in the same cringey tone as a church lady whispering a profanity she overheard.
He reels on me then, those obsidian eyes sparking in a way I’ve never seen. “No!I want to tell them—youcouldn’tpaint that, write that, design that, build that, compose that, or film that. And, more importantly, youdidn’tdo any of those things. Not because you lack the time, as you claim, but because you lack the genius, the inspiration, the courage, the curiosity, the generosity of spirit, and the creative drive required to create a thing of beauty. You’ve never peered deep into your soul and asked the sort of questions required for such an act.”
He pauses, allowing enough space for the words to properly land. “When society turns its back on true artistry for the pursuit of banality, then no, they don’t get to visit Leonardo’s masterpiece just because they happen to be vacationing near the Louvre and want to check it off a bucket list. Leonardo da Vinci did not labor so that his work could be viewed through the glazed eyes of an unruly tour group less interested in trulyseeingit than posting to their social media feeds so everyone will know theyhave seenit. Leonardo created because it allowed him to touch the divine, and when we view his works properly, we get a glimpse of that, too.”
I swear his eyes are misted with tears, but he does nothing to hide it. He’s not the least bit ashamed. This is a man with a passion for beauty like I’ve never seen. And while I know it’s wrong to rob the world of these treasures, in a strange way, I also understand Arthur’s point. To love something so deeply can make you fiercely, obsessively protective.
“And now—” He places a hand on my shoulder and steers me deeper into the space. “I get to indulge a favorite moment of mine, when I watch one of my students choose a painting to hang in their room.”
I respond with a look of stunned silence, prompting Arthur to say, “I assumed you’d heard about these visits to the Vault.”
“I have,” I tell him. “I just…”
“You don’t think you deserve a reward,” he says. As usual, his laser-sharp vision cuts right through me.
“I didn’t solve the puzzle.” I shrug. “I was right on the verge, but then—” When I look at him, I find his gaze locked on mine, and my mouth goes so dry, I struggle to finish the thought. “Well, then I ran out of time.”
“And the cards?” he asks. “I noticed they didn’t make the trip back.”
“I was confronted and…” I inhale a shaky breath, stare down at my feet. “I lost them.”
Arthur looms before me, examining me with such white hot intensity, I feel as though I’m about to ignite under the glare of his lens. “Come,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I want to show you something.”
