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101
I stand before Arthur, stomach clenching, pulse jittering, as the full impact of my mistake comes reeling back toward me.
I mentioned the cabinet! And now he knows about the Unraveling and my ability to see glimpses of the past.
Or maybe he already knew about that.
Maybe that’s exactly what he meant when he said that bit about my vision having far more reach than I’m willing to admit.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and force the words from my tongue. “Y-you mentioned it,” I stammer. “You—”
“No,” Arthur says, gaze brightening. “I most certainly didn’t.” He turns away and tucks the map back into its drawer. When he returns to me, he says, “I trust you’ll know the object I seek when you see it.”
I’m not entirely sure I agree but, since there’s obviously no point in trying to persuade him, I ask him the other question I’ve been wondering. “Let’s say I do manage to find the missing piece, and eventually, all the other pieces as well—what then? I mean, you said the Antikythera Mechanism is the means to everything the world has the potential to be, but I’m not sure I understand. What exactly do you plan to do with it once it’s fully restored?”
For one fleeting moment, Arthur’s expression takes on a dreamy, faraway look.
When he finds me again, his gaze burns as bright as I’ve ever seen. “Why, I’m going to remake the world,” he says, as though stating something glaringly obvious.
A silence stretches between us, and I remember my conversation with Song, and how convinced she was that Arthur had no intention of messing with the course of history, and then, the night I arrived, when Braxton told me that Arthur was a collector of beauty. And I can’t help but wonder if maybe Arthur has set his sights on something between these two things.
Maybe after curating a personal collection of the most vaulted pieces of art through the ages, he’s now turned his eye to curating the world itself.
But he can’t actually believe he can do such a thing.
Before I can ask him to elaborate, he says, “Now come. Time to choose a piece for your room.”
Despite everything that just happened, despite the uneasy twitch in my belly, the thought of one day owning one of these glorious pieces of art makes me as excited as a kid on Christmas Day—one who lives in a house where Santa always shows up and does not disappoint.
Arthur ushers me out of the secret room, and over to a display case featuring a glittering tiara. “A sapphire and diamond coronet Prince Albert designed for Queen Victoria in 1840.” He gestures proudly. “Theirs was quite a love story, and this is a symbol of their devotion. What do you think? It’s yours if you want it.”
I imagine the look on Elodie’s face when I show up for dinner in the Winter Room with the crown informally perched on my head. She would totally freak, and that alone is enough to tempt me. Though in the end, I decide against it. A relic of someone else’s love story doesn’t hold much interest for me.
We head for the section where Arthur stores the more important pieces of art. “How do you emulate the pigments and the materials for the forgeries?” I ask. “There must be experts who are trained to spot the difference?”
“Experts.” Arthur scoffs. “Yes, I suppose there are no shortage ofexpertsin the art world, but we’ve managed to fool them all, thanks to the Reds.”
I turn to him. “Reds?” Though just after I say it, I realize he’s referring to the color of a sweatshirt, like the Greens, Yellows, or Blues. Apparently, there’s a whole other category I didn’t even realize existed, and I wonder if that might be the next goal to shoot for.
“The Reds tend to keep to themselves. Also, their Trips last much longer. Sometimes they travel as benefactors, commissioning pieces, paying for supplies, that sort of thing. Other times they procure pigments, brushes, canvases, and other tools for our Gray Wolf artisans to use.”
I turn to Arthur, torn between complete awe and utter horror at what he’s accomplished. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” I say, then immediately worry I might’ve spoken out of turn, crossed an invisible boundary by acting too familiar.
But Arthur, proud of his iconoclast status, just grins. “Yes,” he says. “I have. And just so you don’t get the wrong impression and assume I’m motivated solely by greed, aside from the assigned Gets and the trinkets I allow you to keep, everything else is returned to the timeline in which it was taken and distributed among the poor.”
I’m pretty sure my jaw has just landed on the floor as I stare wide-eyed at Arthur. His ability to surprise never ceases to amaze me.
“I’ve always been one to root for the underdog.” His face creases into a close-mouthed grin. “Which is why I try to redistribute the wealth when I can.”
“Ohmygosh,” I say. “You’re Robin Hood.” I watch as he tips back his head and lets out a deep-bellied laugh.
“Better to be known as that than Dickens’s Fagin,” he says with a wink.
I return to the art, and after serious consideration, I’m about to reach for Boticelli’sPrimaverasimply because it’s always struck me as joyous and happy, and I could use a little of that. But then I detour in an entirely different direction when I catch a glimpse of a well-known piece from the surrealism school—a picture of a stark landscape and clocks melting. Like theMona Lisa, it also has a river running in the background.
Salvador Dalí’s most famous work:The Persistence of Memory.
“Interesting choice,” Arthur says, and I realize that part of the reason he enjoys bringing us here is so he can analyze our picks and glean something about us that we may have tried to keep hidden. “Dalí claims they’re not actually clocks, but rather bits of camembert melting in the sun. What do you think?”
