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48
Before me, Arthur’s gaze darkens, but his lips tip up at the sides.
Hawke takes a few notes on his tablet, then says, “Uh-huh. Good. Now move on to the next.”
I stare at the gold frame, wondering what this is about. I know he said I’m jumping way ahead in the program, but I don’t remember seeing any mention of tarot card analysis on my class schedule. Though I did see swordcraft and equestrian, and those objects are included in the lineup.
“When you’re ready,” Keane prompts.
I reach for the frame, and the second my finger taps the edge, the stage disappears, and I find myself standing smack in the middle of a museum.
It takes me a second to realize it’s the Louvre.
Is this what Braxton meant when he hinted at a trip to Paris?Because while I know I haven’t left Gray Wolf, it’s like my senses have been hijacked and transported me to a new time and place.
I’m surrounded by glorious paintings as a large crowd of tourists wanders about. When a small child breaks free of his mother and runs into me, I’m shocked to find myself fumbling backward to keep from falling, even though there is no child. No museum.
Not a single bit of this is real.
And yet, the effect is so visceral, I smell the floral perfume worn by the woman standing beside me—catch the scent of a recently smoked cigar clinging to a man’s corduroy jacket. I can hear the shuffle of feet, the murmur of voices.
And suddenly it dawns on me:this is how they created Arcana.
From somewhere outside the illusion, Hawke says, “Now move toward the crowd.”
A sign on the wall tells me I’m in Denon Alley. And though the name rings familiar, I’m not sure why until I catch sight of theMona Lisahanging on the far wall.
“Tell me everything that comes to mind,” Hawke says. “No holding back.”
“It’s one of the most famous paintings in this museum,” I say, the words spilling out in a rush. “One of the most famous pieces in the world. Though it wasn’t until after it was stolen by a Louvre employee back in 1911 that the world finally took notice.”
“And how do you know all this?” Keane asks.
I move through the virtual crowd to get a better look. “I don’t know,” I say, which is true. I don’t know how I know most of the things I’ve shared so far. “I guess I learned about it in art class, maybe?”
“You don’t sound like you’re sure,” he says.
“I feel sure that it’s true.”
“Anything else?”
“Some people find it disappointing,” I say. “Because it gets so much hype, seeing how small it is in person feels like a letdown.”
“But what doyousee, Natasha? What does your first glance reveal?”
I peer closer, startled to find the virtual crowd has vanished, which allows me a clear view of the painting. “I, uh…” My tongue falls flat, the words fade from my mind, as I gape at the bizarre sight suddenly unfolding before my eyes.
“Natasha?”
It’s Keane again. Or at least I think it is. But all I can do is stare as the last five centuries swiftly peel away, until I’m left gaping at a vision of the portrait stripped down to its original sketch, as a disembodied hand pops in from out of nowhere and adds the first brush stroke.
I shake my head. Inhale a quick breath. I need this mirage to fade, for the museum to snap back into place. If it weren’t for the steady lights and solid floor, I’d swear I was caught in yet another Unraveling. But this…this is something else.
And I can’t help but wonder if anyone else is watching this unfold.
“You okay?” Keane calls. The words are kind, but his tone hints at impatience.
“Yeah, um…” I clear my throat, press a hand to my belly to steady myself. “Just feeling a little… Anyway, I’m not sure what I can add when so many art historians…”
