Part 4 (1/2)
”Yes” He's staring at me now.
”That's where you come in” He breaks the gaze first, reaches down, and sets a small black case on his desk. The sound of the locks snapping back seems to startle him momentarily, and I notice that his fingers are trembling a little. I blow on my tea to cool it, watching the stray tea leaves coalesce into a vague question mark shape before dissipating. Wouldn't it be nice if that were my Talent-to read the future so I could see exactly how to proceed out of this situation?” Here we are,” Alistair says and pa.s.ses a piece of paper across the desk to me. I lean forward to take it and study it in silence. It's a reproduction of a painting-an old one by the texture of the paper, worn and frayed in the corners. It looks as if it was framed at one point; I can see faint yellow outlines around the borders of the page. A clock, simple and straightforward, is set in the middle of the page. The face is inscribed with jewel-colored roman numerals and the hands are gold. Some fancy scrollwork design runs along the edges of the clock; I run one finger along the bottom of the page. Something is familiar about the clock, but I can't say exactly what. Apparently, my face must have given this away, because I can feel Alistair lean closer to me.
”What is it?” he asks, and his accent is suddenly more resonant and intense. I look up and meet his eyes, and for one inexplicable second I feel as though I am looking at someone else. Or rather, as if another person is looking out from behind his eyes, watching me eagerly. Hungrily. I jerk sideways uncontrollably, my hand knocking my tea and spilling the cup onto the floor. It lands with a sharp cracking sound.
”I'm so sorry,” I cry, down on my knees in an instant, turning the mug upright. The handle has snapped off cleanly.
”I broke the cup, but I think the tea missed the rug at least. I'm-”
”It's no trouble, really. Let me see, napkins somewhere-ah, yes, here” And he joins me on the floor with a wad of napkins in each hand. I take some and we begin dabbing at the liquid seeping into the cracks between the floorboards.
”Oh!” says a female voice from somewhere above our heads, and we both look up instantly. Suddenly, my face is blazing, and it doesn't help that Alistair is already stammering.
”Oh, y-yes, Ms. Barnes, wh-what can I do to you? For you?” I choke and busy myself with recovering the mug handle, which has flown under the desk.
”Your copies,” Ms. Barnes says, and her voice sounds iced over.
”Yes, right, thank you. Excellent. Excellent,” Alistair says a few more times, and thankfully when I surface from under the desk, Ms. Barnes is gone with a swish of her starched skirt.
”Well,” I say in my most normal voice, even though I'm sure my face is still red, ”this has been eventful.”
”Hasn't it, though?” Alistair says and straightens up, holding out his hand for me.
Awkwardly I take it, then nearly pull back. His palm feels hot and dry, as if there's a fire burning right underneath the skin. To cover my confusion, I clamber to my feet and brush my jeans free of imaginary lint.
”Can I have this?” I point to the painting.
”Of course, of course. That's yours.” I nod.
”I'll see what I can do. I'll be in touch,” I say, because that sounds professional enough, even though I'm not exactly sure why I'm worrying about being professional at this point, since I've been lying from the moment I met this man.
He nods back at me, his eyes suddenly two hard and glittering bits of polished stone.
”I look forward to it.” I nod some more.
”Okay,” I say finally. I need to stop nodding now. We smile briefly at each other and I turn to go. At the door I stop and turn back.
”Just out of curiosity ...”
”Yes?” Alistair says, and I watch how his body goes still. It's something about the way he draws his elbows into his sides, like a hawk about to plunge.
”I know you mentioned that you heard of us through an antique shop. Which one was it, again?”
”Oh” He smiles.
”Pinkerton, I believe, was his name” I nod thoughtfully. Angus Pinkerton flashes into my head. He looks sort of like a rabbit with his red-rimmed eyes and pinched, twitchy nose. I remember a visit to his shop years ago with my grandmother.
He kept one eye on me the whole time he was talking to her and seemed on the point of bursting into tears when I ran one finger over a dusty blue gla.s.s globe. Still, my grandmother has ”found” a number of things for him over the years, and in return he's sent her plenty of business.
”He mentioned that if I was looking for something that couldn't be found, well, I could try your grandmother's shop. It seems your family has quite a reputation.” I smile.
”You have no idea.”
FIVE.
”STOP MOVING SO MUCH.”
”I'm not moving at all!”
”Your face is moving.”
”It's called breathing, Agatha!” I glare at my roommate. She frowns back at me, then looks down at her sketchbook and makes three decisive strokes across the page. I have a feeling that she just crossed out my face.
”This isn't working. Your face just isn't working.”
”Thanks,” I mutter.
”Can I move now?”
”Yes” She sighs, waving her pencil like a conductor.
”Take a break” Then she jabs the pencil at me, blue eyes intent under dark eyebrows.
”But we are trying this again in ten minutes. This is due tomorrow and I'm not searching for another subject now” She opens the mini fridge.
”Did you drink my c.o.ke?”
”Um ... no.”
”Pig,” Agatha says briefly before scooping up a stack of s.h.i.+ny quarters on my desk that I was saving for laundry. ”Want one?” she so generously asks, and I nod, watching her swing out of the room. I hop up from the beanbag that we have wedged into the corner under the window in our version of a window seat.
It's my favorite place to read, listening to the noise of traffic eleven floors below.
I wander over to my desk, stretch, and look down at the painting of the clock that I have half hidden under some textbooks. I'm still puzzling over where I've seen it before.
”OH MY G.o.d!!!” a female voice exclaims angrily from somewhere down the hallway. New Hyde Prep is an all girls' school, and it seems as if someone is shrieking about something every other minute. I wait, listening for more, but when nothing happens, I go back to studying the painting. Agatha had p.r.o.nounced it ”pretty” earlier but was completely unfamiliar with it. Therefore, I deducted with my superior sleuthing skills that it's not something I saw in my Intro to Art History cla.s.s last year, since she took the cla.s.s with me.
I spent two hours at the library yesterday combing through a selection of art history textbooks, trying without any success to find its match. Then I came home and stared at the wall for a while, trying my hardest to remember where I've seen this clock before. Something is circling in the back of my mind, but it's too-A brisk knock on the door s.n.a.t.c.hes me out of my reverie. I flip some folders over the picture, then turn. The door, which was half ajar to begin with, now swings all the way open. I look up to find Gabriel standing just outside the room.
Both of his hands are anch.o.r.ed over his eyes.
”Is it safe?” he asks. Gabriel. Here. In my dorm room! I have only enough time to really regret that I'm wearing my least favorite jeans, grubby flip-flops, and a plain blue T-s.h.i.+rt that shows absolutely nothing.
”Is what safe?” I ask. Gabriel widens his fingers, peers through the gaps.
”Did you hear that screaming down the hall?”