Chapter 3 Dorian
Dorian
Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
The Benoist Museum is as dark and silent as a tomb.
The only source of illumination comes from arcane spotlights beaming down on the artifacts protected in their glass display cases.
The cases are lined like headstones, forming a natural aisle for me to walk toward the rear of the atrium, and I glance into each as I pass by.
Gilded swords, suits of armor, enormous textiles, cuff links, even fountain pens.
The vastness of the collection is breathtaking.
The air here smells of wood polish and old leather, and the dark wood paneling mutes the sounds that echo in the space.
It looks like I’m the only one here. The silence of the room is broken by my quiet footsteps on the polished stone floor.
Calming my nerves, I breathe as deeply as if I’m at the lacrosse pitch underneath all my padding as the goalie.
But there’s more at stake here than the mid-Atlantic championship.
I’m breathing in the scent, the smell of history, their air of wealth and prestige.
The Benoist Museum is the most famous magical museum in the world, and it’s my first day on the job.
I pause and check my reflection in a nearby display case.
Annoyed that a lock of hair is out of place, resting too casually on my forehead for someone who works in a serious institution like this one, I comb it back with my fingers, ensuring that I look the part.
I adjust the cuffs of my jacket and smooth out wrinkles in my slacks.
I have to force myself to stop fidgeting, but I’m excited and eager to get started, so I take out my pocket watch and hold it in my gloved fist. I like how solid it feels under my grip, solid and trustworthy.
I never leave the house without it. It doesn’t work anymore, not to keep time.
But I don’t use it as a watch. My mom gave it to me when I was younger, because she said I looked so much like its previous owner, her grandfather.
She’d said I reminded her of him. Now it serves as a reminder of her. She’s why I’m doing this, after all.
“Oh,” a voice coos. “Is that a full Hunter, Wehinger & Brahms skeleton pocket watch?”
I turn and see a slender man of about fifty standing behind me. There’s no sign of gray in his pitch-black hair, and he’s dressed in a dark suit jacket and white shirt. He’s smiling at me, his light eyes crinkling behind square glasses looped with a thin golden chain.
“Am I correct?” he asks.
“Yes. It was my great-grandfather’s.” I raise an eyebrow.
His eyes light up. “A rare antique! May I?”
He holds out his hand, and I set it in his palm.
He pushes his glasses up his nose and raises the pocket watch to the light.
“Yellow gold casing, good condition, well-loved, clearly. Original leather strap, too. I’m guessing 1930s or so—maybe 1932, to be precise, based on the reddish stain, as they discontinued that color soon after.
Oh, what delicate craftsmanship on the front, so wonderful.
Are these your great-grandfather’s initials?
” He points to the engraved letters on the back of the casing.
I nod, admiring his skills in observation. I had no idea this model was so rare.
He presses the button on the casing, flipping it open to look at the watch face. “Ah, but it’s broken.” The glass is cracked, all of the gears and mechanical dials in permanent stasis, stuck at 3:33 exactly. His expression falls as he closes the pocket watch. “Shame.”
“My great-grandfather dropped it on the deck of his ship crossing the Atlantic. It hasn’t worked since.” Even if it was worth millions, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to sell it. It’d be like selling a part of my soul.
With a tilt of his head and a smile, the man returns my watch and extends his hand to me. “I’m the head curator here at Old Bones, and chair of the art history department, Nathan Evander. You must be our new junior curator, Dorian Winthrop.”
I pocket my watch once more and shake his hand. “I am indeed. Good to meet you, Professor Evander, and happy to be here.”
“And we’re happy to have you.” The professor gestures for me to follow, leading me deeper inside.
“Welcome to the Benoist Museum. Everyone calls it Old Bones, for reasons all too obvious.” He gestures casually to a human skull encased in glass with emeralds set in the unblinking eye sockets.
Its toothy grin is like a taunt from the dead.
Evander begins to lead the way to a set of doors at the end of the atrium. “Behold, our esteemed collection. You’re going to become all too familiar with the artifacts, from paintings to relics, ceramics to busts—”
As we pass it, the skull seems to be watching me, its grin permanently stretched. “Is that real?” I ask.
“The human bones? Of course they’re real,” he says.
“All of the artifacts here are part of arcane history, often displayed alongside remnants of their dearly departed. Skulls, mummified hands, tanned human skin preserving tattoos, all of it is meticulously cataloged by my team. The residual magic left over from a wizard’s life still permeates the physical form long after the spirit has left this plane, making the wizards as useful in death as they were in life, for the greater cause that is Sibylline. Magic is all around us, Dorian.”
I put my hand in my pocket, brushing my fingers against the watch inside. It’s a habit, a security blanket. Even though I can’t touch it with my bare hands, I like to know it’s there.
He slows his pace, glancing at me. “Cold, are you?” he asks, noting I haven’t taken off my gloves.
“No, sir,” I say.
“I’ve been told that you possess a magical ability, is that true?”
“Psychometry, yes.” That’s the clinical term. “When I touch something, I see flashes of its history, of the person who carried it, the emotions poured into it when it was being held.” The talent works with people, too, but results are unpredictable, dangerous even.
The professor’s eyes gleam. “Psychometry, is that right? And you never take them off? Your gloves?”
“Never,” I tell him. My mother called what I have a gift, but it can be embarrassing sometimes and inconvenient.
When my magic first manifested, I used to open doors with clothed elbows or use my sleeve to push buttons, because the visions can be overwhelming.
Most people thought I was a germaphobe or had some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
No one knew the truth of it. No one else could understand. Except for Atticus and Raven.
It was Raven who got me these gloves for my sixteenth birthday. I don’t go anywhere in public without them now. Like a half-remembered dream, I can still feel the gloves’ faded memory of the moment when she picked them out for me, a hazy but pleasant reminder that she’s always with me.
“It’s difficult to control my magic,” I tell the professor.
Touching is a problem for me. When I was eleven, I touched a person—not in that way—but it was the first time I had touched someone skin-to-skin since my magic manifested, and it didn’t go well.
The memory still rattles me. It’s so bad, I can’t even bring myself to kiss my mom on the cheek when she’s in the hospital for more chemotherapy.
I’m too afraid to feel the pain she’s in. It’s a shame I carry.
I clear my throat. “Sometimes my visions can be distracting.” Professor Evander looks slightly disappointed, so I add quickly, “It won’t interfere with my work, I promise.”
“Interfere? It’s why we hired you! I was hoping we could make use of your gift.”
Intriguing. I’ve always been curious about what I can do—when the gloves come off, so to speak. “I’m eager to help.”
The professor smiles broadly. “Splendid. Someone with your talent will thrive in this institution. I’m certain of it. Would you be so kind as to give me a little demonstration?”
The collar of my shirt suddenly feels too tight as he studies me, like a butterfly pinned in a glass case. I get the sense that this is some kind of test. If I decline, I’ll disappoint him, and I’ll throw away this one chance to learn more about my magic.
“Sure,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest, a drop of sweat forming on my brow.
He guides me down a darkened hallway and into the back rooms of the museum, where the curators flit in and out of the preparation rooms. It’s like being backstage at a play: busy but quiet.
Hardly anyone glances my way, they’re so focused on their tasks, handling statues and sculptures as if they’re priceless. Maybe they really are.
Evander stops at a room stacked with wooden crates stuffed with straw.
“We’re quite busy sorting through all of the recent donations, organizing, and cataloging.”
I stare dumbfounded at the stack of crates. “Are there usually so many?” I ask.
“We’re bringing together a large exhibition.
It’s called The Procession of Time. It honors some of the first benefactors of the institution.
The museum is hosting a fundraising gala.
It’ll be the party of the year, but the schedule is tight, and we’re behind on the work.
” He turns and gestures to the back of the room.
“Come. Perhaps you can settle a little predicament.”
He brings me to a large wooden crate where an oil painting in a gilded frame sits propped on its side. The image depicts Dante descending into hell.
“Is this a Hubert?” I ask, stunned. Francis Hubert was one of the most famous magical artists of the nineteenth century, imbuing his paintings with enchanted paints.