Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Mia
I press harder on the charcoal sticks, causing it to snap.
“Fuck.”
A girl two easels down glances over.
Her gaze lingers on the scar peeking through my left sleeve.
I tug the cuff past my wrist bone.
The phoenix’s talons need more definition.
I claw the side of the pencil lead against the paper, etching lines that fray at the edges.
The smoke should have texture.
My memories come rushing back.
Dad’s arms shoving me through the kitchen window. Mom’s wedding ring catching on my sweater as she pushes.
The porch beam groaning under the magnitude of the blaze.
I blink.
My thumb rubs the inside of my wrist where the scar tissue puckers.
The studio’s overhead lights buzz—a sound like distant sirens.
I layer another shadow beneath the phoenix’s breastbone.
Negative space where the heart should be.
Someone’s phone vibrates.
The rattling against plywood makes my molars ache.
Crash of timber. Mom’s scream cut short.
I dig the charcoal into the paper so hard it squeaks.
The bird’s eye emerges—a void swallowed by lighter voids.
Phoenixes don’t have irises.
They have centuries of ash packed behind their eyelids.
My boot taps uneven concrete.
The studio floor still shows stains from last semester’s oil paint spill.
Burgundy, like the rug beneath our Christmas tree when I finally saw a glimpse of what was left of our home.
“Cohen.”
I startle at the sound of my name.
The girl with the espresso cup nods at my drawing.
“It’s supposed to be hopeful, right?” She gestures with her stir stick. “The rising from ashes thing?”
I rotate the paper ninety degrees.
The phoenix now plunges downward, wings spread like a falling bomber. “Hope’s overrated.”
She laughs, mistaking this for a joke.
The clock above the sink clicks to 3:17.
A bead of sweat slides between my shoulder blades.
The studio’s ancient radiator ticks as I scrub out a too-perfect curve in the flames.
Real fire isn’t graceful.
It’s chaos with a pattern we pretend to understand.
“Final pieces go up Friday,” someone calls from the door.
I nod without looking.
My silver ring catches on a fiber in the paper, tearing a hairline rift through the phoenix’s throat.
Fucking perfect.
The studio empties around me.
Footsteps echo in the stairwell—a rhythm that almost masks the memory of cracking wood.
Outside, a delivery van backfires .
Pop-pop.
The phoenix stares up from my portfolio.
I trace its jagged wings.
“You forgot something.”
I glance over and espresso girl is still here.
She holds out my kneaded eraser.
It leaves a gray smudge on her palm when I take it.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” She hesitates. “You okay? You look…”
“Tired.” I zip my portfolio shut. “Just really tired.”
The lie tastes like smoke, but then again, most things in my life do.
I shove the kneaded eraser into my bag, leaving gray streaks on my jeans in the process.
It’s about time to pack up, head back to my flat, and maybe even relax for the rest of the evening.
Professor Hastings’ shadow stretches across my workstation, elongated and wavering like heat distortion.
I don’t turn.
His aftershave arrives first—sandalwood and something medicinal underneath.
“Your composition.” He taps the canvas’s edge with a chipped thumbnail. “It’s exceptional. The chiaroscuro in the lower quadrant...”
“Thanks.” I slide my canvas into the portfolio, clasping it shut.
His palm settles between my shoulder blades.
Warm.
Heavy.
Lingering three seconds past professional.
My trapezius muscle twitches beneath his touch.
Through my threadbare sweater, I count the ridges of his fingerprints.
“You should be proud.” His voice drops half an octave. “Most students take years to develop this level of?—”
“I need to catch the bus.” I pivot sideways, his hand slipping to the back of my chair.
The movement sends charcoal dust swirling between us.
His wedding band glints dully under fluorescent lights—wide platinum band, no engraving.
Francisco’s text buzzes in my pocket as I shoulder my bag.
South entrance. Black railings.
The mansion's address winks from my lock screen.
Professor Hastings steps into my retreat path. “Perhaps we could discuss your technique over coffee? The Royal Academy’s new Rothko exhibit?—”
“Deadline for the Whitworth Prize’s next week.” I adjust my scarf until the wool scratches my jawline. “I don’t have a lot of free time right now.”
The lie tastes like cheap gum .
He nods, retreating to his office where the scent of bergamot tea leaks under the door.
I count seventeen steps to the elevators, each footfall echoing off concrete walls stained with decades of primer overspray.
Outside, December air razors through my coat.
I trace the mansion's route on my phone—seven blocks east past Georgian townhouses slowly vomiting Christmas decorations.
I could easily walk the entire way, but I’m not going to.
I hop on the bus and have a seat, immediately noticing a jasmine perfume that mingles with the metallic tang of wet umbrellas.
I scan the bus, noting quickly who the woman is that’s wearing it.
I sketch her profile in my mind—the way her earlobe disappears into auburn curls, the nervous tap of her patent leather pump against the floor.
“Park Lane,” the driver calls.
The mansion’s black iron gates loom between Doric columns.
Intercom cameras gleam like beetle eyes.
Francisco materializes as the gates swing inward, his gloved hands clasped behind a cashmere overcoat.
"Three hours tonight," he says, pressing four crisp bills into my palm .
The queen's face wrinkles under my thumb. "East drawing room first. The Vermeer needs particular attention."
Marble fountains stand dry in the courtyard, their basins filled with dead leaves.
My boots click too loudly in the entrance hall where a Baccarat chandelier drips crystal teardrops.
The air smells of lemon oil and distant woodsmoke.
Upstairs, vacuum-sealed display cases hold Renaissance sketches—Michelangelo's anatomical studies beside Dürer's meticulous beetles.
My cleaning cloth hovers over a Caravaggio reproduction.
The figure's outstretched hand mirrors the phoenix's talons from earlier.
Henrik's latest acquisition leans against the wainscoting—an unsigned oil painting of a burning theater.
Flames lick at velvet curtains in precise whorls that make my breath hitch.
I crouch to examine the brushwork.
The fire seems to move when viewed from the left, smoke coalescing into faces.
My phone vibrates with a gallery alert.
Lindberg Collection Acquires Controversial Arson Series.
The preview image shows charred canvas edges framing a child's silhouette in ash.
Francisco's shoes whisper across the Persian rug. " Mr. Lindberg's flight was delayed. You've got some extra time."
"Lucky me."
The LED display on my dusting wand blinks red.
I plug it into an outlet shaped like a lion's head. "Does he ever actually look at these?"
"More than you'd think." Francisco adjusts a Velázquez frame half a millimeter leftward. "The Klimt in the breakfast nook—he stares at that one for hours sometimes."
I polish the Vermeer's protective glass.
The girl's pearl earring winks under my cloth.
Three hundred years, and still that trapped light looks wet.
My reflection ghosts over her face—same high cheekbones, same too-pale complexion.
The security system chimes three descending notes.
Francisco's posture stiffens. "He’s earlier than I expected."
A door slams somewhere below.
I tuck loose hair under my cleaning cap as footsteps ascend the grand staircase—measured, rhythmic, pausing at each landing.
My rag makes frantic circles over a Titian nude.
"Miss Cohen."
Henrik's voice slicks through the room like oil .
I turn slowly.
He stands in the doorway holding a black leather portfolio dripping rain onto the parquet.
Water darkens the cuffs of his tailored trousers.
"Mr. Lindberg." The dusting wand trembles in my grip. "I was just?—"
"Finish the Botticelli corridor." He looks at me, maintaining eye contact.
I swear, I could get lost in those icy depths of his.
He shrugs out of his coat. "There's soot residue from the fireplace restoration. Can we do something about that?"
Francisco takes the damp garment. "I’m certain we can. Shall I bring you some tea to the studio?"
"Whisky. The Yamazaki eighteen." Henrik's cufflinks click against the doorframe—onyx set in palladium. "And Miss Cohen?"
I freeze with my cleaning caddy halfway to the trolley.
"Your charcoal work." He taps his temple. "The phoenix. More teeth next time. Mythical creatures shouldn't look docile."
The door closes and I’m stuck trying to figure out how he saw the phoenix.
Did he open my portfolio and steal a look?
I wouldn’t put it past him.
Francisco exhales through his nose. "You heard him. After you finish up with this, I need you to get on the soot issue."
I swallow hard, “Yeah, I’ll hop right on it after I’m done here.”
Franscisco walks off. “Perfect. I appreciate it, Miss Cohen.”
I count twelve heartbeats staring at the empty doorway.
Rain streaks the arched windows.
Somewhere in the mansion, a piano plays a dissonant chord.
This place is so damn luxurious, and I wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth from the get go.
The feather duster leaves a trail of down filaments in my wake as I retreat down to the main living area, where the renovations are taking place.
The walk down the grand staircase feels like a descent into another world, each step taking me further away from the quiet solitude of the upper floors and closer to the heart of the mansion's hidden life.
The scent of sawdust and plaster tickles my nostrils, a sharp contrast to the lemon oil and lingering woodsmoke upstairs.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the landing—my dark red hair stark against the darkness of my outfit, the silvery scars on my cheek a reminder of a past I'd rather forget.
But how can I forget it when it’s embedded within me?
Once I reach the ground floor, it doesn't take long for me to get to the living area.
The room is vast, stretching into shadowy corners filled with dust sheets and scaffolding.
A grand fireplace dominates one wall, its stone mantel chipped and stained with decades of use.
Underneath it lies a blackened circle of soot and ash, ground into the once-pristine carpet.
I survey the damage critically, noting the dust particles that hang in the air and smear across every surface within a ten-foot radius.
The workers indeed did an atrocious job clearing up after themselves.
Unsupervised renovations tend to result in such messes.
My annoyance prickles under my skin as I reach for my cleaning supplies.
For hours, I lose myself in methodical labor—vacuuming, scrubbing, wiping until my hands are raw and my muscles ache.
Each stroke of my cloth pulls away layers of grime until I'm sweating beneath my clothes.
But there is something satisfying about it too—a catharsis that pours calmness into my racing mind like cool water over hot coals.
Around me, echoes of unseen activity ebb and flow—voices carrying through open doors, footfalls on marble floors above.
But down here in this half-destroyed room, silence prevails except for the soft whispers of my cleaning tools.
Finally, as midnight approaches, the room begins to regain its former glory.
The carpet is a pristine landscape of lush fibers, the fireplace’s stone surface gleaming with renewed vigor.
I stand back and inspect my work, satisfaction bubbling up inside me.
It's not art, but there is something aesthetically pleasing about restoring order from chaos.
Francisco reappears just as I am packing my cleaning supplies back up, his footsteps echoing through the now clean room.
He surveys the area with a critical eye before nodding approvingly. "You've done exceptionally well," he says in his typically restrained manner.
I shrug off the compliment. "Just doing my job."
"No," he counters gently. "This is more than that. You have an eye for detail, Miss Cohen. A perfectionist streak that serves you well. "
A ghost of a smile touches my lips as I hoist my bag over my shoulder.
Perhaps he's right.
But then again, if I didn't have my obsession with minutiae, I wouldn't be able to survive in this world—let alone thrive.
“Well, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” He approaches and hands me a keycard. “Mr. Lindberg’s private collection requires your immediate attention.”
My thumbnail digs into a half-healed burn on my palm. “I thought that was off-limits.”
“Typically, it is. Alas, it requires your attention.”
Whatever.
“I’ve been here for over three hours at this point, Fransisco.”
A ghost of a smile spreads on his lips.
He digs into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. “I believe this will settle whatever overtime you have tonight.”
Once it’s in my hand I open it, seeing another four hundred pounds. “This is more than enough, thank you.”