6. Come Along, Snake
COME ALONG, SNAKE
LEV
T ing. Ting. Ting. Lev clinked a spoon against his champagne flute, dispatching dozens of bubbles to the surface of his mimosa.
“As tradition dictates, you have four weeks to impress me with art inspired by each of the Seven Deadly Sins, but only one of you shall remain on for six months as my protégé.”
Lev was bored. Less than an hour had passed, and he already longed to see Asher at the canvas again. The lad had breathed life into Father’s hollow studio. For the first time in decades, an artist had painted for the joy of it, rather than penance.
Lev stifled a yawn. “Excuse me. After last night’s debauchery, I’ve decided today’s theme will be Gluttony.”
Asher had hardly touched the traditional English breakfast Luna had prepared. He’d wrinkled his nose at the bacon and sausage, eaten a few spoonfuls of beans, and spent the rest of breakfast pushing fried eggs around his plate.
Lev would learn his tastes in due time. Perhaps he was a light eater, still full from the yogurt Lev had served him.
Still, he couldn’t help but worry about why he wasn’t eating. Was it because of something Lev had said or done? Finally, Asher’s hazel eyes met his.
“Right, then.” Lev sipped his mimosa. “I’d like to get to know you all a little better with a series of questions, starting with why you create art. Blakely, you may answer first.”
Asher lowered his fork to his plate. “Art lights up all the dark spots inside my mind. It’s magic in a world that has none.” Then, he shrugged as if he hadn’t answered the question with poetry.
Silas appeared in the flowerbed, hands pressed against the window, black hair damp from the drizzle, dark clothes stark against the fog. He cocked his head to the side and mouthed, He’s perfect .
Lev looked away. He couldn’t afford to lose time with Silas now that he had an audience. The other artists still waited. Asher had twisted toward the window, following Lev’s gaze, almost as if he could see Silas too.
But that was impossible. No one else could—not Luna, or his groundskeeper, or the lad he paid to muck the stables, or any of the other staff he employed to battle Lichenmoor’s decaying facilities.
Silas haunted him alone.
“Yes, well…” Lev cleared his throat. “Blakely, I quite agree with you.”
Instead of smiling or blushing at the praise, Asher still stared at Silas, who waved and grinned.
“What about you?” Lev asked an artist with bushy blond brows and the temperament of someone who’d been told how special he was ever since he’d made papier-maché with wet wads of toilet paper and the contents of his nappy. “Remind me of your name again.”
Forgetting the man’s name wasn’t an overplayed attempt at a power move. Remembering names was one of his weaknesses. Father’s too.
“Chuck,” the blond said in the public school drawl he’d expected from the youngest son of a new money Tory politician.
“Ah, right. Chuck, I apologize. Please continue.”
“I feel like a god when I create,” Chuck said.
Lev officially hated him.
Julian answered next. The barrel-chested photographer and occasional painter wore corduroy overalls and a brown tweed jacket, looking all the part of a bear wearing the costume of an Oxford librarian on a field trip.
“Anyone can paint or take a picture,” Julian said in a rumbling timbre. “But not everyone can paint something so alive it breathes, or capture the extraordinary of something mundane.”
The remaining artists’ answers were more of the same. Melody, the pastel artist seated at Julian’s right, answered last, explaining that she made art because she could get away with saying things through art that she would never be brave enough to say otherwise.
With wavy blonde hair and dark eyebrows shaped over giant eyes, a most striking green, Melody was a modern-day Botticelli painting. Objectively speaking. Lev wasn’t interested in women.
“Let’s move on to housekeeping. The grounds are free for all to explore, but please mind the cliffs, the fog, and above all else, the tide. The ocean moves swiftly. You’ll find the weather is rather tempestuous in autumn; best not to stray far from the Lichenmoor Hall.”
He took a swig of tea and lowered the cup to his plate. “Do note that the third floor is off limits. The framing is too unstable, and I’d hate to have one of you fall through the ceiling. Any questions?”
Melody lifted her hand, flashing rainbow fingers stained with pastels.
“Please don’t raise your hand, love. We’re all equals here.”
“Why now?” she asked .
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, why are you holding the retreat now?”
It was a valid question. He’d shown little interest in Father’s retreats, only making a brief appearance to appease him. Nor had he voiced a desire to continue his legacy after he died.
“At the Marks’ household, art was our religion,” Lev said, repeating the answer he’d prepared. “Lucian taught me that those gifted with talent are responsible for stewarding the next generation, passing on techniques, and craft secrets. But after he died…”
Lev’s thoughts scattered as Silas stepped through the window and crept toward Asher. What was he playing at?
“The truth is, it gets rather lonely out here all by myself, and I thought I’d give it a go,” Lev said in a rush and clapped his hands twice. “I have horses to feed and matters to attend to. Please meet me on the first floor in front of the main staircase at ten.”
Asher pushed his chair back first, just missing Silas.
“The audacity of the living,” Silas said, shooting Asher a scowl.
Lev ignored him, only breathing again once Asher and the others had filed out of the room.
“Was that necessary?” Lev asked.
Silas crossed his arms and jutted his chin upward. “You can’t blame me for being curious.” He spun on his heel, issuing a sharp whistle like one would summon a dog. “Come along, Snake. Let’s go look for my body.”