CHAPTER TEN
Dressed all in black, the Masked Painter was tall and spindly and vaguely Gothic, like the spire of an old church.
Over his full face was a sil-ver Vene-tian mask in the shape of a fox, with shim-mer-ing bronze and rose-gold de-tails at the tem-ples. It was im-pos-si-ble to tell the shape of his fea-tures be-neath the mask. Per-haps he had the long, pointed nose of the fox, or per-haps a short ski-slope was tucked in-side. Ei-ther way, the fox granted him ab-so-lute anonymity.
“Or-lagh,” he said, his voice a tremu-lous purr. He low-ered an enor-mous black brief-case to the ground with a thunk. “It’s been a long time since you brought me a sub-ject.”
Or-lagh glided over to where he stood, brush-ing a kiss on his masked cheek. “It is a plea-sure to see you again, old friend. I must thank you once again for the life you have af-forded me.”
The state-ment cre-ated a prickle of cu-rios-ity—what ex-actly did the Masked Painter have to gain from all of this?—but nerves and a strange kind of def-er-ence kept me silent. Be-fore me was both a liv-ing leg-end and an artist with power that stretched the very lim-its of what should be pos-si-ble. Tri-fling ques-tions of pay-ment and re-ward seemed gauche.
The Masked Painter stilled as his eyes—al-most black in-side the mask—locked on to me. I shiv-ered un-der his rov-ing gaze. I’d thrown a vin-tage fur coat over my Mc-Queen dress, but I was still freez-ing in the crypt-cold of the gallery.
“You must be Penny Pax-ton,” he said, voice some-how both soft and cold and young. “A plea-sure.”
“Thank you for meet-ing with me,” I replied, ashamed of the light tremor in my words.
“A plea-sure,” he re-peated.
A loaded si-lence set-tled over the room. Per-haps I was imag-in-ing it, but I could al-most hear the domed ceil-ing groan and sway be-neath the weight of the lake.
“Shall we be-gin?” Or-lagh said even-tu-ally, clap-ping her hands to-gether.
“How does it work?” I blurted out. “The paint-ing, I mean? How do you make it age in-stead of the real sub-ject?”
The Masked Painter stood per-fectly still, stoic as a statue. “There is noth-ing that art can-not ex-press. Most painters are lim-ited only by the bounds of their imag-i-na-tion.”
My log-i-cal brain bucked with the need for a con-crete ex-pla-na-tion. “Is it … magic?”
He cocked his head to one side, vulpine in his move-ments. “It is alchemy, as is all art.”
“And all I have to do is let you take my blood?”
“Blood, skin and a scrap-ing of bone.” He prac-ti-cally whis-pered the words, and I strained to hear him. “The vis-ceral trin-ity: the life force, the largest or-gan and the very scaf-fold-ing our bod-ies hang upon.”
Or-lagh winced. “Ah. I must con-fess I had for-got-ten the skin. It has been some time.”
A hand went to her rib cage pro-tec-tively, and my in-sides twisted at the thought of what might be about to hap-pen to me. I stalled fur-ther.
“Is there any-thing I need to do?” I asked. “Like … an in-can-ta-tion, or some-thing?”
“There will be a test.” He talked again in feath-ery whis-pers, and I thought it per-haps more pow-er-ful than the boom-ing Shake-spearean pitch I’d be-come ac-cus-tomed to at Do-rian. “A mea-sure of how badly you want it. With-out that in-tense de-sire, the an-chor will not take.”
The va-por-ous dread in my lungs was so-lid-i-fy-ing. “What kind of test?”
“All will be-come clear in due course. Are you ready?”
There was noth-ing left to ask. Swal-low-ing the lump of fear in my throat, I said, “I am.”
“Very well.” He reached for his brief-case. “Let us be-gin.”
Or-lagh pulled the swath of white fab-ric from the chaise longue and ges-tured for me to sit. When I perched on the edge, my knees sink-ing weakly to the frayed vel-vet, she shook her head.
“Lie down.”
I lay down.
The Masked Painter crossed over to the chaise, low-ered the brief-case and fid-dled with a com-bi-na-tion on the top. His hands looked al-most teenage in their pu-rity, pale and smooth and slen-der. He must’ve painted his own self-por-trait when he was very young, to be locked in such a youth-ful body for-ever. It would ex-plain the soft, high voice too—it was as though the voice had been cap-tured right on the cusp of man-hood.
As the brief-case folded open, I peered over the edge of my seat and saw a vast ar-ray of oil paints and brushes of all sizes. There was also a small, pol-ished wood box with a hole in the top, sev-eral empty glass vials, as well as what looked like a se-lec-tion of sil-ver med-i-cal scalpels. I re-coiled at the sight, a kind of an-i-mal-is-tic shud-der, a feel-ing of no, no, no.
“The sim-plest place to per-form the pro-ce-dure is the rib cage,” mur-mured the Masked Painter. “Would you mind lift-ing your dress for me? You can use the fur coat to cover up else-where.” He turned away, eyes fix-ing on the near-est por-trait of Ly-dia Fettes.
An in-tense vul-ner-a-bil-ity spread over me as I shrugged out of the coat, then coaxed the silk of the dress over one jagged hip bone and up to my waist. Then I laid the fur on top of me so that just a small patch of milky-white skin was vis-i-ble. Cam-ran stood at the head of the chaise longue, grip-ping its arms. I felt safer for her pres-ence.
“I’ll be mak-ing an in-ci-sion over the low-er-most rib,” ex-plained the Masked Painter. “When it bleeds, I shall cap-ture the droplets in the first vial. I will then trim the small-est sliver of skin from the open-ing of the wound—that’s for the sec-ond vial.” His voice was like satin, as though he were read-ing a son-net in-stead of de-scrib-ing how he was go-ing to carve me up. “Fi-nally, the bone.” He held up a kind of ra-zor-sharp metal scraper that looked more like a den-tist’s tool. “I’ll take as lit-tle as I can, but be warned, the pain can be sub-stan-tial. Please try to stay still, or there’s a chance I’ll do more dam-age.”
I nod-ded numbly, re-gret wash-ing over me, but some vague sense of pride and stub-born-ness kept me rooted to the chaise.
The Masked Painter crouched down be-side me, his long black cloak brush-ing along the floor. His body didn’t seem to give off any heat. If any-thing, the air around me grew colder at his pres-ence. Dab-bing a cot-ton-wool pad in rub-bing al-co-hol, he ran a long fore-fin-ger along a patch at the bot-tom of my rib cage, then swiped at it with the dis-in-fec-tant. The smell of it was so po-tent it made my eyes wa-ter, and re-minded me of the time I went with my teenage best friend Samara as she got her first tat-too—the Basra sky-line along the bone of her fore-arm.
The mem-ory of it stung more than the tat-too likely did. I’d been madly in love with her, but she was straight as an ar-row and started ghost-ing me when she found out how I re-ally felt.
Maybe if you’d been a lit-tle bit more beau-ti-ful … my warped mind sug-gested. Maybe then she would’ve felt the same. Maybe then you would have been enough.
“Now lie very still for me,” purred the Masked Painter. I saw he was wield-ing a nar-row sur-gi-cal knife and looked away. My gaze landed on the por-trait of my mother, and her eyes seemed to be scream-ing some-thing at me. But again, I was likely just pro-ject-ing.
There was a sharp, pierc-ing scratch in my side, and it took all my willpower not to wince, or let a sin-gle grunt of dis-com-fort es-cape my lips.
A vial was pressed against the wound, cap-tur-ing a few beadlets of blood. Then I felt a barbed slic-ing sen-sa-tion, and it be-came harder to stay quiet.
“Very good.” He clinked the two vials back into his brief-case, and I turned around just in time to see him pull out the vi-cious scraper. “We’re two thirds of the way there now.”
Which meant the bone was next.
The dis-com-fort in-ten-si-fied as the Masked Painter parted the skin on ei-ther side of the wound with his fin-gers—a sting-ing tug that made my teeth grit of their own ac-cord—then the feel-ing of cold metal slid-ing be-tween the lay-ers of skin and flesh to the bone be-low. An-other in-stru-ment was pushed through be-low the scraper, pos-si-bly to cap-ture the bone shav-ings as he worked.
As steel hit bone and be-gan to scrape, I could no longer bury the gasp. The pain was cold as ice, like a thou-sand nerve end-ings were be-ing frozen by liq-uid ni-tro-gen.
I’m sorry, came a voice in the back of my head, but I couldn’t say for cer-tain whether it was my own. All I knew is that the words ap-peared un-bid-den, as though voiced by a stranger who cared for me deeply.
It was over al-most as quickly as it be-gan, and as the metal tools were coaxed out of the wound, the pain in the bone eased to a dull throb. There was a fi-nal ding of steel against a glass vial, then the sound of a zi-plock bag as the in-stru-ments were sealed away for ster-il-iza-tion.
“Well done,” said Or-lagh softly, tak-ing my hand and giv-ing it a squeeze.
The ma-ter-nal ges-ture made me want to cry.
The cut stung like a burn, and as the Masked Painter be-gan to stitch it, I strug-gled not to gag at the feel-ing of nee-dles and thread tug-ging through my ten-der skin. Re-lief coursed through me as he cov-ered the wound with a wide sur-gi-cal plas-ter and smoothed down the seal. The worst was over.
When he was fi-nally fin-ished, I donned my Pax-ton mask and said lightly, “Would it have killed you to pro-vide some lo-cal anes-the-sia?”
The Masked Painter laughed a but-tery laugh. “The pain is an im-por-tant part of it, I’m afraid.” He tucked off a pair of sur-gi-cal gloves I hadn’t seen him put on, drop-ping them into the brief-case with a snap of flimsy la-tex. “Which brings us to the test.”
I sat up gin-gerly, pulling my dress down to re-tain some sem-blance of mod-esty. “Well, it can’t pos-si-bly be any worse than that.”
The Masked Painter stood abruptly and be-gan pac-ing in a way that was en-tirely jux-ta-po-si-tional with his creamy voice and el-e-gant move-ments. It put me on edge at once, but I tried to fo-cus on the cut-ting pain in my side in-stead of what might lie ahead.
“As I men-tioned ear-lier,” he said, “the test is a cru-cial dis-play of will and in-tent. It is un-pleas-ant, be-cause what bet-ter way to dis-play de-sire than to com-mit a wholly dis-agree-able act in the name of it?”
My stom-ach tight-ened. “What is it?”
As sud-denly as he’d started, the Masked Painter knelt to the ground be-side the brief-case. Af-ter re-ar-rang-ing his pe-cu-liar ar-ray of ob-jects in a way that didn’t seem to achieve any-thing, he lifted out the pol-ished wooden box with the hole in the top.
Only now I was sure I could hear move-ment in-side it.
With a long-fin-gered hand, the Masked Painter turned a tiny brass key in an equally mi-nus-cule key-hole on the front of the box, then, with slow trep-i-da-tion, eased open the lid.
In-side was a gray-haired mouse, nib-bling on a piece of ched-dar. It was ap-par-ently un-con-cerned by its cap-tiv-ity in a vel-vet-lined box, and didn’t even glance up at the re-moval of the roof.
Then the Masked Painter reached for a vel-vet draw-string pouch, and pulled out a small ham-mer with a long, worn wooden han-dle.
A hor-ri-ble kind of un-der-stand-ing dawned in my mind, but I held on to the slight-est bit of hope that I’d mis-in-ter-preted the sit-u-a-tion.
“What…?” I started, un-sure how to even ask the vile ques-tion.
An-gled as it was to-ward me, the sil-ver fox mask looked even more an-gu-lar and threat-en-ing. “The most po-tent way to de-ter-mine your force of will is a liv-ing sac-ri-fice.”
I blanched. “No.”
Si-lence. In that mo-ment, I wished this ar-cane painter wore no mask, so that I might iden-tify the slight-est bit of emo-tion on his face. Re-morse? Shame?
“Isn’t what I just went through ev-i-dence enough of my de-sire?” I whis-pered, star-ing at the mouse. It had long white whiskers and tiny hands. There was a slow-ness to its move-ments—and a lack of in-ter-est in flee-ing—that made me think it might have been drugged.
“One might think,” said the Masked Painter dryly. “But when-ever I’ve painted a por-trait with-out the liv-ing sac-ri-fice, the an-chor has not taken.”
Hor-ror un-furled in-side me like an open-ing rose. I’d never had the af-fin-ity for an-i-mals that a lot of my friends had. We never had pets in the house—not a cheer-ful fam-ily Labrador nor an aloof but af-fec-tion-ate cat—and I’d only ever been to the zoo once as a kid. When Samara went ve-gan at fif-teen, I didn’t re-ally un-der-stand it, es-pe-cially when she be-came so deeply ane-mic that she had to med-i-cate her way out of a prob-lem a sim-ple cheese-burger could fix. It struck me as need-less mar-ty-rom, though I sup-posed that made me some-thing of a hyp-ocrite.
Maybe if I had to kill the beasts my-self, I’d think twice.
I could not fathom reach-ing out and tak-ing that ham-mer, let alone bring-ing it down on a de-fense-less be-ing.
I shook my head ve-he-mently, like a child try-ing to snap them-selves out of a night-mare. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
The Masked Painter looked sky-ward and sighed. “My point proven. Your will is clearly not strong enough for the por-trait to work.”
“Yes, it is.” I tried to force fierce-ness into my tone, but the pain of the vis-ceral trin-ity pro-ce-dure and the week of near-star-va-tion had left me weak and jit-tery. I was prob-a-bly not in the least bit con-vinc-ing.
The Masked Painter shrugged, as though in-dif-fer-ent ei-ther way, then picked up the ham-mer by its head and handed it to me. “Then show me.”
I took the ham-mer but didn’t look down at it, just felt its heft in my palm. “It’s an in-no-cent mouse.”
He stood to his feet and started walk-ing in cir-cles once more, but these steps were pen-sive, al-most fu-ne-real, com-pared to the fren-zied pac-ing of a few mo-ments ago.
Or-lagh spoke for the first time in an age. She stood be-hind the chaise, grip-ping its back with white-knuck-led hands. “No-body is go-ing to force you to do this, Penny. It is a de-ci-sion that must be made by you and com-pleted by your own hand.”
My mind raced, a fran-tic hur-tle, like a blue-bot-tle slam-ming against a win-dow over and over again in a des-per-ate at-tempt to find an-other way through. But I did not find one.
And I had come this far. I had starved and preened. I had let a stranger cut into my body, let him scrape away at my bones. I could not turn away now. I could not let this all be for noth-ing.
Dimly, I won-dered whether this was the rea-son the sur-gi-cal el-e-ments were per-formed up-front. It be-came much harder to change your mind once you had in-vested tan-gi-ble pain into it.
I just had to re-mind my-self why I was do-ing this. So that I would not have to walk around bald and hun-gry. So that I could free my body and my mind from the con-stant pur-suit of beauty. So that I could fo-cus on my art, on Lady Mac-beth, on let-ting my thoughts deepen and widen. So that I could chase more from life. From my-self.
Sens-ing my in-de-ci-sion—or at least a turn-ing point in my thought pat-terns—Or-lagh went on.
“It is over very quickly. They do not suf-fer.”
The mouse twitched its whiskers, pol-ish-ing off the last piece of cheese.
At least its fi-nal meal was a good one.
With a last self-loathing breath, I lifted the ham-mer and brought it down.