Chapter 14
I find the first sliver of fingernail a few inches above the subject’s navel.
A tiny half crescent moon, a deep red hue that is almost black, embedded in the paint layer. At first I’m not sure what it is, the round of it so precise, until I maneuver the benchwork SEM into place—directly above the crescent—to get a better look.
Part of my preparation for this conservation was familiarizing myself with the more common elements Leclerc used in her art.
I viewed countless slides of microscope-enhanced human skin, blood, bone fragments, and hair.
This nail sliver, once magnified, reminds me of the finely knit pattern of a natural sea sponge.
Or the split antlers Stanley loves to chew—porous, with intricately connected chambers, similar to how a bone looks after it bleaches in the sun.
There’s a flutter inside my belly. It’s excitement, as I’m now one hundred percent certain this is the final Leclerc piece, but it’s so similar to quickening I have to remind myself it’s too early for that yet.
I roll my stool over to the small desk, to jot down a few notes about the fingernail, when I hear something behind me.
A wet pulling away, like a suction cup being dragged off shower tiles.
I turn on the stool, toward the strange sound.
Discomfited, I take in the space around me.
Everything seems to be in place. Except then I glance at the painting…
and I see it. Some sort of thin ropelike thing, jutting out from the bubbled black paint above my most recent work area.
What is that?
I shiver, a chill reaching the bare skin of my neck under my zero-contamination suit. I stand, walk over to the painting. My eyes widen as I try to understand what I’m seeing.
The three-inch dangling tendril isn’t one, singular rope—there are multiple strands, some finer than others, tangled together.
I’m reminded of Clementine’s garden project from last year, when she grew an avocado plant from a pit.
The sinewy roots that sprang from the pit, reaching down into the glass jar of water, had a similar look to these tendrils.
I slowly reach out a gloved finger to touch the nearest strand.
Letting it rest on my finger, I shift closer, squinting to get a better look.
The strand is brittle and dry, like a twig separated from its living branch.
It shouldn’t float like it does, flaccid and soft. It lacks the pliancy to do so.
“What the hell?” I murmur, tilting my head to the side to try to follow the strand up through the damage.
The soot remains thick, and I can’t find where the strand begins.
I should get the SEM, to see what this thing looks like magnified.
But before I can, the strand…retreats. Pulling away from my finger and back toward the canvas, like a fishing line being reeled in.
So slowly it takes a moment to understand this is real and not my eyes playing tricks on me.
I blink only once, and the tendril is swallowed into the painting.
Like it was never there.
—
“Tell me again,” Cecil says, patience infusing both tone and expression. I’m at my workstation now, the rest of the lab quiet and empty, Room D secured for the evening. My fingerprint is the only way to unlock the door, so I know the painting won’t be disturbed.
I video call Cecil right after the tendril reintegrates into the paint, leaving no trace behind.
Part of me believes my eyes were playing tricks on me.
Some sort of pregnancy-related spell. The demands of the fetus overriding my brain, or something.
But I don’t tell Cecil I’m pregnant—almost seven weeks now.
I haven’t told anyone yet, except for Maeve.
“I was taking a few notes when I heard this sound. Like something was being suctioned? When I looked back at the canvas, there was this…thing sticking out from the middle of the painting, right above the cleaning line. It looked similar to a bundle of plant roots.”
“Did you get it under the SEM?” Cecil asks.
“No,” I reply. “I was about to and then it disappeared.”
“Disappeared? Hmm. And no one else has been in there? Nothing has contaminated the room? An errant thread from your lab coat, perhaps?”
I shake my head. “Nothing I can think of. I’m the only one who has access, and I’ve been wearing the protocol suit.” The anti-contamination suits left over from MorA have been repurposed in a variety of ways, worn by medical staff, workers in the protein-growing labs, and conservators at GIA.
He scratches his white-bearded chin, leans back in his chair. “So it’s likely some sort of fiber or natural material that’s native to the painting,” Cecil says. I don’t remind him that I saw it move, then vanish—
“And when it comes to Charlotte Leclerc, that means it could be anything, including something biological.”
I nod, a strange feeling settling into my stomach, like I drank a glass of something bubbly too fast. I don’t want to think of the wet suction sound, but it becomes intrusive and my mouth fills with saliva. My watch taps me, my heart rate rising along with the nausea.
“I should sign off, Cecil. But I’ll send you the video feed, and then we can regroup. Sound good?”
We exchange goodbyes. I hit “end call” on my tablet, then quickly reach for the wastepaper basket under my desk before being violently sick into it.