Chapter One
Neera
Scumble:thetechnique of applying a thin layer of opaque to semi-opaque paint over another layer, often to mute or dull the previous layer.
There wasanother bird on my desk.
A wooden one, but a bird nonetheless.
The fifth bird to find its way into my office in as many weeks.
I'd paid little mind to the first carving. It was a simple gesture, of that I was certain, and nothing more. Wasn't that what artists did? They created lovely things and shared them with people. There was nothing special about it.
But then they kept coming. No note, no explanation. Just one beautifully carved bird after another. Now I couldn't stop thinking about those blasted birds.
I had an idea who left them but I couldn't imaginewhyhe was doing it, or how he gained entry into my office. It was no great mystery, and if I wanted answers, I had only to access the company's surveillance network. Snatching my tablet from my bag, I was ready to do exactly that. But my finger hovered over the icon, a beat of hesitation holding me back. Even if I confirmed my suspicions about thewhoand thehow, thewhywould linger unresolved.
And I wanted to knowwhy.
On a better day, I would've set the carving aside and gone on with my work. After spending the past week blocking and defending my boss against every asshole with an idea at the Aspen Institute's annual think tank festival, I had plenty of work waiting for me. That was on top of prepping for a business trip tomorrow, managing four pre-dawn crises, sitting through two waste-of-time meetings before noon, and enduring one unnecessary lunch meeting featuring a poor excuse for a Niçoise salad.
I was behind schedule, annoyed, and hungry.
Today wasn't one of my better days.
I set my tablet, bag, and tea on my desk and marched out of my office. As I reached my assistant's desk, I announced, "I'm stepping out for a moment."
"You just got here," Heath said.
"And I'll be stepping out now," I said, pausing at his desk. "Do you have any idea where I can find Mr. Guillmand at this hour?"
Heath tapped at his keyboard before swiveling to face me. "The artist guy?"
Swallowing a sigh, I said, "Yes." I caught myself before adding,The one sneaking into my office and leaving sculptures all over the place.
When it came to presiding over the company's rumor mill, Heath was unparalleled in his skill. That was half the reason he was my right hand. But I wasn't prepared to give him fresh material on Mr. Guillmand. Not until I knew why he was leaving birds at my door like some kind of praise-hungry house cat.
"Beats me," Heath replied. "Haven't seen the guy since that first day when he was introduced at the all-staff convocation last month. I hear he likes to hang out near the gardens but I've never seen him there."
"So, then," I started, drumming my fingers against my hips, "he hasn't stopped by? Hasn't asked to see me?"
"Nope."
Heath dug a purple carrot out of the feed bag he kept under his desk and bit into it. He grew his snacks at the community garden plot on the far side of the campus and foraged for wild mushrooms on the weekends. He was phenomenal at his job and knowledgeable about every facet of this company, but he was an unusual fellow. Around here, unusual was the norm. I barely registered it anymore. Quirky, eccentric types were standard issue in Silicon Valley. It often seemed that the people around here leaned into those quirks and eccentricities as if they were required elements of their personal brand.
Mushroom foraging. Cross-stitching. Throat singing. It was always something.
"Haven't seen him," Heath continued between bites. "Do you want me to call over to the studio?"
I shook my head, already moving toward the hallway. "No, thank you." I stopped, calculating the time it would take to reach the studio and garden. I hadn't formulated a course of action for handling Mr. Guillmand and wasn't certain I'd make it back to meet with the chief financial officer and his team as planned. "Reschedule my three o'clock meeting."
Not waiting for a response, I headed toward the stairs. For better or worse, my office was housed in the flagship building, the central hub of activity. It was a grand, glass-enclosed space bathed in warm California sunlight and scented with mossy green. With native trees and plants, and a softly babbling stream running through the atrium, it seemed our headquarters grew up among nature rather than us bending the environment to our preferences. It managed to feel energetic and serene all at once. Not the ideal place for stomping or scowling.
On a better day, I would've stopped to properly greet the people who waved and called "Good afternoon" as I passed. It still wasn't that day. I could only manage a quick smile as I continued toward the doors, my hands balled into fists and my shoulders tight. I was getting to the bottom of this bird situation and resetting expectations with Mr. Guillmand.
I could manage damn near anything—a corporate coup d'état, large-scale foreign hacking attempts, lawsuits by the dozen—but something about this sculptor drove me straight over the edge.
On paper, Mr. Guillmand was exactly the type of rising star artist we wanted to celebrate and support with a yearlong residency. His accomplishments were in raw materials sculpture but several of his paintings fetched respectable prices in up-and-coming galleries. He favored striking new spins on origin stories and creation myths, his portfolio ranging from Popol Vuh, the history of the K'iche' people of the Guatemalan Highlands, to the Hopi's Fourth World story, to the Homeric Hymns. His global consciousness made sense. Born in São Paulo, boarding-school-educated in Switzerland, fine-arts-trained at UCLA—Mr. Guillmand was a citizen of the world.
