“I’ll give you wank about art,” Flynn grinned, grabbing his crotch.
I ignored him, because that was what you did with Flynn. “Can you grab the book?”
“Corbin.” Maeve looked like she was trying very hard not to throttle me. “You’re not going to find an answer to this in an art compendium.”
“All the same, I want to see it.”
Maeve darted up the stairs to her bedroom and returned with a slim, hardcover volume. I flipped through the pages, skimming the short biography. Robert Smithers was a recluse, kind of last generation’s Banksy. He claimed to be an orphan, and there was no record of him before his first painting appeared wrapped in brown paper on the doorstep of a London dealer. That dealer was so taken by Smithers’ superior brushwork that he offered representation immediately. Smithers’ first exhibition received the Turner Prize, and he was offered a place at the Royal Academy of Arts. The story caught the attention of the press, and Smithers became what passed for a superstar in the art world, even though he declined to appear in public. Reportedly, he moved around the country to keep hidden from the press. Smithers produced some three hundred works during the six years he created art, then he abruptly stopped, disappearing for three years before showing up again in Wiltshire where he committed himself to a psychiatric facility. He still remained there today.
There was a single picture of Smithers at the front of the book. He sat in a cafe, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, half his face hidden in the shadow of a brimmed cap. A pair of skinny arms stuck out from a checkered work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The caption stated that the image was taken shortly before his disappearance, which was the same year the last Briarwood coven stood up against the fae.
Coincidence? I didn’t think so.
“Let’s see that picture, young man.” Clara pushed my arm aside and tipped the book up for a closer look. “Yes, I thought so. I’ve seen this man before. He was present at the rituals I attended at the castle all those years ago.”
What?
“You’re telling me that Robert Smithers is a witch? That he was in the Briarwood Coven?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. In fact,” Clara squinted at the picture. “Yes, I think so. He was Aline’s Magister for a time.”
“His name isn’t in the coven history?—”
Because he used a pseudonym. Of course.
An artist like Smithers who wanted to remain reclusive and mysterious wouldn’t necessarily want any record of his days at Briarwood. I thought back to the list of coven members I’d memorized, and one name leapt out – Herbert Missort. A man I’d never been able to find any information on. Now I knew why.
In my mind, I pictured the letters HERBERT MISSORT. I rearranged them until they spelled the name ROBERT SMITHERS. An anagram. How childish. But it had worked. I hadn’t seen it.
Maeve stared at me, her eyes dancing with an excitement that mirrored my own. Shegotit, the thrill of solving a great academic puzzle. The pieces were slotting together.
“What are you two cooking up?” Flynn demanded.
In a rush of excitement, I explained what I’d figured out. Robert Smithers was a witch, and he’d somehow painted magic into this portrait so it moved…but maybe only when Maeve was around.
What did this magicdo?What was it trying to achieve?
Rowan touched the edge of the canvas, his eyes closed. “I think this is earth magic,” he whispered. “I can reach inside the pigment and feel the raw ingredients.”
Maybe Smithers was an earth user. That explained a little. Earth and Water witches often took careers in the arts – something about being in tune with the natural order of the world made them able to create work that spoke directly to the soul. But I’d never heard of artists imbuing magic directly into their work before.
“This book doesn’t say where he’s institutionalised. And even if we find out, it’s unlikely they’ll just let us in to speak to him. This says that he hasn’t done any press since he stopped painting.” I flipped through the book until I found the page with Aline’s portrait. “But this is hanging in the National Gallery along with some other works of Smithers. I think we need to see it.”
Flynn looked scandalized. “You mean the National Gallery in London?”
“The very same.”
“Fierce. I’m always down for a wee jaunt in Old Smoky.” Flynn grinned. “Maybe I’ll teach all you heathens to appreciate fine art.”
“Your art is many things, Flynn,” Arthur said. “But it is not fine.”
“Corbin, we can’t go off on some wild painting chase!” Maeve snatched the book away. “What about the fae? What about all those people they took?”
Clara placed a hand on Maeve’s shoulder. “I’m afraid they’re gone, dear. You can’t bring a soul back from the underworld, not without sending another in its place.”
“So we’re just supposed to sit here and do nothing?” Maeve’s voice rose an octave. Her usually bright eyes swam with pain. Death laid heavily on her conscience.
I knew what that felt like.
