“How so?” I ask, my feet trembling. Or is it the scaffolding that’s shaking?
“The builders cannot use modern technologies or materials, lest we upset the balance of the magic that thrives within Arches. So our task is twofold, to maintain the history as well as the power within. But—”
The scaffolding shakes once more, harder this time, and I reach out for something to hold on to. Professor White stumbles, nearly falling, as the floor beneath us trembles. Then all at once, a great hunk of stone shakes loose from the structure above and comes crashing downward, breaking and tearing the scaffold, ripping apart the wooden planks in its path. It strikes a spot that’s only a few feet from where I stand.
I fall to my knees, gripping the boards beneath me, hoping they won’t crumble, tumbling along with that hunk of stone to the distant floor, three or four stories below. I freeze, hoping the floor won’t collapse beneath me.
I count numbers to maintain my calm as the air clears, the dust fading until once again I can see Professor White, her face caked in dust.
“You see what I mean?” Her tone is calm, as if she’d half expected that stone to fall. “There’s something wrong with Arches. And if we don’t find out what it is, we may lose the tower completely.”
3
Dorian
Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
—Oscar Wilde,The Picture of Dorian Gray
The Benoist Museumis as dark and silent as a tomb. The only source of illumination comes from arcane spotlights beaming down on the artifacts protected in their glass display cases. The cases are lined like headstones, forming a natural aisle for me to walk toward the rear of the atrium, and I glance into each as I pass by. Gilded swords, suits of armor, enormous textiles, cuff links, even fountain pens. The vastness of the collection is breathtaking.
The air here smells of wood polish and old leather, and the dark wood paneling mutes the sounds that echo in the space. It looks like I’m the only one here. The silence of the room is broken by my quiet footsteps on the polished stone floor. Calming my nerves, I breathe as deeply as if I’m at the lacrosse pitch underneath all my padding as the goalie. But there’s more at stake here than the mid-Atlantic championship. I’m breathing in the scent, the smell of history, their air of wealth and prestige. The Benoist Museum is the most famous magical museum in the world, and it’s my first day on the job.
I pause and check my reflection in a nearby display case. Annoyed that a lock of hair is out of place, resting too casually onmy forehead for someone who works in a serious institution like this one, I comb it back with my fingers, ensuring that I look the part. I adjust the cuffs of my jacket and smooth out wrinkles in my slacks. I have to force myself to stop fidgeting, but I’m excited and eager to get started, so I take out my pocket watch and hold it in my gloved fist. I like how solid it feels under my grip, solid and trustworthy. I never leave the house without it. It doesn’t work anymore, not to keep time. But I don’t use it as a watch. My mom gave it to me when I was younger, because she said I looked so much like its previous owner, her grandfather. She’d said I reminded her of him. Now it serves as a reminder of her. She’s why I’m doing this, after all.
“Oh,” a voice coos. “Is that a full Hunter, Wehinger & Brahms skeleton pocket watch?”
I turn and see a slender man of about fifty standing behind me. There’s no sign of gray in his pitch-black hair, and he’s dressed in a dark suit jacket and white shirt. He’s smiling at me, his light eyes crinkling behind square glasses looped with a thin golden chain.
“Am I correct?” he asks.
“Yes. It was my great-grandfather’s.” I raise an eyebrow.
His eyes light up. “A rare antique! May I?”
He holds out his hand, and I set it in his palm. He pushes his glasses up his nose and raises the pocket watch to the light. “Yellow gold casing, good condition, well-loved, clearly. Original leather strap, too. I’m guessing 1930s or so—maybe 1932, to be precise, based on the reddish stain, as they discontinued that color soon after. Oh, what delicate craftsmanship on the front, so wonderful. Are these your great-grandfather’s initials?” He points to the engraved letters on the back of the casing.
I nod, admiring his skills in observation. I had no idea this model was so rare.
He presses the button on the casing, flipping it open to look at the watch face. “Ah, but it’s broken.” The glass is cracked, all of the gears and mechanical dials in permanent stasis, stuck at 3:33 exactly. His expression falls as he closes the pocket watch. “Shame.”
“My great-grandfather dropped it on the deck of his ship crossing the Atlantic. It hasn’t worked since.” Even if it was worth millions, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to sell it. It’d be like selling a part of my soul.
With a tilt of his head and a smile, the man returns my watch and extends his hand to me. “I’m the head curator here at Old Bones, and chair of the art history department, Nathan Evander. You must be our new junior curator, Dorian Winthrop.”
I pocket my watch once more and shake his hand. “I am indeed. Good to meet you, Professor Evander, and happy to be here.”
“And we’re happy to have you.” The professor gestures for me to follow, leading me deeper inside. “Welcome to the Benoist Museum. Everyone calls it Old Bones, for reasons all too obvious.” He gestures casually to a human skull encased in glass with emeralds set in the unblinking eye sockets. Its toothy grin is like a taunt from the dead.
Evander begins to lead the way to a set of doors at the end of the atrium. “Behold, our esteemed collection. You’re going to become all too familiar with the artifacts, from paintings to relics, ceramics to busts—”
As we pass it, the skull seems to be watching me, its grin permanently stretched. “Is that real?” I ask.
“The human bones? Of course they’re real,” he says. “All of the artifacts here are part of arcane history, often displayed alongside remnants of their dearly departed. Skulls, mummified hands, tanned human skin preserving tattoos, all of it is meticulouslycataloged by my team. The residual magic left over from a wizard’s life still permeates the physical form long after the spirit has left this plane, making the wizards as useful in death as they were in life, for the greater cause that is Sibylline. Magic is all around us, Dorian.”
I put my hand in my pocket, brushing my fingers against the watch inside. It’s a habit, a security blanket. Even though I can’t touch it with my bare hands, I like to know it’s there.
He slows his pace, glancing at me. “Cold, are you?” he asks, noting I haven’t taken off my gloves.
