“No, sir,” I say.
“I’ve been told that you possess a magical ability, is that true?”
“Psychometry, yes.” That’s the clinical term. “When I touch something, I see flashes of its history, of the person who carried it, the emotions poured into it when it was being held.” The talent works with people, too, but results are unpredictable, dangerous even.
The professor’s eyes gleam. “Psychometry, is that right? And you never take them off? Your gloves?”
“Never,” I tell him. My mother called what I have a gift, but it can be embarrassing sometimes and inconvenient. When my magic first manifested, I used to open doors with clothed elbows or use my sleeve to push buttons, because the visions can be overwhelming. Most people thought I was a germaphobe or had some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. No one knew the truth of it. No one else could understand. Except for Atticus and Raven.
It was Raven who got me these gloves for my sixteenth birthday. I don’t go anywhere in public without them now. Like a half-remembered dream, I can still feel the gloves’ faded memory of the moment when she picked them out for me, a hazy but pleasant reminder that she’s always with me.
“It’s difficult to control my magic,” I tell the professor. Touching is a problem for me. When I was eleven, I touched a person—not in that way—but it was the first time I had touched someone skin-to-skin since my magic manifested, and it didn’t go well. The memory still rattles me. It’s so bad, I can’t even bring myself to kiss my mom on the cheek when she’s in the hospital for more chemotherapy. I’m too afraid to feel the pain she’s in. It’s a shame I carry.
I clear my throat. “Sometimes my visions can be distracting.” Professor Evander looks slightly disappointed, so I add quickly, “It won’t interfere with my work, I promise.”
“Interfere? It’s why we hired you! I was hoping we could make use of your gift.”
Intriguing. I’ve always been curious about what I can do—when the gloves come off, so to speak. “I’m eager to help.”
The professor smiles broadly. “Splendid. Someone with your talent will thrive in this institution. I’m certain of it. Would you be so kind as to give me a little demonstration?”
The collar of my shirt suddenly feels too tight as he studies me, like a butterfly pinned in a glass case. I get the sense that this is some kind of test. If I decline, I’ll disappoint him, and I’ll throw away this one chance to learn more about my magic.
“Sure,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest, a drop of sweat forming on my brow.
He guides me down a darkened hallway and into the back rooms of the museum, where the curators flit in and out of the preparation rooms. It’s like being backstage at a play: busy but quiet. Hardly anyone glances my way, they’re so focused on their tasks, handling statues and sculptures as if they’re priceless. Maybe they really are.
Evander stops at a room stacked with wooden crates stuffed with straw.
“We’re quite busy sorting through all of the recent donations, organizing, and cataloging.”
I stare dumbfounded at the stack of crates. “Are there usually so many?” I ask.
“We’re bringing together a large exhibition. It’s calledThe Procession of Time. It honors some of the first benefactors of the institution. The museum is hosting a fundraising gala. It’ll be the party of the year, but the schedule is tight, and we’re behind on the work.” He turns and gestures to the back of the room. “Come. Perhaps you can settle a little predicament.”
He brings me to a large wooden crate where an oil painting in a gilded frame sits propped on its side. The image depicts Dante descending into hell.
“Is this a Hubert?” I ask, stunned. Francis Hubert was one of the most famous magical artists of the nineteenth century, imbuing his paintings with enchanted paints.
The professor nods. “Good eye. A certain high-profile art broker in London, I shan’t name who, acquired this for me. They claim it’s a lost piece, once thought stolen and now recovered. They’ve had it authenticated by their finest in-house detectives. I, however, would like a second opinion before adding it to the show.”
I’m still staring at the painting, enthralled by the movement in each stroke of the brush. Atticus, the artist of us three, says Hubert is one of the most inspiring artists, making paintings literally come to life. Dante actually blinks on the canvas. I can’t believe I am here right now, close enough to smell the paint. I’m this close to history. I’ll have to make sure Atticus sees this, too.
“If you’d be so kind,” he says, gesturing as if letting me pass.
“You want me to touch it?” I ask, awed at what I’m about to do.
“I would like to see your gift in action. To touch literal historyis one of the only ways we can fully grasp the scope of the human condition, I always say. Go ahead. Don’t be shy.”
“Are you sure?”
The professor’s eyes sparkle with intrigue. “You wouldn’t have found your way here if you weren’t special,” he says. “Please.”
But I’m not special,I want to argue. I wasn’t accepted into Sibylline.
Slowly, I take off one of my gloves and flex my bare fingers. I hesitate, a little apprehensive about what comes next. When it comes to my visions, I never know what to expect or how it’ll feel. The intensity can be staggering. But Evander frowns almost imperceptibly at my hesitation, forcing me to gather my nerves. Steadying my heart, I reach inside the crate, touching the tips of my fingers to the canvas.
Instantly, the vision comes to me. I’m transported into a dusty warehouse. A television hums in the corner as a hand—my hand,ours—holds a paintbrush, putting the finishing touches on the canvas. That’s definitely not Hubert and not the fifteenth century.
