This time I don’t hesitate. I set the capped test tube back in my pocket and, with scalpel in hand, turn slowly to face the painting.
I see it then, the tendril. Slightly opaque, glistening with a blackish fluid, stretching out of the bubble I sliced into. I wait, holding my breath. A static-like sound fills my ears. Maybe a rush of adrenaline,activating fight-or-flight mode to ensure I have the laser focus I need to grab hold of the wriggling tendril.
It squirms in my fingers, as though alive, and I hold it tight. Then I bring my scalpel blade down on the quivering, fleshy bit. There’s a split second of tension, like a guitar string tightened to the point of snapping, followed by laxness as the tissue severs from the painting.
“Are you sure?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
I’m on a call with Dr. Ruth-Anne Torrance, GIA’s conservation scientist. Most people don’t understand how much science is involved in art conservation. How many compounds need to be analyzed from original artworks. Along with the expected art history or fine arts expertise, this work necessitates knowledge of chemistry, plus a desire to solve complex puzzles.
“I’m sure,” Ruth-Anne says.
“So, it’s cerebrospinal fluid. But…how?” How can this painting, burned beyond recognition, not to mention decades old, be leaking a liquid? Let alone human cerebrospinal fluid? It makes no logical sense.
“I don’t have a reasonable scientific explanation for you, Tilly,” Ruth-Anne replies. “But science doesn’t always have an answer.”
“That’s true,” I murmur, thinking about Cecil and what his take might be.
“But here’s the other nutty thing,” Ruth-Anne continues. “The tissue sample you sent in?”
“Yeah?” I snap out of my reverie, now thinking about that slice oftendril. As is standard, the sample was permanently cast in a polyester resin, which was then ground and polished for analysis.
“It’s connective tissue, from a human nerve bundle. A piece of the palmar branch of the median nerve, according to my analysis.”
“The median nerve?”
“It’s one of the main nerves in your arm,” Ruth-Anne says. “Runs from the forearm to the hand and provides sensation to the palm and up the thumb.”
Bile rises; a memory of the dismembered hand from my nightmare, painting with blood, loads into my mind. The tendril-like strands that hung limply from the wrist…I swallow hard, forcing the image to retreat.
Former Leclerc paintings have revealed fingernails, eyelashes, blood, skin cells…but a human nerve branch? Where did she get it? And equally puzzling…whydid she use it in this painting? Incorporating an element like this would be especially challenging—paint can be finicky, and materials don’t always play well together.
“The artist was an adult, right?” Ruth-Anne asks.
“Yes,” I reply, my voice unsteady. “Probably around forty.”
“Then this nerve isn’t hers,” she says. “Too many neurons. Probably a child, under twelve according to KIRBI.”
KIRBI stands for Knowledge Integration and Retrieval for Biological Inference, a specialized AI tool for analyzing and inferring biological data. It’s used frequently in medical and scientific settings, though rarely in our industry. Unless you’re restoring a Leclerc, that is.
“A child?” My voice cracks, my mind spinning.
“Yup,” Ruth-Anne says. “I don’t need to tell you this, but obviously this wasn’t an accidental inclusion. You don’t just wake up one morning and say, ‘I know what this painting needs—a human nerve bundle!’ It’s pretty morbid, truly.”
The dead speak through their paintings, Mathilde.The back of my neck prickles, goose bumps rising on my arms. My watch buzzes a notification, and the creepy-crawly feeling escalates.
“I’d better let you go, but thanks for rushing this,” I say.
“Happy to help,” Ruth-Anne says. “I’ve filed the samples here, unless you want them returned?”
“That’s fine. Thanks again. I appreciate both your speed and discretion.”
My fingers tremble as we hang up. I shake them out, trying to prepare for my next meeting, which is in ten minutes. I’m not looking forward to this one.
—
The MotherWise tattoo technician uses an alcohol swab to clean the inside of my forearm, resting on the kitchen table between us. There’s a rush of coolness, which increases when he fans the area with his gloved hand. I look away, toward the glassed-in vertical garden on the other side of the kitchen. There are newly blooming squash blossoms, a pretty bright yellow color.
Earlier, Shelby mentioned wanting to batter and fry them up for dinner—I’ll trim them after this is over.
