“Let’s go,” he said. The guard took off again, swooping his arm and urging me to follow.
Once the guard was out of earshot, and I was following at a safe distance, I hissed,“Nash, what’s going on? Are you doing this?”
Rounding the corner into the atrium, more glass fell from the ceiling, shattering across the marble floor and sending glittering light in all directions. It looked as though someone had dropped an ice sculpture, the pieces scattering.
“It’s not me,” Nash hissed back.
A black rope unfurled from the opening overhead, whipping through the air and swirling to the atrium floor. I winced. The sun was blinding all patrons, preventing them from getting a proper view. The rope coiled on the marble like a snake, still for a moment before jerking with movement. Someone was coming, and residual glass fell in their wake, followed by a zipping sound down the line.
Music filled the space, crackling to life over the museum’s speakers. It was the Mission Impossible theme song. Stifling a laugh, I looked up to see a small, black-clad figure gliding effortlessly toward the gathering crowd. The entire room stepped back, fear on their faces. It was a wonder they weren’t running.
With narrowed eyes on the figure, my brow knit before the sunlight fell behind a cloud and recognition hit. White-blond hair whipped behind the tiny shadowed figure, hair so pale it was almost translucent.
Sybil?
As she neared the ground, I made out the fact that her face was covered in a theatrical black mask, every millimeter bedazzled with glittering ebony gems.There was an enormous grin on the mask’s face, not menacing, but mischievous and fun.
Sybil landed with the grace of an Olympic gymnast, her feet touching the ground with expert poise and little sound.Strapped to her back was a blank art canvas. It appeared to be 12x12 inches in size, like all her other famous art pieces.
The room fell silent.
After unclipping, she turned to the crowd, dropping her rappel belt to the ground and stepping out of it. Bold white lettering across her chest declared,“I AM PERL.”
Sybil gestured to the lettering, slowly turning so the entire room could read what it said. Cheers erupted as people realized who and what this was, and clapping soon replaced the sounds of fear. Guards around the room had their weapons aimed at her, though not a single one was a real gun. They were all tasers.
Thank God.
When Sybil turned full circle, she unclipped the blank canvas from her back and set it on the floor, leaning it against her leg before unfastening something from what appeared to be a tool belt. A minimalist easel sprang open from a hip holster, extending before she placed it down with a flare of drama.
She hooked a toe under the blank canvas and tossed it up into her hands like one would a soccer ball before setting it on the easel and taking a dramatic step back, in time with the music. She made a show of touching and tilting her chin in thought, as though contemplating what to paint.
All the while the room cheered her on, feeding off the impromptu show as though it had been planned. Words of encouragement began flying, suggestions for the painting yelled out from around the room. Sybil—or rather PERL—seemed to consider each offered word, nodding and gesturing for more.
She unzipped her hoodie, and Sybil revealed more of her tool belt as she kept urging greater crowd involvement. Her belt was packed with unmarked silver paint tubes and paintbrushes of different sizes in holsters. Her shirt under the jumper was also black, same stark white lettering bedazzled across her shoulder blades,“I AM PERL.”
She held up the sweatshirt to the crowd as though to offer it to one lucky patron, jumping and further amplifying their already high energy. A small girl, her golden ponytail bouncing, was screaming for Sybil’s attention, her tiny voice rising above the rest.
Sybil noticed and pranced over to the girl, handing her the sweatshirt. The little girl beamed with excitement, and her mom helped her put it on. The sweatshirt was so big on the young girl that it nearly reached her knees. Sybil clapped, encouraging the girl to whisper a word in her ear. She nodded before giving the girl a pat on the head and returning to the canvas.
She had us all in a trance.
Realizing, I shook it off and scanned the room for Nash. He stood opposite me, his eyes fixed on his wife with a goofy, love-struck grin on his face. His eyes were glassy, and he looked ready to explode with barely leashed love and admiration. I could tell it was a struggle for him to hold back, hands gripping at his sides. He wanted to go to her.
With a confident flourish, Sybil began applying paint to the canvas, dabbing it liberally here and there as she tilted her head, her movements fluid and expressive. No one knew what word the child had whispered to her, but so far it was playful. Sybil wielded her brush like a sword, sweeping and slashing, sending paint splattering around the room, adorning the pants and coats of admiring patrons who had gathered too close.
Everyone was gasping and murmuring her name.“It’s PERL!ThePERL!” they exclaimed.
Phones raised high, everyone tried to record and livestream the event, with flashes from cameras glittering throughout the room. The guards had lowered their tasers, moving in to push the crowd back and away from Sybil, becoming her impromptu protection from the masses.
“Fuck me,” I heard Nash mutter over the speaker.“She’s... fucking amazing.”
I chuckled and shook my head before it hit me,“But where’s the other one?” Why hadn’t I thought of Betty sooner?
Nash met my gaze across the space, his eyes wide and face growing ashen.
“Damn it, where is Betty?” I grumbled.
“Go!” he hissed.“You know where she is.”
