“She’s the gallery’s future. So prolific.” Garrett guided me across the room. “If you catch her eye, you might see a lot of her this summer.”
“Ah.” With only two months of the school year left, I’d wondered where my internship might be, but hadn’t dared hope for New York. The city was where the family had first arrived in the New World, three centuries ago. It was where our money was transformed into power.
Sebastian—on the other side of the room, flirting with some Wolvaardts now—would kill to dip his toe in city politics.
“Is this a competition?”
“A closed audition.” Garrett affixed a smile. “Be memorable.”
The artist turned as we approached. Fine featured, bright-eyed, memorable herself.
“Hiromi Kennedy,” Garrett said. “This is Jessica, my favorite Morton.”
“Out of so many?” Her eyes danced around the room, came to rest on me. “An artist, perhaps?”
“Aspiring,” Garrett answered. “A late bloomer.”
“Very aspirational. I wouldn’t call myself anartist,” I said.
Improvisation was part of the test. An internship in New York City would require passing as an ordinary—all day, every day.
“If you make art, you’re an artist,” Hiromi said. “What’s your medium?”
“Bones,” I said, thinking of the bag I’d taken from Peter’s room.
“Bones?”
“It was what was around.”
“Jessica wasn’t always a creative child,” Garrett said. “She had a pet rabbit when she was little—she named it Rabbit.”
“He looked like a Rabbit,” I said.
“Her logic was impeccable.” Garrett pretended to spot someone across the room. With a wink, he headed off, leaving me to charm this woman on my own.
I took a drink of beetle blood, steeling myself for more questions about my art. But Hiromi was content to enjoy the spectacle of my family. In our silence, a bubble formed around us—an alliance of two people watching a party.
When I finally spoke, I tried to sound conspiratorial.
“Garrett doesn’t usually bring his artists upstate. He must like you.”
“He’s indulging me. You know how some people love weddings? I’m all about funerals. The stories that get told about us, the frailty of memory.” Her eyes came to mine. “I’m talking like a gallery press release. Were you close to Peter?”
“He was my first cousin, but more like a little brother,” I said, putting it in terms an ordinary would understand.
“Oh. I’m very sorry.”
Be memorable. “He left me his favorite knife.”
“Peter…liked cooking?”
“He liked knife-throwing. I taught him, when he was little.” I took another sip. “For real proficiency, it’s best to begin at five.”
Hiromi took a moment. “I thought that was languages.”
“He wanted to be a native speaker.”
“Of knives?”
