“Ah,” Hiromi said. “How does working with them make you feel?”
I’d been reading about what people wanted from art: to make themselves uncomfortable, uncertain. The opposite of being a Morton.
“At home,” I said. “Bones were everywhere on the estate. Maybe I should work with something less familiar.”
“Discomfort is a mode of knowledge.” She kissed my cheek, running a single finger down my side. “But so is pleasure.”
“Art never hits me like that,” I said, shivering. Not like sex, or like the sight of Halcyon Hall, the windows aglow from the splendid, infernal device that raged inside. Also Peter’s work.
Hiromi’s finger lifted from my skin, came to curl the ends of my hair.
“What about music?”
“I like the math of it.”
She sighed, her breath soft against my neck. “Your family made you to certain specifications, Jessica. You’re still stuck inside them.”
“You think I’ll ever get out?”
“Oh, you definitely will.” A laugh bubbled up. “And when you do…yikes.”
I taught Hiromi too.
Morton things—knife combat for her robots, capoeira to limber up after a long day. When the other occupants left at night, and we explored the old industrial building that housed her studio, I shared my skills in climbing, lock picks, alarms. In the other artists’ darkened studios, in Hiromi’s arms, my body still humming from sex, I took in her thoughts on their half-finished work.
She showed me more of the city. Her favorite street art: murals of dinosaurs fighting forklifts; slogans (Break Your Own Heart!) stenciled on the sidewalk; temporary sculptures cobbled together from bicycle remains. Her favorite food venders, who sold us laksa, croissants, okonomiyaki, knishes, crepes, biryani, and bungeoppang—most of which I’d never eaten before.
She delighted in startling my senses while plying me with questions. Once while we were eating olive oil ice cream, she asked:
“Do you not hear catcalls? You never react.”
“Like that guy two blocks ago—who inquired about our tits?”
“You didn’t blink. You never blink.”
“He wasn’t a threat.”
“What if he was?”
“I’d assess, then retreat or neutralize him.”
Her eyes lit up. She loved it when I talked like a Morton. “I kind of want to see you neutralize someone. You also don’t notice people asking for money.”
“Why would I notice them?” I had more important things to watch out for.
Arabella had tailed us for two weeks, but the photographer at Mixed never reappeared. Maybe he’d been replaced by someone new and more skilled at surveillance.
The only person of interest Arabella had spotted was Bianca Lindqvist, halfway down the block from us. Either a coincidence, or Halcyon Hall was still smoldering.
Eating at a sidewalk table one cool summer evening, Hiromi caught me looking over my shoulder.
“Is your family a secret society?”
“You’re thinking of artists,” I said.
“Unfathomable customs, a love of mystic symbols.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But seriously. Do you ever think someone’s following you?”
“If they are, let them come.”
