Page 11 of Icarus

Standing there—panting—all his thoughts coalesced to a final conclusion:

He couldn’t tell his father.

First, Angus did not like being wrong. Enough that it was its own separate type of fear to consider informing him that Mr. Black had somehow gotten a whole person into his home without his father knowing. To tell him that the fail-safe surveillance that had kept them secure for over a decade of thievery had missed something so big.

Second, “Angus,” Helios had said. It could mean many things, and nothing good. Icarus knew he looked a lot like his father, but the fact that this stranger was remotely expecting either of them was hideous to consider.

Third, Helios had seen his face. He had seen him. Had looked at him closely and touched him.

Icarus could still feel the ghost of Helios’s hands, and it made him want to press his forehead against the wall and groan. The idea of trying to warn his father about this situation and having to explain his delayed reaction, to have his ears turn red without his permission while his father looked down on him in disappointment and disgust, was . . . violent.

Icarus took a moment to calm down. He wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt and pushed his hair back so his father wouldn’t be able to tell he’d been running his fingers through it in anguish.

He breathed slowly. Willed his heart to stop racing. Then, he opened the door.

Ream

Icarus walked quickly to the storage room and began unpacking. The whir of machinery was a relief. At least if it stopped, he would know his father was coming.

He unwrapped the Monet, hands still shaking, and spread it out on the worktable. The crayon damage on the real painting would absolutely need to be handled by his father before sale. But right now it just needed to be cleaned and properly hung.

He hooked up the air brush and blew away the first layer of dust, then dry brushed it with soft fluffy bristles. The crayon could probably be removed. But if it had stained the oil paint beneath it, it might need more elaborate work that Icarus simply hadn’t been trained for yet.

The crayon was bright green. A child’s drawing of the sun and what looked like either a dog or maybe an attempt at a horse. The painting was already in terrible disrepair and extremely rare. It wouldn’t sell at auction without press. But they might be able to offload it to a museum overseas that was willing to turn their head if Icarus could get it back to a reasonable condition.

Icarus eyed the bottle of diluted rubbing alcohol on the counter with the rest of the tools, then looked back at the painting.

The last Haystack Monet had sold for $110 million.

Instead, he opened their bottle of rarely used vinegar, set a few drops on the crayon to sit for a while. Then, he took a deep breath and on the furthest corner of the painting, swiped at the green.

To his immense relief it smeared, the younger oil liquifying immediately. Icarus alternated between the vinegar and the soft shop-paper towels, slowly removing Helios’s clumsy drawing from this priceless—

“Trusting your instincts is the first sign you’re ready for larger projects.”

Icarus startled badly, nearly knocking the painting from the desk. The noise of the machine hadn’t ceased, but Angus was leaning against the storage room doorway anyway.

“I’m sorry!” Icarus exclaimed, reflexively. But his father’s eyes just crinkled with amusement.

“It’s good work. Alcohol probably would have done a nice job on a newer oil painting, but would have been much too harsh on this one. It will have to be gone over again with spit and a shop cloth to remove the residue.”

They stood together in silence.

“You can go, I’ll finish this.” It was the closest his father came to thanking him for any work he ever did.

Icarus took the out and scurried away gratefully.

Steam

Icarus ran the hottest bath their house could manage. He boiled himself in it until he couldn’t take it anymore and had to add some cold water.

He could still feel the ghost of Helios’s hands on his arm, feel the tenderness where his knuckle had scraped his cheek when Helios had snatched off his mask.

The mask that was still in Mr. Black’s house, Icarus realized.

He swore and let his head thunk back against the tile.

Analysis