julian.
The statement snatched him, grabbed him by the neck and yanked his focus forward, as if she could have any more of his attention. Looked at as if she was under a magnifying glass, a shard of light piercing through formerly untouched oblivion, the undesirable effect was shown in his face. “Your friend.” Repetition of words were no longer reserved for her point of view alone, becoming accusation and fact. “Because you know muses,” he went on, elaborating on her behalf with a shrug of the head, another set dredged up from spoken reservoir, testimonial to his listening skills. “You’re telling me this? Now? Not when I spoke Luis’ name before?”
In the recesses of the soul, something swarmed, something akin to a truth that he had buried out of reach, something that they equally danced around. How much longer would it last, at least on his side, the notion that it didn’t exist? He could stare at her for as long as it took to crack, but against the roof of his mouth, his tongue clicked, a shake of the head that made it turn away from her. To his side, he heard her answer him about his hand, the damage he could do with a temper on full display. Dry air rushing from the nose, closest to a sign there was humor still left in him, even when the face remained unchanged. “One hand? And I’m useless to you? Then? Why do you talk to me? You’re wasting your time.”
He hadn’t planned to leave his own exhibition. Now, walking beside her, letting her lead them away from her own gallery, was the only direction he wanted to take. A curious gaze kept slipping over her, too many questions brewing beneath the eyes, mouth pursed to mull them over, an attempt to find the answers himself. Too many circumstances were stacking on top of each other, building blocks on an uneven foundation, just ready to topple over. Her story didn’t help, the sight of the building making his tongue grate against the back of his teeth, another throbbing pain rippling through those tucked away knuckles.
“What is this?” Head thrown to the side, pointing to her home, how it could even be called a home at all. “This is yours? All of it?”
“i know muses.” and she can hear the question in his voice, proving that she’s on thin ice and cracking fast. and she doesn’t know why, but the thought makes the corner of her mouth curve, discomfort showing. she knew luis, more than an acquaintance; in the same way she’d given over her gallery, more than a favor. she spoke to neither of them, dropped on the pavement behind them in favor of the literal looming problem. the mansion had not been updated since the nineteenth century, expect for amenities. water, heating, electricity. otherwise, as still and preserved as a museum. she made sure of it.
“it wasn’t always.” as if that was some pallid defense against the size of the mansion, her weren’t you listening, that it was hers alone, the expression on her face was enough to make her question the choice. if she shouldn’t have just walked back into the gallery and left the night alone. empty hallways and no lights. a cleaning crew when she remembered to let them in. of course it had been big at the time rick marshall had it built, but now given the way manhattan was populated, it was extravagate. and still, she couldn’t bring herself to let it go or let anyone else in. almost anyone else, as it turned out. she held the key, letting it cut against her palm, until they were in front of the front door. up the concrete steps. a point of no return as it were.
if she hesitated to unlock the door for a minute, it was too little to be considered weakness. she pushed open the solid wood door, reaching first for the alarm that had to be disarmed and then turning on the flickering lights of the foyer. the carved mahogany bannister running along marble steps for seven stories, museum quality paintings displayed along the run. the crumbling statue that rick had insisted on displaying in the middle of the room when he realized she’d been the one who carved it a thousand years before. it was a gilded age mansion, she could never depart from the style, some part of her still holding on to the marshall choices. “the study’s on the third floor.”











