The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) (8 page)

As my mind travels to faraway destinations, my feet travel down one flight of stairs to a bright and grand hall with wall-to-wall oil paintings and statues. As I approach, the crowd parts to let me through. I hop onto a makeshift podium covered in navy fabric and join the lineup of contestants. The Masterpiecers’ anthem plays and quiets the straggling voices.

Once the music stops, Dominic, who’s clutching a large glass jar, explains today’s test: solving a riddle that will lead us to a specific work of art. “Each contestant will take a piece of paper from this container. Under no circumstance can you show anyone besides Jeb. Jeb will film your riddles, then broadcast them to our faithful viewers. Now, let’s start with the girls.”

Lincoln goes first, then Maxine, and then me. As soon as I unfold my paper, my gaze flies over the riddle.

“My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood.”

What the heck are luminaries?
Lights?

A camera pops up in front of me, pressing down toward the paper like a dog snout. After everyone’s picked a riddle, and it’s been videotaped, Dominic says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please remember that you are
not
to help our contestants. You may follow them on their hunt, but do not offer clues or answer any questions, or they will be eliminated. Understood?”

A loud
yes
resounds.

Dominic grins. “The works you are looking for are on this floor and this floor only.”

I’m about to pounce off the stage when Lincoln asks, “Do all our riddles lead to different ones?”

“Of course,” Dominic says.

“Can we jot down thoughts?” Nathan asks.

“No pen, no paper. Use your minds,” Dominic tells him, tapping his temple. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I say along with the others.

“Let day number two begin,” he exclaims

Lincoln leaps off the stage first and barges through the dense crowd of cocktail-attired people gathered in the long hallway, clearing a path for the rest of us. After we’ve all funneled through, the audience seams together and turns to follow. Heels and soles pound the floor. Most spectators keep out of our way, but some get so close, the camera crew has to corral them back. I try to ignore the rubberneckers as I move around the museum, but they’re always there, gaping, pointing, and whispering. It’s distracting. I remind myself that they are the people who made this competition possible with their money and their connections. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. The thought makes their presence more bearable.

A painting captures my attention. It’s a seascape of crimson-hued waves thrashing against a large wooden boat with a setting sun in the background. The sun is a luminary, right? And the water is red, like blood. But there are no bees, so I move on.

As I tread through the chain of galleries, I glimpse a lot of suns and stars and moons, several lampposts and light bulbs, a hefty dose of oozing blood, but not a single painting containing bees. After an hour, I collapse on a banquette. Somewhere along the way, I managed to lose the camera crew and the audience.

“My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood,” I whisper, hoping that saying it out loud will help me make sense of it. It doesn’t. Checking that no one is around, I keep talking to myself, because too many ideas are playing leapfrog in my brain. “Okay. So…the light source was made by bees and blood. Maybe I’m not looking for bees and blood in the art. Maybe just light sources.”

I sound silly…I sound like Mom. Always talking out loud to herself. I bat my lashes to dispel the sudden moisture caking my eyes and find myself staring right into a camera.
Shoot.
I strap on a confident mask that quickly decomposes when a rush of excitement booms out of an adjoining gallery making the camera crew race out.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. Slowly, I tap my skull against the wooden headrest, hoping I can knock the answer into my brain.

Can bees produce light?

Can honey produce light?

Or pollen? Pollen is yellow? Could pollen be considered light?

What makes some bugs light up?

“Think synonyms,” I hear someone tell me.

I snap my lids up to find Brook sitting next to me.

“Trying to get me eliminated?” I ask, my heart bumping around my ribcage. The gallery is empty save for the two of us.

“No,” he says quietly. “Synonyms are the foundation of a riddle. It’s a fact, not a clue.”

After a minute of silence, curiosity gets the better of me. “Who solved theirs?”

“Believe it or not…Daisy.”

“Daisy?”

“I mean Maxine.”

“No, I know who Daisy is. I’m just surprised—I thought it would be your brother.”

Brook’s eyes darken. “He’s still searching.”

“He’ll get it soon enough.”

“He
is
pretty obstinate,” Brook continues.

“I can tell.”

“This is his chance to get what he wants.”

I smirk. “If he wins, will he be allowed to attend the Masterpiecers or does he just get the hundred grand?”

“He’ll be allowed to attend.”

“Won’t that destroy the school’s policy?”

“It will complicate it,” he says as I stare at the Jackson Pollock in front of me. The paint splatters remind me of the last quilt I sewed. I used splatters of silk and velvet instead of paint. “Is your sister also artistic?”

“No. Not in the least.”

He’s looking at the Pollock too. “You don’t talk about her.”

“I came to compete in an art show, not to discuss my family.”

“Fair enough.”

“Now can you please leave so I can concentrate?”

“I’ll be quiet.”

I’m about to tell him that it’s his presence I find troublesome, when I hear footsteps. My pulse skyrockets. I leap up and away from Brook before anyone can assume I was cheating.

Chase is standing in the large doorway.

Brook rises slowly and walks over to him. “How are you holding up?”

“I thought the contestants weren’t supposed to speak with judges or people from the audience,” Chase says curtly. The vein on his temple lobe throbs.

“I can ask how you’re doing.”

“Is that what you were asking Ivy? How she was
doing
?” His accusatory tone makes me livid.

“Yes.” Brook pushes a shiny lock of black hair off his forehead. “I wasn’t giving her any clues, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

No one speaks and no one moves. The large gallery suddenly feels oppressive. I pretend to examine a painting when I hear loud applause.

“Another winner. You two better hurry up,” Brook says, brushing past his brother.

I walk off in the opposite direction. There’s no way I’m spending any more time cooped up in a room with Chase. Plus my painting’s not here. There are no light sources in any of the pieces hanging on the wall. As I cross the entire south wing, I start the unscrambling process anew.

Bees can’t produce light.

Blood can’t either.

What’s synonymous with bees? Besides bugs and honey.

Pollen…honeycombs…buzz.
I keep buzz in mind.
Filaments buzz.

Or maybe it’s a painting that was buzzed about.

Maybe it’s a painting that was killed for!

My pulse quickens because I think I’m onto something. I commit this thought to memory then move on to the verb.

What’s tantamount to shaped?

Formed.
I try it out in the riddle.

My luminaries were formed by bees and blood.

Ugh!
It doesn’t make more sense. I think up more synonyms. My brain halts on the verb
molded
.

My luminaries were molded by bees and blood.

My nose wrinkles at the idea of a painting fashioned with blood. A few years back, a painting
was
made with excrement, so maybe there’s one made with blood and dead bees. I check the label affixed to the wall in front of me. It’s a Dubuffet created with plaster, oil, tar, and sand. Tar…weird. I didn’t know artists used tar. The next painting is a combination of acrylic and wax. I get this niggling in my skull and read it again.
Wax
. Bees make wax.

I check the work associated with the plaque, but can’t find anything resembling a light source. It’s a painting representing waves or squiggly lines. Not my painting.

A shift in the air alerts me to a presence. It’s Nathan. His forehead glistens with sweat. Either he’s been running or he’s nervous. From the way he fidgets with his belt buckle, I decide it’s the latter. Another round of applause erupts somewhere in the museum. I tick off my fingers. Three. I think of what Lincoln said, about us chasing the same painting and start wandering off toward the din. Just in case. When I get to the gallery, I find J.J. beaming in front of a Persian rug.
Yeah
…I don’t think our riddles are linked.

“Ivy? Did you solve yours?” Dominic asks. He’s standing right next to the graffiti artist.

Josephine and Brook watch me, and so does the audience. One of the cameras is poised on my face.

I put on a smile. “Almost.”

Willing my knees not to shake, I walk out of the gallery and look at all of the paintings made with beeswax. I now understand the sneakers. The museum is a maze. I begin jogging, grazing the walls so that I can read the insignias without stopping. When I spot the word wax again, I stop to examine the subject matter: a self-portrait with no source of light. But still, I don’t move. I study it and something clicks. It’s textured, like the Dubuffet!
Of course.
That’s what wax does. It makes my quest easier now, as I only stop in front of paintings that have relief.

A loud clamor resonates.
Four.
There are two spots left. I pick up the pace. There’s a painting that takes up an entire wall. It’s huge. And has tons of texture and color. I desperately try to locate something akin to luminaries or blood. But unless blood is neon pink and luminaries are dandelions, it’s not it. My stomach lets out an angry growl that mirrors how my mind is feeling.

As I rip through yet another gallery, I hear a new commotion.
Five!
How is everyone done and not me? Their riddles must have been easier than mine! One spot to go. One spot.
One.
My rubber soles pound the floor. I cross Nathan’s path. His eyes are as bright as his cheeks. He’s running with a purpose. That’s when I begin to lose hope. I’m tempted to trip him, but that’s not going to help me.

I watch him disappear into the adjacent room, his footsteps ringing like a ticking time bomb. I suck in a breath and focus on the artwork around me to snuff out the ticking. Nothing resembles a freaking light source. There’s a painting with a bunch of geometric shapes, there’s another that looks like some blown-up Japanese calligraphy, there’s a white flag, there’s a—

I twist back toward the flag. It’s white, but textured. And there are stars on it. Stars are light sources, right? I dash to the plaque, heart crashing against my ribcage.
Encaustic oil, newsprint, and charcoal.
Many had to die to unite America. I have my blood and my luminaries…

“What the hell is encaustic?” I say out loud.

“Wax.”

The only other person around is Chase, and he’s staring at another painting. Did I imagine his voice?

“Wax?” I repeat.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me. Maybe it was some ruse to make me fail. Chase would never help me.
Would he?
I stare at the flag and think that it fits my riddle.

A noise rises not far away. Nathan’s stupid sweaty face pops into my mind and I sprint toward the clamor.

It has to be the flag.

“I got it!” I yell the second I enter the gallery.

I notice pity staining the onlookers’ faces. And then I notice Nathan standing beside Dominic, beaming like a stop sign.

He got it before me.

Chapter Eleven

Aster

Every inch of skin on my body burns as though it were being doused in acid.

“Nathan. Your answer?” Dominic asks.

The camera moves off Ivy’s face onto Nathan’s. I don’t care about his face. I care about Ivy’s. Only Ivy.

“Looks like someone doesn’t win after all,” the long-necked guard says. Ever since I promised her the money, she’s been bursting into the dayroom to catch segments of the show.

“It’s not over,” I tell her. It can’t be. Ivy’s the best.

The camera slides back to her. She’s bleached all emotion from her face, but I know she’s unwell. I can feel it through our twin connection.

“
The Love Letter
by Jean Honoré Fragonard,” Nathan says, his face as shiny as a glazed donut.

Dominic shakes his head as though he has a fly buzzing around it. “No, Nathan. That’s not it.”

It takes a few seconds for the smile to tumble off Nathan’s lips, as though each cell of skin is repositioning itself.

“I’m sorry.” Dominic pats him on the back. “Ivy? What do you have for us?”

She doesn’t move. I spring to the edge of the couch. “Come on, Ivy,” I whisper.

Giraffe-neck smirks.

“What’s the answer to your riddle, sweetheart?” Dominic asks.

She moves forward, carving a path toward the master of ceremony. Once next to him, she says, “
White Flag
by Jasper Johns.” Her voice is steady.

Dominic hisses, hiking up his lips and baring his teeth like a hyena.

My hope shatters like the ornament Mom threw at my head during our last Christmas together.

“Is that your final answer?” he asks.

Her gaze coasts over the crowd, over me, but the rest of her face remains impassive. “Yes.”

Dominic begins to clap, and then everyone claps, and I realize her answer was correct and Dominic was just being an asshole. My emotions are all over the place, like the shimmery painted glass fragments that embedded themselves in my skin. Nathan swipes his eyes. He’s crying. I want to care, but I don’t.

The TV switches off.

“What did you do that for?” I exclaim, twisting toward the guard. “It’s not done!”

“For today, it is. Recreation time.”

“I don’t want to go to the yard.”