Mister Impossible, Maggie Stiefvater [uplifting novels txt] 📗

this canvas, these long cold nights at the borrowed Fenway studio, Declan Lynch posed in the leather chair, the lights of the city murmuring outside the tall windows behind him. It would forever be tied to her experimentation on the colorful edges in the piece, her decision-making for the palette, her favorite brush getting scrubbed down to nothing and being replaced with a second favorite, and with her attempt to make people feel about her subject the way she felt about her subject, no matter how many decades passed.

Her first original.

Had she made a sweetmetal? She didn’t know.

Declan observed, “You can put that brush down, although it’s very good theater. I know the painting’s done.”

“Who’s the artist here, Mr. Pozzi? Perhaps I’m still studying your mannerisms.”

“That brush hasn’t had paint on it for three days.”

“It’s not your place to question my process. Muses are notoriously ill-used.” She put the brush down. “Matthew said you might be able to get one of your father’s dreams to test it.”

“You can’t tell?”

“Whatever Bryde and them are doing means I can’t feel the sweetmetals like I used to. I don’t need them, not just walking around. I won’t know unless the worst happens.”

“Did it feel different to make it?”

Of course it had. It was her first original, and for the first several sessions, the weight of that had slowed her brush to a crawl. She couldn’t decide how many of her artistic decisions in the piece were being cleverly informed by the artists she’d painted before and how many were simply straight up copied. This was decidedly Turner’s palette, she argued with herself. This was Sargent’s composition. This was still forgery, just good forgery.

But then something had happened on the third sitting. Declan had been telling her a story of John White Alexander’s Study in Black and Green, telling her how sensational it was at the time it was painted, given that the subject of the painting was a woman whose husband murdered her former lover in the middle of Madison Square Garden and got away with it under a plea of temporary insanity. As a footnote, he’d added that John White Alexander was married to Elizabeth Alexander Alexander, a woman who friends had introduced him to at a party because they had the same last name.

Jordan had laughed and her brush, loaded with titanium white, had slipped.

Disaster.

Before she could stop it, she’d darted a glaring line along the edge of Declan’s neck on the canvas. With annoyance, she’d gone in with a rag, but the paint beneath was still too wet to let her completely wipe away her mistake. The edge had been left glowing. But as she turned her head to the side, trying to imagine the fewest steps required to restore the edge, she realized the glow actually looked good. It did not look like reality. It felt like reality. The way the light played against the dark tricked her eye in the same way a real object’s edges did. The dissonance was right.

Instead of repairing it, she emphasized it as much as she dared.

The next sitting, she was even braver. She pushed the effect further, past the point of comfort. Until it was more real than reality. She didn’t know if the effect would work, because she was no longer copying. This was unknown road.

Had it felt different to make it? Of course it had felt different. It felt terrifying. It felt thrilling. She wanted people to admire it. She was afraid they’d hate it.

A Jordan Hennessy original.

“It’s bonkers, really,” Jordan remarked. “The whole thing. A sweetmetal. Everyone’s going mad trying to get one, they’re so rare, it’s impossible. And here I am, thinking, oh, right, well, I’ll just make one, then. I never thought of myself as an egotist, but I really must have quite a pair on me.”

Declan smiled at this, turning his face away as he did, as always. “I’m just surprised you’ve never considered yourself an egotist.”

“That’s very sweet.”

He asked, “Can I see it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the biggest art snob I know, which is saying a lot, and you’re a capital-L Liar and I don’t think I could take it if you didn’t like it and I also don’t think I could take you lying to me about it if you didn’t.”

With some curiosity, Declan asked, “Do you think I could still lie convincingly to you?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Do you think I would?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“After all this?”

“After all what?” she said, but in a mocking tone. “Just because I stole your car.”

They were quiet then for a space. Declan looked out the window at the dark, more pensive than his portrait. Both Real Declan and Portrait Declan held their hands the same way, fingers unevenly laced, something about them suggesting power at rest, but Portrait Declan depicted the Declan of just a few minutes before, his head turned quickly to hide that secret smile, that private self. Portrait Declan’s eyes were half-lidded, looking away, his expression one of intimate, mannered amusement. Real Declan’s were wide open, mirthless.

“My mother took days to fall asleep after my father died,” Declan said. It took Jordan a moment to realize that he was referring to the dreamt Aurora, not his biological mother, Mór Ó Corra. It was the first time she remembered him doing so. “He was dead right away, of course. Brains bashed in. They had to take some of the gravel driveway with him to clean up the scene, if you can imagine, that’s your job, the shovel, make sure you get all the pieces, don’t want the kids tripping over gray matter. They didn’t take my mother, though, because she didn’t look dead yet. She looked fine. Fine as you could expect under the circumstances. No, it took her days. She ran down, like a battery. The further she got away from him, the longer it had been since he was alive, the less she became, until she was just … asleep.”

It was not