Archon(4)
“Sorry.” The young woman folded her arms and raised an eyebrow, looking more curious than mad. She was short, and her Academy skirt swung well below her knees, making her look too small for her clothing. Otherwise, she was plain and unremarkable. Brown hair yanked up into a messy bun, some of the tresses loose and frizzy. Bloodshot eyes that were a muddy hazel. Her boots looked like they had been through a few wars, most of their leather stitched with red thread. “You’re really more assertive than you look,” she said to Angela, examining the painting again. “Good for you, not selling your picture to those dolts. He wasn’t offering you enough anyway.”
“It had nothing to do with money,” Angela said, sitting back down. She pulled up her tights, her arm gloves, trying not to appear awkward and freakish.
It wouldn’t make any real difference. Blood heads got attention wherever they went. And if you were a blood head who never bared your arms and legs, even when you wore a short skirt and a ruffled blouse, that only made you ten times more interesting. The granite Exhibit Hall was so stuffed with students, teachers, Vatican novices, priests, appraisers, and proud parents, every other someone was noticing Angela at every other moment. She was probably just as fascinating, if not more so, than the paintings that had gotten her locked away for two years.
“Yeah, you’re right.” The woman waved her hand. “Only geniuses and richers come to this academy after all. Oh, and blood heads.”
“That had nothing to do with it either.”
“So it was a matter of talent, huh?” She stood back, still judging. “Yeah, well, you do have some. Although I can’t understand why you paint the pictures with the dark gray angel completely in the abstract. I feel kind of cheated.”
“It has to do with what I see.” Angela pointed at the architecture surrounding them; a vaulted cathedral ceiling of stone, its upper crevices riddled with peering statues and grimacing faces carved into the rock. A few of the walls were so tall, their highest corners faded into a vast network of shade and darkness. It was easy to imagine that real monsters might live up there, hiding, analyzing the thousands of people that milled across the tiles below, waiting for individuals to separate themselves from the main herd and get lost in the innumerable halls and corridors that made up the Academy’s largest student center. “Look at that.” Angela pointed at the statue of an angel with swanlike wings, his hand grasping a lantern meant to light part of the room below. Unfortunately, the candle inside was sputtering to nothing. “See how clear and defined his features are. You can see everything. The expression. The folds in his robe. The nails on his toes.”
Now she pointed at the window behind them, its lead panes streaked with heavy rain.
Barely discernible through the blur of water and wind, another angel statue leaned out from the gable, his palm lifted high, as if to catch the drops that had worn it down to a flattened disc. Thunder shivered the glass, and an intense flash of lightning highlighted the ghastly flaws in his features.
“But over here, it’s different. I know this is an angel, but everything about him is blurred, and dark, and changeable.” Angela indicated the pictures of the gray angel. “So the painting comes out like this.”
“You seem to like this one—with the bronze wings,” the young woman said. She was inspecting the nearest image of the beautiful angel, awed as Angela was always awed by his proud eyes and perfect pink lips. Often he appeared dressed in a red coat that dazzled her with its silver thread, or wearing jeweled barrettes in his hair, or carrying a lyre made of crystal. “But I don’t get the wings on the ears,” she continued. “Was that your idea?”
“Like I said”—Angela couldn’t stop her sigh—“I just paint what I see.”
But even more often, he would walk into her dreams and leave without saying a word.
“It’s like you know them personally.” The girl sat down next to Angela on the bench, crossing her legs and rifling through her bag. Her hand reemerged with a sack of cheddar chips, and she offered some crumbs, generous. “You actually look an awful lot like them. You’ve got big eyes, has anyone told you that before?”
“They certainly have,” Angela said, taking a handful of food. “Thanks. I’m Angela Mathers, by the way.”
“Nina Willis.” Nina drew in her legs, finally realizing she was going to trip someone. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit here for a minute. I’ve been looking for a bench for about an hour. So are you in the university classes?”