Chapter 4

Rebellious. That’s what Mom calls it—this primal urge to defy. Some of us are called to move and shake, she says, to evoke, express, and push boundaries. I always tried to eminate that in my art, but honestly, until now, I’m not sure I understood what it meant.

I round the next hill and reach a fork at the base of the clock tower. Tall, gangly firs surround it, dwarfed by the enormous clock tower’s red-tiled roof. On its very pinnacle, the metal spire pokes the sky.

Stunning. I’ll take some pictures to bring back and work on at the cabin—no harm in that.

I have a feeling those women were trying to scare me. Maybe they’ve had problems with young people before, like vandalism and noise. They got one look at me and assumed the worst. Stereotypes aren’t foreign to me. Back in middle school, Dad called me a kravallmacher—a troublemaker—because of how I dressed. He once told me I was the only goth in the world afraid of dead things. Yep, that’s my dad—mocks what he doesn’t understand, what he can’t relate to.

As if how a person dresses has anything to do with how they feel about death.

Past the hill, the road weaves in another direction, disappearing into what looks like a forest. Uncharted? My pulse dances at my wrists. I’ll take Dad’s word for it. It isn’t like me to boldly go where no one’s gone before, but ever since we arrived in Transylvania, ever since that rook showed up on my balcony …

I was Poe-ed.

I park the Vespa roadside and start up the hill. Something about how the weather-worn church and clock tower sit so high and mighty, yet have crumbled into dilapidation, tastes deliciously wrong. I wonder why the villagers have abandoned it. Have they lost their faith? Or does it represent something they don’t agree with? Church is Mom’s territory, not mine. Not that it’s done her a ton of good.

My hands itch to recreate the sharp lines and angles of the church and clock tower. My last art teacher insisted architecture helps build skillsets for more abstract pieces. Finding the abstract means rearranging structured frames.

There’s something simple but unique about the way these buildings peers over the village. Unlike typical European gothic cathedrals, it isn’t dripping in ornate design. Below the clock tower’s roof, is a round black-faced clock of Roman numerals. Doesn’t seem to be working, though. Time has stopped at 6:06. Dark stains and mildew splatter the tower’s butter-yellow paint. Cracks trail through its bricks like veins.

With the right filters, I’ll blend photography with other mediums and turn this setting into a spooky piece—something that may just work for the contest.

I hop over the thigh-high perimeter fence surrounding the church grounds and start uphill. My pulse thumps hard and fast and it feels good. I tread over wildflowers and weeds along the golden-brown unkempt grass that brush against my jeans and Converse. An old tree stump looks like a perfect spot for an angular perspective. I step on top of it and position my phone. The clock tower reaches far above the trees into the sky. Limbs like needy arms throw shadows over the lower church’s red sunlit roof.

Snap, snap, snap.

Rapid shutter, panorama, zoom in, zoom out.

Squawk. Swish.

All at once, a clatter thunders overhead.

Blackbirds—rooks? A flock of them, moving like an ink blot across the blue sky. Quickly, I try to capture the image, almost dropping my phone.

In unison, the flock dives and disappears behind the clock tower.

And I didn’t get one single decent shot.

I dart up the yard and snap more pictures. Each vantage point offers a different perspective, depending on the cast of sunlight that, for some reason, seems to evade the clock tower.

Whoa.

Breath hedges my throat and I freeze.

In the clocktower’s high pane-less window, a face appears.

I blink and it’s gone.

Scrolling through my pictures, I zoom in on one in particular. Sure enough—way up in the tower’s highest window, a face stares down at me. Eyes bluer than an October sky, skin as white as moonlight, hair and goatee as black as rook feathers, and that chiseled jawline …

My spine tingles. I slip my phone away and start for the road. This is getting a little too weird.

Voices chatter from behind the hedge before the clock tower.

I stop in my tracks. Yikes, I’m totally trespassing.

I duck behind a bush and listen closer.

“Perhaps she has become smug,” says a female with a foreign accent.

“I dunnot believe it’s that,” a male voice says. “She’s always been pithy. It’s a new era.”

My cheek brushes the leaves and it tickles. These people sound young.

“All ze more reason,” the female says. “She promised.”

That one’s a French accent. I’m sure of it.

My cheek twitches. I back away from the hedge. Ew, spiders. Everywhere. Leaves and twigs threaded with thick webs and ugly little arachnids.

I brush off my body, my hair. Full panic-flails commence. I’m smack dab in the middle of them. Sticky threads cling to my arms and neck. Overhead, spiderwebs dangle from hedge to hedge like villainous garland. My body quivers and I skip-hop, right up the hillside. Full-body spider check, STAT!

“Buna diminiata.” A dark-haired girl appears at the church’s back portico.

I freeze. One lens of my glasses fogs over.

She looks late teens, early twenties; coal-black eye-liner beneath soft brown eyes. Silver and gold bangles align her bare arms. A bushy tangle of tawny waves drapes her shoulders. Beside her, a short youngish guy with shaggy blond hair and bright green eyes stands with feet apart, arms crossed over his chest.

“Buna.” My voice cracks. I don’t know if I’m more excited to meet others my age or embarrassed they’ve witnessed my spider phobia.

Caw! Caw!

Two large rooks stare down from the tree limb hovering over the church’s red-tiled roof, both with marbly black eyes.

“Enchante,” the girl says, throwing me a brief once-over. “You are new to ze area, no?”

“Yeah. Um, just thought I had a spider on me.” My shoulders slacken and I let my face fall into an easy smile. “I’m Morgan.”

“Marguerite.” She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “This is Carrick.”

There is something old-fashioned but stylish about the way they’re dressed. Marguerite wears a long skirt of black tulle and lace, and a snug black velvet corset. Carrick, who is shorter than her, is dressed in a white long-sleeve shirt tucked into gray trousers and leather belt. Small rips and stains dot their clothing. Chic, but faded, like they’ve just traveled up the dusty road on foot.

“You are American,” Marguerite says precociously. “Relocated, it would seem. Have you come to see our clock tower?”

“Um, what makes you say that?”

Did Dad give our life story to everyone in all of the Transylvania Highlands? Even so, they couldn’t possibly know I came to take pictures of the clock tower.

Carrick motions to the rooks on the limb. “Clever creatures, eh? Trackers, and …” his voice lowers, “listeners. They never miss a thing.”

The tips of my ears bristle. He’s joking, right? Let’s all have fun with the gullible American tourist.

“We were just enjoying a bit of sun,” Marguerite says.

I sneak a finger behind my right lens and clear the fog. Nothing slick about it. Worst possible first impression moment ever. Ten cool points from House Jaeger.

“Do yall live around here?” I ask.

“Yall?” Marguerite repeats with a long drawn out syllable.

She and Carrick snicker.

“I’m from Atlanta,” I say. “What about you? Where yall from?”

“I grew up in Ireland,” Carrick says, his voice low and purr-like. “Marguerite, in France. Here is where we make our home now.”

“In Veseud?” I ask.

Carrick nods. “The very place.”

“The ladies in the store said this church hasn’t been open in a long time.” I motion to the clock tower.

“That’s because it’s a private residence.” Carrick flicks a brow, noticing my messenger bag. “Are you delivering mail?” His green eyes twinkle with mischief.

I scrunch my nose. “I’m an artist. I was drawn to the architecture of the clock tower. That’s why I’m here … but then I saw something—a face up there in the window.”

Carrick and Marguerite exchange glances.

I can’t tell if it’s suspicion on their minds or intrigue.

“Is that all you were drawn to?” Carrick asks. “Our clock tower?”

What an odd question. I hesitate, unsure how to answer.

Marguerite glances up at the rooks. “Varujan.”

“Huh?”

Marguerite meets my gaze.“The clock tower is his favorite place. He finds ze view irresistible.”

I realize she’s talking about the goateed stranger.

“Does he ever go to Varig?” I ask. “I think he was outside my cabin last night.” I motion to the birds. “With a rook just like that.”

“Aye, that is quite possible,” Carrick says. “He has a penchant for wandering.”

“Did you bring artwork with you?” Marguerite quirks a sly sort of grin. “I am also an artist. We artists must stick together, you know, in our quest for perpetual inspiration—ze ultimate resource.”

“You’re an artist, too?”

Marguertite nods, a hand to her chest. “Oui. And a musician, mon ami. All of us are.”

My heartbeat breaks into a gallop. “Really? Like a band?”

“Aye,” Carrick says.

“Boalas Cordialas, at your service,” Marguerite adds. “In English, you would say, Cordial Maladies. Do you also play an instrument?”

I shake my head. “No, but I love music. I do write verse, now and then. Drawing’s my jam, though. Freehand, digital, etcetera. Designing album art is my dream gig. For me, music and art are like peanut butter and jelly.”

“Oui, for us also.” Marguerite smiles. “You must come and see …”

“What kind of music do you play?” I ask.

“We are sinfonietta, all strings,” she says.

Carrick points to my bag. “Show us.”

I pretty much loathe being on the spot, but Complicated Beauty is my best piece to date. Electricity snaps beneath my skin. I retrieve my tablet and open the file. “I’ve been working on this for a contest.”

“What kind of contest?” Carrick glances from the artwork to me.

“Annual international battle of the bands in Seattle.”

They stare blankly.

My gaze shifts between their expressions—their direct eye contact, careful furrows of the brow, though I can’t put a finger on the colors of their vibe just yet. Years of Mom’s roller-coaster condition taught me to trust my instinct about people—especially their mood auras—and there’s something both clever and perceptive about these two. Something deeply genuine.

“Well,” I say, “if your band’s any good, you should check it out. Competition is stiff, though. This contest propels talent to the next level—winners cut an album, get a label, and winning artists design their album art.”

Carrick and Marguerite remain silent, studying my screen.

I brace my shoulders, unable to stay quiet. “I’d planned on submitting this, but I need to come up with something else. That’s why I’m here taking photos. Working up a muse.”

I push back a swallow.

Marguerite scratches her chin. Carrick twitches his mouth to the side.

I fight the urge to put away my tablet. Don’t self-reject, Mom would say. She would know. It took her years to make first chair with the Atlanta Orchestra as a flautist, only to give it up when I came along. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why her condition got worst. She lost her creative outlet because of me—the start of her downward spiral.

“Is this finished?” Carrick finally breaks the silence.

“Yes. No? I don’t know.” My jaw tightens. “Why do you ask?”

“If I may speak frankly, it feels incomplete.”

“Right?” My shoulders sink. “That’s what I was thinking. But what?” I point to the screaming faces and flames inside the wings. “I was trying to use irony and surrealism. Maybe I missed the mark. Maybe I’m too close to it.”

“There is irony in butterflies, in beauty.” Carrick regards me.

“Mmm, I would have to agree.” Marguerite nods. “Your color choice is c’est magnifique. You are obviously a skilled artist. In our house full of creatives, we tend to speak openly in favor of growth. It is the artist’s way, you see.”

Ah, I see … They’re bohemians living the dream. This is their Mecca. Endorphins pump and thump and zip through my bloodstream. Maybe unbarred constructive feedback is exactly what I need.

Carrick leans in close. He smells of sage and sandalwood. “Perhaps what your work is missing, is you.”

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “What d’you mean?”

“I see beautiful colors here,” he says. “And intriguing images, but I dunnot feel what makes them true.”

“Oui.” Marguerite meets my gaze. “Wings suggest freedom, motion. Here zere is no flow. Might you be holding back?”

I stare at my artwork.

“Art must reflect the essence of its creator,” Carrick says. “The yearning of your soul.”

“I’m not sure …” All at once, it dawns on me—what’s missing.

The faces within the wings represent captivity, which is what I was going for. Complicated, yes, but they lack emotion. They lack irony of flight, and of liberty just out of reach.

Carrick lays a hand on my shoulder. “What are you feeling?”

Like an amateur.

“Dunnot think about it,” Carrick says, “say everything you feel in this moment.”

His and Marguerite’s eyes glimmer in the mid-morning sun—a flash of some unique brand of intuitive curiosity—one I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

I fight back a shudder. “Shame, embarrassment. Inferiority.”

“Ah.” Carrick’s lips stretch into a grin over his barely stubbled chin. “Now those are feelings to set free.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“Fret not.” Marguerite nudges my arm with her elbow. “If you are looking for a muse, you have come to ze right place. We can help you elevate your art. We know just ze person to show you ze way to infinite muse.”

“Who?”

“Ze one who taught us,” she says.

A rook caws. The other caws in reply.

Chills prickle my arms. My mind fires off in a hundred directions.

“Varujan,” Carrick states.

Marguerite yells something in French at the rooks. They don’t budge. They stamp their talons over the limb.

Carrick holds out an arm for me. “Come. He’ll be wanting to meet you.”

I stare at the shaded portico behind them. I have so many questions.

Marguerite’s skirts swish around her ankles as she starts for the iron gate. Her worn velvet slippers look like elven shoes. This band is definitely into vintage threads, which I can totally get onboard with.

I linger behind. “Um, the women in the store said this place is off limits …”

I guess they got to me more than I thought.

“You mustn’t listen to the old women.” A lazy smile lifts Carrick’s cheeks.

Marguerite turns. “Zey are, how do you say … eh … sour? No, bitter. Come, you shared your art with us, let us share ours with you.” Her gaze reveals something new but familiar. Truth, maybe? One that craves exhibition.

This feels like destiny.

I link my arm in Carrick’s and we join Marguerite in the church portico at the gate. Its iron is thick, its surface rusted over with age. Lavish arrowheads protrude from the top of its spines like spikes.

“Ignore ze old villagers,” Marguerite adds. “Zey are closed-minded and do not like newcomers.”

She opens the gate, then the rounded oaken door to the church. Heavy wood scrapes over concrete.

A draft of stale, herbal-infused air greets my nostrils. Cobwebs cloud the foyer past the door. For a sliver of a second, trepidation swallows curiosity and my stomach spasms.

Instinct? Or imagination? Who can ever tell the difference anyway?

I ignore my involuntary bodily reaction and suck in a deep breath.