Chapter 11

The rook squawks, and the waitress disappears. Was she trying to scare me? She did seem afraid of Fate. But other than its creepy eyes it’s been pretty docile. Nice even. Maybe Dad was right and superstition’s a religion around here. Drifters like Varujan must always get a bad rap. The curse of the bohemian lifestyle, I guess. It kind of sounded like Varujan’s been misunderstood his entire life, orphaned and poor. I feel bad for him and all he’s had to deal with.

Maybe the fact he’s been on his own for so long is why he claims to have some secret sauce for art. Unsafe is all he’s ever known.

A reflection of the rook appears on my tablet’s surface. It straddles the boards of the gazebo’s vine-clad roof, its beak tilted toward the cloudy sky. It’s getting hot out here.

I save my recent file and go back to Brush with Fate. This one is it—it has to be.

“Is that me?” says a male voice from behind.

I turn.

Varujan stands in the garden bare-chested in what looks like the same black vest and slacks I first met him in. The chain of his pocket watch dangles from vest to pants.

My chest swells in a flash of heat. “What do you think? It’s not finished.”

“No facial details.” Varujan moves closer to the tablet. “But it is my profile alongside Fate’s.”

“Abstract,” I say. “That’s kinda my thing.”

“Like Picasso?”

“His work’s definitely an influence, but Dali’s my main squeeze. Abstract like Picasso, intricate and surreal like Dali.”

“Yes, I am quite familiar with his work. He had an interesting perspective on time,” Varujan muses. “This one is better than the other.”

I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or criticism. “But?”

He sits beside me, and the air fills with the aroma of candle wax and patchouli, of cedar-chest memories waiting to be perused.

“But you are not yet finished,” Varujan says. “I cannot properly critique if it is not finished.”

“I need to have it ready by next week. What else does it need? Don’t hold back, I can take it.”

“Very well.” He studies the screen again. “Fate should stir uncertainty and providence—and terrible curiosity. It should evoke warning. No. Invitation alongside warning. As though one is right where they should be, even if it is a place of danger.”

“You mean like … like a temptation?” I don’t know why but the thought makes perfect sense.

“Yes.” Varujan fastens his glacier-blue eyes on mine. “Your temptation. Show me how temptation feels for you.”

And then the logic fades. I don’t know what he means.

“Geez, that’s complicated.” I shake my head. “I dunno. How am I supposed to show that?”

Varujan gives a slight shrug. “I think inspiration will find you, just as Fate has.” His expression eases, and he laughs. “Perhaps you are very close, no?”

I study my piece. “You think?”

He grins and his face seems ten years younger.

Fate rustles on the gazebo plank. I pull up my portfolio website on my phone.

“Here, look.” I hand it to Varujan. “I can do something like this for your band. We can start a YouTube channel and upload a performance sneak peek once a week. I’ve seen indie bands do it. Once I get a feel for your sound, I can draft some logos and color palettes for your brand.”

Varujan touches the screen but moves slowly as if taking in everything.

I brush my hair behind my ear, smack my lips. “Here …”

I show him the menu and links to all my socials. He’s silent as he watches.

“From here, we connect with listeners worldwide?” he asks, pupils dilating.

“Yep. This is a place where everyone shares their art—music, drawings, crafts, you name it.”

A slow smile forms on Varujan’s goateed face. “I am sure the band will approve.” He rises, holds out a hand, and says, “Let me introduce you to them.”

Finally. Let’s do this.

I stow my device, grab my things, and put my hand in his. He locks his fingers with mine and it feels like the fate he described. Uncertain with possibility. Like a gift. And I want the world to know.

Varujan leads me through the inn gardens and across the road.

“I probably only have time for one song,” I say, squinting into the sun’s brightness and squeezing his hand. “I gotta get back before my dad gets home from work.”

Above us, Fate darts for the church.

“By the way, I know you’re exaggerating,” I continue babbling. “About the muse, I mean. But I figure it’s all about philosophy, you know? Variety, change. They all open up the mind. Just like last night—the danger got my adrenaline pumping. But I never would’ve done something like that if you hadn’t been there.”

Varujan gives me a sideways smirk.

“I just wish my dad had an open mind. He didn’t want me coming here again.”

Varujan’s pupils retreat into slits inside his icy-blue irises. “Why not?”

I shrug. “Because he wants to control my life. He doesn’t get my art at all.”

“He is difficult.” Varujan nods. “I understand this.”

“Yours was the same?”

“Beyond measure. My only freedom has been music. Expression.”

“You mean before, back when your father was alive?”

He nods.

At the churchyard, we climb the hill. Fate lands on the lower roof beside the clock tower and waits like a statue.

“You know,” I say, “maybe if you stop feeding that bird, it’ll leave you alone. Although now I can hardly imagine you without it.”

“Perhaps,” Varujan says. “And what of your mother? Is she also challenging?”

I push my hair behind my ear—once, twice, three times to get it to stay. It’s a standard question, but I don’t like talking about my mom. It’s private, and my rule has always been to keep personal matters confidential.

And yet, I’m halfway around the world with someone who has no online profiles and doesn’t even use the Internet. If anyone could be confidentiial, it’s probably him. After all he’s been through, maybe he’s exactly the one to understand what I’ve dealt with.

“It’s tricky,” I say hesitantly, my palm sweating inside his. “My mom’s one of the most talented people I know—you should hear her play the flute. She’s like a morning songbird … when she has energy for it, which isn’t often. She ...” I suck in a deep breath, kicking over patches of dirt so that dust flies up around my Converse, “has a lot of struggles.”

“We all have struggles.” Varujan grins at the sun, his cheeks blushing. His expression seems almost smug, as if the sun owes him some warmth and light.

“Yeah, but we don’t all require meds for them.” I pull my hand from his and fold my arms over my chest. Talking about Mom makes me weird. “Her good moods are brighter than the brightest sunburst oranges and yellows, but they melt away at a moment’s notice. What they leave behind is a flimsy membrane of vacant gray.” I pause. Just say it. Own it. “In other words, my mom’s bipolar.”

Varujan’s brow furrows. “What does this mean? Bipolar?”

“You know, a mood disorder—extreme changes. Like really upbeat one minute, down in the dumps the next. It gets kinda dark.”

“Ah yes, I understand.” Varujan nods. “This is the way of it sometimes. My mother had much despair also.”

“My dad could never handle it,” I continue. “It’s like her world crashes, over and over. It can be heartbreaking, you know? I try to help her process it—when my art turns darker, you always know Mom’s on a downturn. And that makes me feel guilty because I want my art to lift her but I need an outlet too. My dad thinks she’s overdramatizing, so he blames her for everything wrong with me. He uses it as leverage to control my life. Crazy thing is, I’d rather be like my mom than my dad any day, even if it means losing my grip.”

Holy cow, did I just unload? I wipe my forehead.

“Your grip?” Varujan repeats.

“My hold on reality. On attitude. On life.”

“Does your mother ponder death?” Varujan’s tone emerges calm and blunt.

It sends chills up and down my spine. That’s a highly personal question. But … maybe I should talk about it. It’s nice to talk to someone who knows none of the same crowd I do.

“All the time,” I blurt. “We talk about what happens after we die. What’s left of us.” I let out a long, deflating sigh. “And if it’s any better on the other side.” My throat tightens. “Sometimes I think she thinks it is. That probably sounds morbid and dark.”

Varujan makes an odd sound—something between a moan and a chuckle. His expression remains stoic. “Thoughts of death are like thoughts of the heavens, of the greatest depths of the oceans. Contemplation of the unknown has perplexed mankind for centuries. It does not define a person as dark. What have you been taught?”

Our conversation’s headed off the deep end. Not that I meant to do it. But now that I have, that crick in the back of my neck isn’t so stark anymore. I like talking about the things no one else wants to. No one but Mom.

“As in a belief system?” I ask him.

Varujan nods.

“My mom’s into spirituality. It helps her cope. My dad’s into nature.” I fake a little laugh as if playing down what I’m about to say. “So, when I was little, I used to get weirded out by his taxidermy. I asked him once what happened to all the animals after they died. He said they return to the earth to feed the living ones. I was like, that’s it? Doesn’t their death amount to anything? What a wasted existence. It made me really angry … and helpless. My mom says animals are terrestrial, and people are supernatural loaned out as terrestrials. Kinda unfair, don’t you think?”

We reach the church portico’s iron gate.

Varujan’s expression darkens. “Indeed, Morgan.”

He pulls the key from his vest pocket and unlocks the gate.

Click.

Fate caws.

In reply, a discord of squawking erupts from the trees. Other rooks must be hiding far up in the branches.

Varujan doesn’t acknowledge it. He pushes the heavy gate open and holds it aside for me.

“Wanna hear something weird?” I join him on the other side.

He lets the gate slam shut with a loud clang. “Most certainly.”

“When you first told me I’m free to think wicked thoughts, it made me think of death. Like going too far.” I shuffle toward the portico door. “I’m intense, I know.”

Varujan’s ice-blue gaze never jars. His lips purse with interest within his goatee. “It so happens that I like intense.”

My pulse accelerates. “Me too.”

I could lose myself in that steamy gaze. My palms sweat.

Varujan turns and unlocks the door. “Morgan, do you fantasize about death?”

It’s a strange question.

“Fantasizing makes it sound so … dreamy.” I force an awkward chuckle. “But do you ever feel there’s more than what we see in front of us?”

Varujan pushes open the door. “Always. The question is, how badly do you want to see it?”

A chill rolls over my back. “See what?”

“More.”

I blow a gust of air and stretch my back as I enter the sanctuary. I know what he’s implying. It doesn’t offend me, but I don’t want to scare him. “I’ve never shown any symptoms of my mom’s disorder.”

“That is not what I meant.” Varujan saunters toward the corridor. “These emotions you share are rich with complexity. Why have you not used them in your drawings?”

“I have. I mean, I’ve tried. I always try.”

“Perhaps you keep them buried too deeply. They crowd your soul with torment and conflict.” Varujan’s gaze burns into mine again. “That is the essence you must set free.” He pauses beneath the arch. “Are you ready?”

“Yes?” I flip my hair from my eyes.

Varujan steps toward me, lifts my hands in his, and mimics a laugh. “It is good that you are here.”

I let him squeeze my hands. Nerves dance and jitter beneath my skin. I can’t help but stare at his plump lips. Just as I think he’s about to lean in and kiss me, he links his arm to mine and starts down the windowed corridor.

Quietly, we pad over the floorboards for the tower. There is comfort in the quiet, though an arousing tension stirs my insides into froth.

We fall short of the clock tower.

Varujan releases my arm and steps over to the large cast-iron potbelly stove. He places his hands on the faded metal siding. “Can you keep a secret, Morgan?”

I stare dumbly and nod.

He grins and pushes the entire stove to one side. Its fixture on the floorboards slides over and clicks into place, leaving an opening in the floor.

Okay, this moment just did a 180. I blink. “Is that the basement?”

Varujan steps down into the floor until his body disappears.

I move over to the opening. A cooler, mustier air meets my nostrils and skin.

Varujan looks up at me from a narrow stone spiral staircase that descends into darkness. Candlelight from a sconce on the stone wall flickers over his pale face.

“Are you coming?” he asks, his pupils dilating wide. “Bine ate vent la umbra.”