Page 49 of There is No Devil

“I don’t like that orange on the robin’s breast. It’s too bright. Clashes with the roses.”

Mara squints at the robin, then at the roses, looking back and forth between them, comparing the shades.

“You might be right,” she grudgingly admits. “Here, tone it down. Make it a little more dusty.”

She holds out a paintbrush to me.

“You’re going to let me touch your robin? You almost bit my head off last time I came near your painting.”

“Well, you did pick my favorite design for Corona Heights.”

It was my favorite too. Mara inspired the design, in a sense. Hearing her enthusiasm spurred me on to build the model so I can bring it to York this afternoon, right before the deadline.

I had been debating whether I even wanted to enter. I still don’t like the idea of having to outsource the construction.

I add a little brown to the robin’s breast, dulling the orange until it almost matches the edges of the rose petals.

Mara examines my work.

“That’s better,” she agrees.

Our heads are close together, examining the canvas.

Unconsciously, Mara’s hand slips into mine. I turn my mouth into the side of her neck, kissing her at the junction of her shoulder. Her scent, laced with turpentine, makes my head spin.

“Do you want to come see the model?” I ask her.

“Of course!”

She drops her brushes in a pot of solvent to soak, wiping her hands off on a rag. My own hand is paint-smeared where she touched me. Instead of washing it, I let the streak of dusty pink dry on my skin.

Mara follows me down the hall to the studio I’ve been using on this same floor. I don’t like it as much as my private space, but sometimes it’s good to make a change. There’s something energizing about the constant bustle of people in this building—the whistle of Sonia’s kettle, Janice’s snorting laugh, and the thud of Mara’s music leaking out from under her door. The chatter of other artists meeting by the stairs.

“Isn’t Officer Hawks coming to talk to you today?” Mara asks.

“Oh fuck, I forgot about that.”

I’m debating whether I should tell Sonia to cancel it. I don’t want to waste even ten minutes talking to him. On the other hand, it would be stupid to miss the opportunity to observe the detective while he’s interrogating me.

I push open the door to my own studio, which takes up half the floor on the opposite end of the building to Mara.

Our studios are equally bright and sunlit, but in truth, Mara has the better view. Hers looks out over the park, while I’m facing the busy intersection of Clay and Steiner streets. It doesn’t matter—I’m here for the view down the hall.

Mara strides directly over to the model, not waiting for me to close the door behind us.

“It’s going to be incredible,” she breathes.

She looks down over the black glass labyrinth. The smooth, sheer walls will be glossy and reflective. The maze includes a dozen routes, but only one that will take you all the way through. The correct pathway is hidden within the walls. The openings can only be found by standing at just the right angle, or running your hands along the dark glass to feel where it breaks.

“I hope they choose your design,” she says. “I want to see this built.”

“So do I,” I admit.

Mara looks up into my face, her eyes bright with excitement.

“They will. They’ll choose you.”

I could probably strong-arm York into doing it, but I won’t. My art is the one area where I don’t manipulate. My work will live or die on its own merit.

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