Page 148 of Cherish

No, everything here screams pure artistic and erudite hubris.

The outer walls are lined with mural after mural done in gold overlay and finished off with glittering jewels. The murals themselves are works of art, even before you consider the historical scenes they depict—everything from the burning of the Library at Alexandria to what I’m almost certain is the moon landing.

Outside the walls is an elaborate garden filled with every type and color of flower imaginable. It’s set up in the style of an English garden, with an abundance of flowering shrubs planted along neat gemstone-lined pathways and potted flowers grouped together every few feet. There are stairs leading to quaint little bridges that cover even quainter ponds filled with black, white, and golden koi, while floral archways and trellises situated every several feet are filled with roses, jasmine, and wisteria, just to name the ones I recognize.

Also in the garden, placed in significant spots around the building, are statues of nine women in various types of historical dress.The muses through the ages?I wonder as I step closer to get a better look. Then decide, yes, that’s exactly what I’m looking at.

Urania in a space suit with a helmet under her arm.

Terpsichore in pointe shoes and an elaborate tutu, her hair scraped up into a perfect bun as she executes some ballet move I couldn’t name if I tried.

Euterpe sitting at a drum kit, hair wild and face set in deep concentration at the moment her drumsticks meet skins.

I can see the other statues from where I’m standing, but I’m too far away to get a good look at them. I make a mental note to tour the gardens later if I’ve got time—Calliope has always been my favorite muse, and I can’t wait to see how the Curator has had her depicted.

“This place is wild,” Flint comments as he starts up the long, winding pathway to the front doors—which, from here, look like they’re made of gold. The lion’s-head door knockers are also made of gold, with emeralds as big as my fist in between their fierce teeth.

We follow him in silence, basking in the sheer opulence of the gardens.

“Wicked,” Flint breathes as he pulls the emerald forward, then pushes it against the door to knock three times in quick succession.

“I didn’t realize we were ready to do that yet,” I tell him, pushing his hand away from the door knocker before he can do anything else. “I thought we needed a plan.”

“The plan is to get the Curator’s attention, then ask for their help with the spell, right?” Flint asks. “What else is there to talk about?”

So many things. But it’s too late now, because the door is swinging open. And the person standing there is nothing like I expected the Curator to be. At the same time, though, she looks exactly like the kind of person who would design a place like this.

To begin with, she’s tiny—shorter, even, than I am. Her chin-length black hair hangs in curled ringlets around her very pretty face, and her brown skin gleams in the sunlight.

Her septum and right eyebrow are pierced, and rings decorate every one of her fingers as well as most of her toes. Plus, she’s got a dozen thin gold bangles and woven friendship bracelets piled on both her wrists. Elaborate henna tattoos decorate her palms and the backs of her hands, and multicolored feather earrings hang from her ears. And she’s dressed in frayed jeans with holes over the knees and a vintage Joan Jett and the Blackhearts tour T-shirt that complements her gold-rimmed glasses.

Part boho, part punk rock, she’s definitely on the list of coolest-looking people I’ve ever met. Not to mention the fact her eyes shout that she’s something more than human—midnight-black irises with tiny silver flecks in them that look a lot like stars from where I’m standing.

“Come on in,” she says, swinging the door open to let us pass. “I’ve been waiting for you since last night. Looks like you had a rougher time getting here than I anticipated.”

“You knew we were coming?” I blurt out before I even know I’m going to say it.

She laughs. “Of course, Grace. All part of my godhood. You’re going to have to have a lot more tricks up your sleeves if you don’t want me to see you coming.”

My gaze seeks out Hudson’s, and I mouth,Another god?He shrugs, but I know he’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking—how the hell did we not seethatcoming?

She leads us through a huge foyer whose walls are filled with original Rothko, Pollock, and Haring paintings that have both Hudson and me staring wide-eyed and lingering behind the others.

“They were a lot of fun to watch getting painted,” the Curator tosses over her shoulder. “You can come back and check them out later. But I just finished making breakfast. You must be starving.”

As if on cue, Flint’s stomach rumbles loudly, and the rest of us laugh.

He gives the Curator a charming smile and a self-deprecating shrug that has her grinning back at him even before he says, “Breakfast is my favorite meal.”

“I know. I made some blackberry-orange muffins just for you.”

His eyes go wide. “How did you know those are my—” He breaks off as he remembers what she said earlier.

She winks in response, then leads us into a dining room.

“You can use the fountain to clean up,” she says, nodding toward a four-tiered gold fountain in the corner, decorated with more gemstones and bubbling with soapy water. Next to it is a pile of snow-white Egyptian cotton towels.

We all line up to do just that—after everything we’ve been through since leaving Adarie, I figure everyone feels as grimy as I do. But while I like the Curator’s style—a lot—I have to admit I’m a little skeptical about the fountain. At least until I thrust my hands under the pouring water. In the space of just a few seconds, everything from my hands to my teeth to my body and hair feels sparkling clean.

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