"I'll talk with Ariel. This thing cannot go back to the Tower", she said, while walking towards the door. "Let's go, Alice."
We said our goodbyes and went down the elevator. My sister didn't speak until we reached the carriage. I noticed her hands shifted while talking, scales appearing on them and disappearing at every word.
"I don't want to know what Marcus'll do when he finds out. Whoever did this, better be in a ship half way to America."
To me, something still didn't make sense. No one could destroy the mirror by dropping it. It had survived several thousand years of mismanagement in the hands of my uncle. I'm sure this wasn't the first time it fell. The gash it had. A claw mark. I needed more information back at the Tower.
From the Willoughby, through the streets until we reached the Museum.
Though most of the people surrounding my father has a vague idea of who I am, not many of them could find me in a crowd. This allows me to move freely in most places, still restricted by the contraptions the Victorians insist on calling proper attire.
My sister lacks this freedom.
Mind you, this is less by father’s actions, but more regarding her own fame. After all, Victorie Fawkes is one of the prominent artists of the century. Her portraits and landscapes are found in the National Gallery and museums around the world. I still find this a bit disconcerting. She is not allowed to visit these places without expressed invitation or with a male companion, but her paintings are sold by thousands of pounds. Same reason my aunt Sarah can’t share her botanical expertise with the members of the Royal Society.
Besides, her face appeared in the papers from time to time. When we came down the carriage, some people approached her, trying to speak with her about art. She paid no attention to them, walking past and up the steps.
British Museum. At least, that was how the driver announced it before we descended the omnibus. A large building in a Greek-like style. Scaffolding in some areas, as if it was still in construction. Originally the area belonged to Montague House, and it harboured most of the collections the empire had acquired during its exploration of the world. Soon, the place became too small to do the job properly, so they decided to build this second structure. More fitting to a proper institution, unlike its predecessor.
The word ‘curator’ was not in use in the museum, which my sister pointed when she asked directions to her friend’s office. The only people who still used it, were those who worked only with magical artifacts. To distinguish themselves from their human co-workers. They even planned to have a special wing of the museum for these artifacts. Though the Imperial Club opposed it.
“Wait here and try to not get into trouble”, my sister said, ushering me into an exhibition room with Greek statues and engravings.
Since following her would lead me to lose myself in this unknown maze, I decided -for once- to obey. Began to stroll between the exhibitions, recognising a few of them. A couple of statues from the temple my father help build in Athens. One engraving of my grandmother winning against Poseidon. A golden mask which the label attributed to Agamemnon. Most of them I had seen before, but one at the end of the room captured my attention.
A very ornamented piece of cloth. Someone had stitched it by hand at some point, since it seemed to be from before even the most traditional looms. A picture which I should’ve recognised at first glance, but something seemed off with it.
“Sophia, Tower of Wisdom”, said the label next to it. Somehow, the stitching of Sophia seemed even older than the real place. Stones falling apart in some points, the original roofing -before the glass cupula- with broken shingles, and the entire thing crooked and leaning to a side. It depicted Sophia as a ruin, beyond repair or help.
“You see it, too?” I heard a voice by my side, and turned to see a boy around my age, looking at the piece with absolute disgust. “Something is absolutely wrong with it, but I don’t know what.”
“Sophia is not like this.”
“You seem to know it for a fact.” He extended his hand. “Edgar Wilcox.”
“I do. Alice Athenida.”
Comments (0)
See all