Read Online The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) by Olivia Wildenstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Olivia Wildenstein
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careful that it doesn’t snag on the ribbon in my hair or pick up pigment from my skin. I tie up my sneakers and reemerge after a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror.
Cara is checking her bulky, neon-orange rubber wristwatch, the sort of watch I drooled over as a pre-teen. Now I aspire to sleeker ones, preferably metal and preferably brand-named. If I win the prize money, I’ll buy myself a diamond watch. And exotic fabrics from India. Maybe I’ll even go to India.
As my mind travels to faraway destinations, my feet travel down one flight of stairs to a bright and grand hall with wall-to-wall oil paintings and statues. As I approach, the crowd parts to let me through. I hop onto a makeshift podium covered in navy fabric and join the lineup of contestants. The Masterpiecers’ anthem plays and quiets the straggling voices.
Once the music stops, Dominic, who’s clutching a large glass jar, explains today’s test: solving a riddle that will lead us to a specific work of art. “Each contestant will take a piece of paper from this container. Under no circumstance can you show anyone besides Jeb. Jeb will film your riddles, then broadcast them to our faithful viewers. Now, let’s start with the girls.”
Lincoln goes first, then Maxine, and then me. As soon as I unfold my paper, my gaze flies over the riddle.
“My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood.”
What the heck are luminaries? Lights?
A camera pops up in front of me, pressing down toward the paper like a dog snout. After everyone’s picked a riddle, and it’s been videotaped, Dominic says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please remember that you are not to help our contestants. You may follow them on their hunt, but do not offer clues or answer any questions, or they will be eliminated. Understood?”
A loud yes resounds.
Dominic grins. “The works you are looking for are on this floor and this floor only.”
I’m about to pounce off the stage when Lincoln asks, “Do all our riddles lead to different ones?”
“Of course,” Dominic says.
“Can we jot down thoughts?” Nathan asks.
“No pen, no paper. Use your minds,” Dominic tells him, tapping his temple. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say along with the others.
“Let day number two begin,” he exclaims
Lincoln leaps off the stage first and barges through the dense crowd of cocktail-attired people gathered in the long hallway, clearing a path for the rest of us. After we’ve all funneled through, the audience seams together and turns to follow. Heels and soles pound the floor. Most spectators keep out of our way, but some get so close, the camera crew has to corral them back. I try to ignore the rubberneckers as I move around the museum, but they’re always there, gaping, pointing, and whispering. It’s distracting. I remind myself that they are the people who made this competition possible with their money and their connections. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. The thought makes their presence more bearable.
A painting captures my attention. It’s a seascape of crimson-hued waves thrashing against a large wooden boat with a setting sun in the background. The sun is a luminary, right? And the water is red, like blood. But there are no bees, so I move on.
As I tread through the chain of galleries, I glimpse a lot of suns and stars and moons, several lampposts and light bulbs, a hefty dose of oozing blood, but not a single painting containing bees. After an hour, I collapse on a banquette. Somewhere along the way, I managed to lose the camera crew and the audience.
“My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood,” I whisper, hoping that saying it out loud will help me make sense of it. It doesn’t. Checking that no one is around, I keep talking to myself, because too many ideas are playing leapfrog in my brain. “Okay. So…the light source was made by bees and blood. Maybe I’m not looking for bees and blood in the art. Maybe just light sources.”
I
Cara is checking her bulky, neon-orange rubber wristwatch, the sort of watch I drooled over as a pre-teen. Now I aspire to sleeker ones, preferably metal and preferably brand-named. If I win the prize money, I’ll buy myself a diamond watch. And exotic fabrics from India. Maybe I’ll even go to India.
As my mind travels to faraway destinations, my feet travel down one flight of stairs to a bright and grand hall with wall-to-wall oil paintings and statues. As I approach, the crowd parts to let me through. I hop onto a makeshift podium covered in navy fabric and join the lineup of contestants. The Masterpiecers’ anthem plays and quiets the straggling voices.
Once the music stops, Dominic, who’s clutching a large glass jar, explains today’s test: solving a riddle that will lead us to a specific work of art. “Each contestant will take a piece of paper from this container. Under no circumstance can you show anyone besides Jeb. Jeb will film your riddles, then broadcast them to our faithful viewers. Now, let’s start with the girls.”
Lincoln goes first, then Maxine, and then me. As soon as I unfold my paper, my gaze flies over the riddle.
“My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood.”
What the heck are luminaries? Lights?
A camera pops up in front of me, pressing down toward the paper like a dog snout. After everyone’s picked a riddle, and it’s been videotaped, Dominic says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please remember that you are not to help our contestants. You may follow them on their hunt, but do not offer clues or answer any questions, or they will be eliminated. Understood?”
A loud yes resounds.
Dominic grins. “The works you are looking for are on this floor and this floor only.”
I’m about to pounce off the stage when Lincoln asks, “Do all our riddles lead to different ones?”
“Of course,” Dominic says.
“Can we jot down thoughts?” Nathan asks.
“No pen, no paper. Use your minds,” Dominic tells him, tapping his temple. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say along with the others.
“Let day number two begin,” he exclaims
Lincoln leaps off the stage first and barges through the dense crowd of cocktail-attired people gathered in the long hallway, clearing a path for the rest of us. After we’ve all funneled through, the audience seams together and turns to follow. Heels and soles pound the floor. Most spectators keep out of our way, but some get so close, the camera crew has to corral them back. I try to ignore the rubberneckers as I move around the museum, but they’re always there, gaping, pointing, and whispering. It’s distracting. I remind myself that they are the people who made this competition possible with their money and their connections. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. The thought makes their presence more bearable.
A painting captures my attention. It’s a seascape of crimson-hued waves thrashing against a large wooden boat with a setting sun in the background. The sun is a luminary, right? And the water is red, like blood. But there are no bees, so I move on.
As I tread through the chain of galleries, I glimpse a lot of suns and stars and moons, several lampposts and light bulbs, a hefty dose of oozing blood, but not a single painting containing bees. After an hour, I collapse on a banquette. Somewhere along the way, I managed to lose the camera crew and the audience.
“My luminaries were shaped by bees and human blood,” I whisper, hoping that saying it out loud will help me make sense of it. It doesn’t. Checking that no one is around, I keep talking to myself, because too many ideas are playing leapfrog in my brain. “Okay. So…the light source was made by bees and blood. Maybe I’m not looking for bees and blood in the art. Maybe just light sources.”
I
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