Page 30 of Icarus

“‘Don’t touch anything,’ he says.” Wanda shrugged dramatically. “Like a young man would confuse this place for a petting zoo. Come on, son, let’s get you some breakfast.”

Wanda guided Icarus from the greenroom with a brittle arm and a strong wave of perfume. He looked over his shoulder at his father, but Angus had turned around and was already walking away.

Institute

Wanda got him a muffin from the café, then set him free, pinching his cheek with a painful little shake.

This was a place with so much light.

Icarus walked slowly, watching the people instead of the art. He had seen so much of it already that it was a bit more interesting watching people’s reactions. He watched a family with triplets in the Asian art section, a gaggle of students in the tapestries, a couple on a date in South Asian sculpture, and an old woman alone in Greek antiquities.

He was working his way through mid-century furniture and up toward their featured artist—when he saw it.

His father’s work.

Icarus froze mid-step. He pushed through the wandering crowd until he was standing before it. Until he was sure. Icarus knew his father’s hand no matter where it was, could almost smell him radiating off the paint.

This felt like blasphemy.

Their art shouldn’t be here. It should never be in a museum like this.

It wasn’t a restoration; it was an entire forgery. Icarus had carried the back end of this portrait up the Black mansion’s main staircase when he was thirteen. Had ground charcoal for its darkest hues with a mortar and pestle. Mr. Black must have sold or loaned it to the museum.

He wanted to snatch it off the wall, but he couldn’t. An old man was listening to an audio tour next to him with the volume all the way up. He was smiling and nodding, appreciating the narrator’s remarks about the color and the history. Icarus felt sick and angry. This painting was not even five years old.

He pressed his palms into his eyes and forcibly calmed himself down. Then, disgusted with this entire experience, he went to find a place to sit outside the hall where Angus was speaking.

Icarus would never let his own work find itself here. This shame was enough.

Feed

Icarus kept his revelation to himself. When they were on their way out, he picked up an art book from the gift shop. He flipped through a few until he found one that had enough work he’d seen in person.

His father raised an eyebrow at it, but didn’t say anything. Angus hated prints.

Icarus was left on his own to figure out dinner. He was expected to go and find some fun. But Icarus ordered in and sat down by the window so the orange light was bright enough to see.

He annotated the pieces he’d seen in person. Which ones he’d touched and what they felt like. Whether they were the same size they seemed in print or much bigger or smaller. How they smelled, if he’d gotten to touch them. And, if it felt necessary, how much they’d sold for.

Icarus worked through the night and slept on the plane ride home.

Monday

“Here.”

Helios took the art book from Icarus’s hands.

“I didn’t wrap it because of the noise. I hope you understand,” Icarus said.

He leaned back against the bedpost to watch Helios flip through it.

“I don’t know much about art . . .” Helios murmured. “But I have been to the Art Institute with school. Do you take things from there too?”

“What? No?!” Icarus scowled. “That stuff belongs to the public.”

Helios gazed at him over the top of the art book then tilted his head. “Interesting distinction . . . anyway, thank you for this. I’ll read your notes.”

“How is your ear?” Icarus asked.