Max turned to see his father pumping the arm of a thin, middle-aged man in a black sweater. A woman accompanied him, and the two were offering hesitant smiles as Mr. McDaniels cornered them.
“Hello, Scott. Nice to see you,” the man said politely. “Honey, this is Scott McDaniels. He works on the Bedford Bros. account….”
“Oh, what a nice surprise. Pleased to meet you, Scott.”
“They’ll change the way you think about soup!” Mr. McDaniels boomed, shooting a finger toward the ceiling.
Mrs. Lukens gave a start and dropped her purse.
“Imagine a wintry day,” Mr. McDaniels continued, bending over to retrieve her things while she retreated a step behind her husband. “Your nose is running, the wind is blowing, and all you’ve got to warm your tummy is a can of boring old soup in the pantry. Well, no soup is boring with Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers! Their snappy shapes and crisp crunch will jazz that soup right up and make your taste buds salute!”
Mr. McDaniels raised a hand to his forehead and stood at dutiful attention. Max wanted to go home.
Mr. Lukens chuckled. “Did I mention that Scott’s a fanatic, honey?”
Mrs. Lukens ventured a smile as Mr. McDaniels shook her hand, then turned to Max.
“Max, I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lukens. Mr. Lukens runs my agency—the big boss. Max and I are here to get a shot of culture, eh?”
Max smiled nervously and extended his hand to Mr. Lukens, who gave it a warm shake.
“Pleased to meet you, Max. Good to see a young man pulling himself away from video games and MTV! See anything you like?”
“I like this Picasso,” said Max.
“I’ve always liked that one myself. You’ve got a good eye….” Mr. Lukens patted him on the shoulder and turned back to Mr. McDaniels. “I’d ask you to compare it with a favorite of mine, but unfortunately it’s gone.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. McDaniels.
“It was one of the three paintings stolen from here last week,” said Mr. Lukens, frowning. “The papers say there were two more stolen from the Prado just last night.”
“Oh,” said Mr. McDaniels. “That’s terrible.”
“It is terrible,” said Mr. Lukens conclusively, glancing again at Max. “Say, bring Max by the office sometime, Scott. I’ve got a print of my missing favorite and we’ll see if Rembrandt can trump Picasso!”
“Will do, will do,” said Mr. McDaniels, chuckling and kneeling down to Max’s height.
“Hey, sport,” he said with a wink. “Dad’s got to talk a bit of shop, and I don’t want to bore you to tears. How ’bout you go sketch some of those tin suits you and your mom used to draw? I’ll meet you down at the bookstore in half an hour. Okay?”
Max nodded and said good-bye to the Lukenses, who promptly shrank before the wildly gesticulating form of Scott McDaniels. Max clutched his sketchbook and pencil and stalked down the hall, silently seething that his dad never passed up an opportunity to talk business, even on his mother’s special day.
The armor gallery was darker than the others, its artifacts glinting softly from behind clean glass. There were fewer people here, and Max was happy for the opportunity to sketch in relative peace and quiet. He strolled along a velvet rope, stopping to examine a crossbow here, a chalice there. The walls were arrayed with all manner of weapons: black iron maces, broad-bladed axes, and towering swords. He paused before a stand of ceremonial halberds before spying just the right subject to sketch.
The suit of armor was enormous. It dwarfed its neighbors on either side, gleaming bright silver inside its broad glass case. Max moved around to the other side, tilting his head up for a better view of the helmet. Several minutes later, he had roughed the basic figure onto the page.
As Max struggled to draw the elaborate breastplate, a commotion at the far end of the hall grabbed his attention. Max peered through the glass case and immediately caught his breath.
The man from the train was here.
Max lowered himself to a crouch and watched as the man towered over the guard at the gallery entrance. He made quick, chopping gestures with his hand. The motions became faster as the volume of his voice rose.
“This tall,” he spat in an Eastern European accent. He held his hand flat to approximate Max’s height. “A black-haired boy about twelve, carrying a sketchbook.”
The guard was backed against the doorway, looking the man up and down. He began to reach for his radio. But then the strange man leaned in close and hissed something Max could not hear. Inexplicably, the guard nodded and hooked a fat thumb over his shoulder toward the suits of armor where Max was hiding.
Frantic, Max scanned his surroundings and noticed a dark doorway directly to his right. A velvet rope hung across it along with a sign that read UNDER REPAIR: PLEASE KEEP OUT.
Ignoring the sign, Max ducked beneath the rope and melted around the corner. He stood rigid against the wall and waited for his hiding place to be discovered. Nothing happened. It was several long seconds before Max realized that he had left his sketchbook in the other gallery. A wave of panic crashed over him; surely the man would see it and guess where Max had hidden.
A minute passed, followed by another, and another. Max heard the footsteps and casual conversation of people strolling past the doorway. He peered around the corner. The man was gone—along with Max’s sketchbook. Sinking slowly to the floor, Max pictured his name and address penciled neatly on the inside cover. He lifted his head and cast a hopeless glance at the room that had hidden him.
It was surprisingly small for a gallery. The air was musty, and the room had a soft amber glow. The sole object within it was a ragged tapestry that hung on the opposite wall. Max blinked. As strange as it seemed, the dim light was radiating from the tapestry itself. He moved closer.
The tapestry was an ancient thing. Sun and centuries had sapped its color until all that remained were splotched and faded bands of ochre. As he got closer, however, Max noticed faint hints and undercurrents of color submerged beneath its dull, rough surface.
His stomach began to tingle as though he’d swallowed a handful of bees. The little hairs on his arm rose one by one, and Max stood still, breathing hard.
Twang!
A single thread burst into bright gold. Max yelped and jumped backward. The thread flashed like fire, as fine and delicate as spider silk. It vibrated like a harp string, issuing a single musical note that reverberated throughout the gallery before fading to silence. Max glanced back at the doorway. Patrons continued to stroll by, but they seemed far away and oblivious to the small gallery, its lone occupant, and the strange tapestry.
More threads came to life, plucked from their slumber in a rising chorus of light and music. Some arrived individually, in a sudden snap of light and sound; others emerged together in woven harmonies of silver, green, and gold. To Max, it seemed he had dusted off an alien instrument that now resumed a strange and forgotten song. The song became richer. When the last thread sang into being, Max gave a sudden gasp of pain. The pain was sharper than a stitch and was caused by something deep within him.
That something had been with Max ever since he could remember. It was a lurking presence, huge and wild, and Max was afraid of it. Throughout his life he had fought with great difficulty to keep it walled within him The struggles caused headaches, including unbearable stretches that lasted for days. Max knew those days were over as he felt the presence burst free. Unfettered at last, it glided slowly through his consciousness before sounding deep within his being to stir the silt.
The pain subsided. Max took a deep breath while tears ran free in warm little rivers down his face. He brushed the tapestry’s woven surface with his fingers.
The light and colors shifted to form golden, interlacing patterns that framed three strange, glowing words near the top.