Welcome to chapter two, thanks for reading.
In the last chapter there seemed to be some confusion over the ages of Artemis and Angeline here, so in response to that, Artemis is 16, Angeline is 17. And some perceptive soul comments on it: Nope. Daire is not "The Major" that died on the FowlStar. I'm not replacing him, but you'll have to wait and see what I'm up to there. ;) Reviewers are loved.
Artemis had never understood how people got used to this.
He was seated in one of those rooms, the excruciatingly comfortable kind reserved for the important, feeling somewhat numb as the meeting drew into its third hour. He gratefully accepted another drink, glad to have something to occupy himself with. It wasn't that he was being excluded from the conversation, in fact, quite the opposite was true; these men were actively trying to engage him, and it was exhausting.
But there was a simple reason why: His father was not the easiest person in the world to get along with. The reigning assumption, apparently, was that if Artemis counted someone as worthwhile, his father would as well.
He wished them luck with that.
At that moment, he was enjoying a brief rest as someone recounted a story about their latest trip to Paris. In the last hour Artemis was relatively certain he had been quizzed on at least half of the artists to produce a piece within the last three decades, and he felt like he had been weakly summoning up textbook answers for twice that long. Some of them, after a certain point, may not have even been real artists at all, but simply invented names thrown in as an attempt to reveal him as a liar. This was a result of a poor answer to a seemingly harmless question earlier in the evening.
"Have you decided what you'll be doing for college yet?"
His first mistake had been to answer with something near the truth.
"Art History at Trinity, I suppose."
He didn't have any particular interest in art, but he did possess a keen interest in a certain professor of the subject. Of course, they clamped down on the topic, assured that it was the only thing of interest to the teen to which they could possibly hope to relate.
He was pulled from his daze by yet another question. It was Delaso himself who spoke, seeming to be sucking the last vestiges of energy out of the room to fuel his own perpetual momentum.
"Who would you say is the artist that has had the most impact on you?" The question was punctuated by the steady drumming of foot against floor.
It felt like a trick question. He decided to give it an answer to match. Artemis waited until the eyes of each of Dealso's peers were on him, caught in sudden a intense interest of his wine glass.
"I admire Joan Miro most. Though he possessed a grand audacity to label himself as a talented painter. He was a storyteller of the highest degree and managed to grant unmeasurable depth and meaning to paintings which lacked them artistically with his on explanations of their depth."
As a compliment came about his perceptiveness, Daire met his eyes with a warning look from his place by the door, but mercifully the double meaning was lost to the rest of the room. Artemis knew these people didn't care what he said as long as he was seated there, a physical representation of Delaso's connections to his family.
It felt good to slip from the air conditioned gallery into the warm night air. Artemis was on his way out to the car, Daire trailing behind him more closely than usual, allowing them to have the conversation it was obvious they'd be having eventually.
"Was that really necessary?"
"Not really," Artemis answered absently. The gallery's exterior, still bathed in brilliant white light, offered an exquisite contrast to the starless sky.
"Sometimes establishing contacts has to outweigh your personal sense of pride, Artemis."
His voice was gentle, but Artemis knew without looking that Daire spun the heavy gold ring on his right index finger slowly with his thumb as he spoke, an idiosyncrasy developed over the years to replace the emotions that custom forbid him to express. As Daire was opening the rear door of the vehicle for his employer, a voice rang out from across the lot.
"Hey! Are they finally done now? Feels like I've been out here forever."
It was the girl again, leaning against the side of a blue Maserati, styrofoam coffee cup in one hand, the toe of her strapped heel poised on the running board, like a ballet dancer.
Had she been waiting for him? It didn't seem likely, but with the gallery devoid of all but Delaso's party, the tear-down staff waiting in the wings and the gallery's curator who had stayed behind until the very last moment to meet the esteemed artist, no other option was quick to present itself. He crossed over to her, Daire following a beat behind.
For reasons he would later blame on the red wine haze, he asked the first question to pop into his head.
"Where did you get coffee?"
A hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth, and he wasn't sure if seeing it was worth the knowledge that she was thinking of him as cute."Gas station, two streets down, I took off when it didn't look like this was ending anytime soon."
He was now focused on trying to recover from the fumble.
"You know, you never did tell me what you were working on."
She glanced nervously at the bodyguard standing sentry.
"I think it would take a while. You have a pen?"
Wordlessly, Artemis reached up, and a ballpoint was slipped into his hand. The girl accepted it as though it had just been summoned out of mid air instead of a someone else's pocket. She scrawled a number clumsily on the napkin that had been insulating the coffee cup, folded it in half, and handed it to the boy, the pen still in her hand. She met his eyes for the first time that night, turning the pen slowly between two fingers.
"Mind if I keep this?"
She had beautiful hands.
"Um, no, take it."
"Thanks."
As Artemis finally settled back, exhausted, into the leather upholstery of the Mulsanne Turbo, he caught Daire's gaze in the rear view mirror.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me, what is it?"
"She stole my pen."
He chuckled, closing his eyes. "I'll be sure you're reimbursed."
"Artemis?"
"Hm?"
"That coffee bit was awful, I hope you know that."
"Sometimes establishing contacts has to outweigh your personal sense of pride."