Oh my gosh. I mean, I love Klavier and all, but he's nothing compared to his brother.

I didn't incorporate as many of the exact lyrics into this one, but I think the general theme of the song is Vera Misham to a T. (Plus I like writing from a kid's POV.) You… you guys are looking up the lyrics to these songs if you don't know them… right?


~~ 11.7 Imaginary ~~


Vera lay happily on the floor, crayons arrayed at her hand and crumpled papers forming a field of flowers around her. Nowadays she preferred to copy pictures, but every once in a while she still enjoyed creating an original work of art. Right now it was a mural for her bedroom, on lavender-colored paper. Vera liked to think that it was modeled after Van Gogh's Starry Night, but something in her mind was saying it didn't look anything like that famous painting. It was 3-D, after all.

Still, she liked the look of it, and her dad said he would help her hang it up on the wall when she'd finished. She dipped her head closer to the paper, scribbling away with the olive green crayon. When that crayon wore out, she'd move to pine green. All of them were in order of color, and she was creating swirls of rainbow, but with more tints than any rainbow had ever sported.

Her dad came into the room. "Vera, it's almost time for dinner." He reached over and turned her CD player down just a little: it was her favorite lullaby, a soothing song with the relaxing quality of wind whispering through the pines. "I decided to try and make your favorite noodles, and I think you'll like them."

"Okay, Daddy," she said, and immediately got up. Then she paused, and bent to put the olive green crayon back exactly where it belonged. Exciting! Peanut noodles for dinner? This hadn't happened since Mommy left.

Vera lingered in the doorway for a minute, looking longingly at the fuchsia wall her mural was going to go on, then followed her dad down the hall, adjusting her lilac-striped dress as she went. It certainly smelled like her favorite old recipe.

Passing the doorway, she wrinkled her nose, clutching her notebook closer and edging past. The door meant outdoors, rampant chaos and dirty disorder. It also meant danger. She moved closer to her father, even though the door was bolted and probably safer than her window.

The kitchen window itself was dark, with only the glimmer of raindrops sliding down the glass an indication of anything at all outside. She looked at them, trying to trace a story in their drops: for a moment they slid together, making a willow tree, branches swaying in the wind. Then they faded.

Vera sat down at the table, neatly arranging her plate and glass evenly. Her dad tried to pick up the noodles, muttered "Ouch!" when the hot pot burned his hand, and tried again with a pot holder. Vera sniffed happily.

"All right, pumpkin. You're first." Her dad lifted a huge spoon of the noodles onto her plate. Only about half of them made it, the rest slipping plumply onto the tablecloth.

Vera giggled. "Whoops," her father said sheepishly.

They ate in companionable silence, as usual. The noodles were just as good as Vera remembered, and she ate all she could. Their chopsticks clicked in the same satisfying way Vera's knitting needles did. "Really tasty," she said at one point, and her father looked immensely pleased.

"We'll have the leftovers for lunch tomorrow," Drew said, and she smiled.

After dinner they did their usual: her dad washed and she dried. He said he liked to slosh the water around like Jackson Pollock, except cleaning, and Vera's favorite part of washing dishes was stacking their plates and glasses and pots neatly in the cupboard. Also cleaning up after her dad's sloshing. As she finished tucking the last pair of chopsticks into place, he managed to splash the draining water onto his shirt one last time, and they both laughed as she cleaned up the soap suds with a towel.

"Vera," he said suddenly, startling her a little. They usually didn't talk much together, and when they did it was a certain times of the day. Before dinner, getting up in the morning, or whenever he left to buy groceries. If either one of them spoke, it surely meant something new.

She didn't say anything aloud, but looked up eagerly. New things could be good or bad, but last time it had been new charcoals. Maybe this was something like that!

"Vera, we're having a couple of visitors tonight." She looked at her dad closely, trying to see if he was happy or fearful. It was worse than that: he was being neutral, hiding all his feelings.

"Okay," Vera said finally, uneasy. She reached for her notepad and started doodling: a sad face, a nervous face, a hopeful face. Maybe her dad was only hiding his feelings because he didn't want her to get so excited.

He noticed her drawing, and suddenly looked embarrassed again. "Oh. I didn't mean to make you worry. It's a good thing, a good visit. Someone else wants you to copy something for them."

Oh, another job! Vera liked helping her dad with art jobs, with copying pictures and sculptures for people. She figured that the customers just wanted to give their friends extra copies of their favorite art. That seemed nice, and her dad said she had a real talent for it.

She bounced in excitement, and her dad smiled. "See? It'll be fun. They should be here soon. I'm sure they would love your coffee, pumpkin."

Vera jumped up immediately. That was another one of her favorite tasks, making coffee for her dad. She didn't really like to drink it (not without a lot of cream and sugar, anyway), but she loved the smell and the complexity of preparation: it was like a science experiment. Besides that, ever since she'd read about traditional tea ceremonies, Vera had taken additional pleasure in the arrangement of cups, the use of certain sugars, and the correct placement of flowers.

She was so engaged in making the coffee that ten minutes later, when the doorbell rang, she hardly noticed. The wafting scents of java filled the kitchen, rich and earthy, and her favorite tea cups (bone china, with colorless molded jasmines twining around the edges) were set out perfectly, with matching sugar and cream bowls alongside.

"Vera," said her dad, startling her. "Vera, these are our visitors."

Before turning to greet the visitors, she carefully undid her art smock and draped it over a chair. Then she looked around at them. One was strange-looking: skinny and buck-toothed, and Vera's nose wrinkled as she smelled the strong peppermint odor wafting from his direction. But that man didn't hold her attention. The other man stole it all away.

He was tall, angelically blonde, and handsome. Vera had little experience of such things, but she thought he was probably the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. He smiled at her gently, adjusting his glasses with one delicate finger. "Hello, Vera." Even his voice was lovely, with the slightest trace of an accent. Vera wanted to sculpt a statue of him.

But somehow her dad looked a little bit nervous as he spoke. "This is a very important gentleman, Vera. He's a lawyer, and he wants to ask you to make something for him."

She looked up again, wondering why her dad was so uneasy. But there was nothing in this Raphael to frighten her: he exuded intelligent goodwill from sky-blue eyes. Perhaps Drew just didn't like the other man, she decided. She held out her hand, and it was gravely shaken.

Her father ushered the two men into chairs. The three adults made casual—and if Vera wasn't mistaken, careful—conversation, while she served the coffee, this time in her best apron, the one with the frills. The second man, the one who smelled awfully like toothpaste, talked too loud and slurped down his coffee like a dog. But the attorney, whose eyes occasionally turned to her, was the vision of politeness, using all the correct utensils and sipping genteelly.

As she came to his elbow, offering the coffee urn, he smiled at her radiantly, and thanked her. "Your coffee is delightful, Fraulein," he said. "Is it from Antigua, or is my palate deceived?"

Vera was startled. Of all her father's visitors, fellow artists and customers alike, this demi-god archangel was the first to recognize the coffee blend she used. "Y-yes…" she said, faltering, staring at him. Then she rallied her courage, realizing how exciting it was to meet a fellow coffee gourmand. "My dad lets me order it. It's fair trade."

The attorney made an approving noise, and added, "Very conscientious. Thank you, that's enough."

She ducked her head a little at having almost over-poured his coffee, and mentally smiled in exhilaration as he patted her hand. This was so exciting! Usually the men and women who came in to commission art from Vera were sweaty, close-lipped, and nervous. Either that, or they frightened her. She didn't know much about this mysterious stranger, but she hoped her father liked him as much as she did.

She cleaned up the coffee when the adults had finished, carefully washing the china and replacing it in the glass-faced cabinet. The soft clinking of the cups was soothing, and Vera thought she might add the lawyer into her mural tonight. Maybe not his face, but a part that looked like his essence: an angel in a businessman's suit.

Behind her, the conversation tapered off. "Say, Mr. Misham," the obnoxious, minty-smelling guest said cheerfully, "can I ask you some questions about that equipment in your other room?"

Her dad looked confused, and his eyes flicked to Vera. She just stared back. Why not? The machines were fun to use, and she couldn't understand why her dad would hesitate to show them off.

"O-okay," Drew said finally. "Well, Mr. Brushel, if you'll just follow me…" The two of them left, taking the awful smell of mint with them.

Their second guest didn't hesitate, and Vera suddenly knew that the other man had only been distracting her dad. "Vera, would you mind sitting down with me?" She obeyed, and he added, "I'd like to talk about commissioning a piece of art from you."

"All right," she said immediately. Commission—it was such a grown-up word, and Vera felt excitement at having it applied to her own work. She reached for her notepad and doodled a face: curious.

He didn't even glance down at her drawing: obviously, for once, she was expressive enough on her own. "First, I would like to introduce myself to you, since it is rude to keep you a stranger when I already know your name. My name is Mr. Gavin."

She offered her hand again, and it was shaken in the same manner: quite seriously, as if she were a lawyer, too. Then he added, "This commissioned work is probably going to sound boring. From what I understand, Fraulein, you're used to making much more complicated pieces of art. This happens to be a piece of writing: a page from a diary."

It did sound boring. Vera didn't keep a diary, since the only people who did that were the ones who couldn't remember the pictures of their own lives, and had to write them down. She turned down the corners of her curious face's mouth into a moue. Mr. Gavin looked down at it and laughed gently, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I know. I expected as much. But trust me, this piece of work will be much more difficult than a picture would be." The item he held in his slender fingers was a beat-up old piece of lined paper, covered in faded but legible cursive writing. "It won't be an exact copy: you only need to use the handwriting, if you understand what I mean. I shall provide the words."

Vera wrinkled her brow, staring at the paper. She understood just fine: Mr. Gavin wanted it to look like someone had written more than just this ragged little scrap. Looking up into his blue eyes, she froze for a moment. What reason could he have for wanting that?

She sat back for a moment, keeping his gaze, folding her hands in her lap and feeling the frills of the apron tickle her wrists. This was silly. What reason did she have not to trust Mr. Gavin? Just a moment ago, she'd been wondering why her father was hesitating: and now she herself was unsure. His eyes were still radiating a calm humor, but now it seemed they hid something.

Vera looked away at the window, at the purple sky of the storm outside, trying to figure out why she felt so uneasy. Mr. Gavin's voice brought her back, though. "Vera, I'm doing this for a friend of mine: actually, for my brother." The affectionate tone of his voice was unmistakable, and she suddenly felt the fear slip away, turning back to look at his face.

He was smiling ever so slightly, and looked almost wistful. "Klavier is very young, and sometimes he needs help doing his job. This will make it easier for him."

Vera didn't understand what any of it meant: but Mr. Gavin's words had made her decision easier. If it was to help his brother, it didn't really have to make sense, did it? She figured it must be another adult thing. After all, he was an attorney: maybe his brother was a lawyer, too, and it had to do with complicated courtroom things.

She stood up. "All right," she said, feeling an unusual smile break across her face.

Mr. Gavin immediately looked both relieved and excited. "Thank you, Vera. Now, this may seem strange: but I would like you to write these words onto this diary page." He handed her two more pieces of paper, one with printed words, the other lined and blank, with one ragged edge. He smiled, and there was no patronization in his tone as he added, "You will only get one chance to create the new diary page, so I would think you could practice on another sheet of paper first."

Vera nodded seriously, imagining in her head what the page might look like. It would have to be dated, of course: but Mr. Gavin had provided that on the printed sheet. She noticed a few strange phrases, like "Fate's clock" and "ten swift minutes," but suddenly felt too excited to actually read it.

She suddenly heard her father's voice, and that of the other guest, too. Mr. Gavin suddenly moved more quickly than he had yet, and produced something small, glassy, and shiny. "Vera, I'll be providing ample compensation for your talents of course: your father and I will be making a monetary exchange. But this is a gift for you—a good-luck charm of sorts."

It was nail polish. Vera hardly ever painted her nails—she hadn't even been allowed to do so until last year—and she stared at Mr. Gavin's gift, bereft of words. It was such a pretty little blue bottle, with a glass brush handle, shaped like a delicate hand. His fingers tucked it into her own, and she clutched it to her heart, looking up into his face with gratitude.

Mr. Gavin smiled, even more broadly and dazzlingly than before. "It's called Ariadoney. It only retains its good luck if you keep it a secret, of course. But don't be afraid to use it for your nails, just like regular polish. That makes it even luckier."

Vera nodded solemnly. Sometimes she wondered if there was really such a thing as good luck: but right now, she felt like a gift like this from a person like Mr. Gavin could only be lucky.

She pulled the brush from the bottle and started applying the polish right away, as Mr. Gavin bid her a polite "Adieu, Fraulein," and began speaking to her dad. When she looked up, her heart skipped a beat.

The second guest, Mr. Brushel, had said something and was braying laughter. He couldn't see Mr. Gavin's face, which was suddenly tight with irritation.

So was his hand, clenched in a fist.

Vera's fingers tightened on the nail polish. That lovely manicured hand…

She turned and ran for her room, trying with all her might to forget what she'd seen. But it was useless. The image was burned into her mind, crossed with the image of Mr. Gavin's beautiful face.

His hand, tightened… she didn't know what the devil looked like, but that scar on Mr. Gavin's hand, juxtaposed with the hollowed-out tendons…

Vera buried her face in her pillow and let out a sob. No! It had just been a trick of her imagination. He was her new friend, someone who appreciated her talents… that terrible picture couldn't have been right.

She remembered suddenly that the letter and diary page were still tucked into her apron pocket, and sat up to pull them out, trying to dry her tears.

She looked at them for a while: so long, in fact, that finally her dad came in. "Vera? Pumpkin, are you all right?"

Vera looked up and nodded, wiping the last traces of her tears away. She looked up onto her ceiling, then down at the mural on her floor. Then she shivered. She could finish it now: but she was certain she couldn't put Mr. Gavin in it now. If she did, every time she looked at it… she would see the devil on his hand. It might have only been imaginary, her silly mind making up something to balance his angelic face. But it might not have been, after all.