Hello! Happy Friday, everyone! This past week Kage No Sakusha started a German-language translation of this fic. It's up on the German version of fanfiction. So, shout out to them, and if any of you guys have German as a first language, you might want to check it out.

I'm also sorry if it looks like I'm shoving the idiot ball at Valerie and the class. That's not really my intention. Try to see it from their perspective. They're sleep deprived, injured, they're worried that they'll never get home, the last person they trusted turned out to be Spectra, many of them are impaired due to ectoplasm overload... So, they're still acting stupid but, I don't know, I think it's forgivable?

Thank you for reading!

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Chapter 105: Oil and Acrylic

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Maddie's first impression of Clockwork was 'distracted.' How that stood out to her from behind his obvious, blatantly supernatural nature, she didn't know, but there it was.

The ghost didn't even have legs, instead favoring a long, sinuous, misty tail. His skin was blue, his eyes red lights in shadowed pits. He had fangs. His voice was deep and dark, deeper than the hollow carved in his chest. He was something out of a horror movie, even more so than Azalea, and she had bees flying in and out of her ears.

Clockwork barely spoke as Azalea and Astraea lead them down the hallways of Libra. Maddie got the impression that he was examining her and Jack, but not in an intense way. It was more cursory than that. It was more like he was only confirming what he already knew than trying to find new information. It was unsettling.

Perhaps more unsettling was how all of the other ghosts in the halls bowed out of his way as they passed.

They came to a tall rectangular opening in the side of the hallway. It was framed by carved posts, and had an utterly mundane white sign with black text, the kind you could find at the entrances to museums, set in the middle.

One line was in English. It said, 'Welcome to the Three Knives Gallery!'

"And, we're here!" said Azalea.

"'Three Knives?'" said Maddie, dubiously.

"It's the only name the artists could all agree on," explained Azalea.

"I don't think they actually agreed on it," said Astraea, raising one hand to her lips. "They just sent the form back with three knives sticking out of it."

"Yeah, but they sent it back, didn't they?"

"True. Shall we?" the ghost floated on, past the sign. "Now, if I recall correctly, this first part is a study of the journey of Nick Glass?"

"You are correct," intoned Clockwork.

Maddie exchanged a glance with Jack and followed the ghosts in, Wolfsbane close behind them.

The first painting looked normal enough at first glance. It had a renaissance look to it. Grandiose, but focused on a simple scene, a street in what was probably a European city. Germany, perhaps, judging by the whitewashed walls and strong crossbeams. Most of the people were just going about their business, while one group on the right hand side was trying to catch hold of a runaway carriage. It was a scene of impending disaster. Maddie's eyes caught on a little boy, no older than ten, walking across the street, carrying a tray of glass bottles. He was painted mid-step, head turned slightly to the commotion to his left.

"This is just the artist's impression of the event," said Azalea. "He wasn't actually there."

"It is remarkably accurate, however," said Clockwork. "All things considered."

"I don't understand," said Jack. "This looks like a normal painting."

"It is a normal painting, though?" said Azalea, head tipped to one side.

"The significance of the painting," said Clockwork, "is that it depicts the moment before the death of Nicholas Glass." He turned slightly. "This next one depicts the moment just after."

Maddie scanned the picture again. Her lips tightened. The boy, younger than Danny, blonde hair blowing in the wind, small fingers clutched around the the box, was shown here seconds before his death. Only ghosts would so prominently, so proudly, display something so cruel.

Her eyes then flicked to the second painting. It was different, incredibly so. The paints were unearthly and layered thick upon the canvas. They shimmered and sparkled. Some glowed. As Maddie stared at the painting, whole layers faded in and out of sight.

"You would see more if you were a ghost," said Azalea. "Our senses are different from yours."

"Truly, it is a pity," said Wolfsbane, "that you cannot experience the full glory of Ormolu's work. I am told, however, that you should be able to experience it well enough."

"Told by who?" asked Maddie, sharp and suspicious.

"Other humans and liminals who have been here," said Clockwork, almost, but not quite, dismissively. "You are hardly the first."

Maddie returned her attention to the painting. It was mostly swirls of different shades of green, clouds of ectoplasm, buoying up lavender and violet islands, but in the center of the piece, on the largest of the islands, stood a translucent figure, it's back to the viewer. It was small, with robin's-egg blue hair, and white skin. Its shoulders were embedded with glass like diamonds and emeralds. The figure itself was surrounded by a halo of light. The mood of the painting was reverential.

The next several paintings were more like the second. They were pictures of the child's ghost moving through Ghost Zone, interacting with various ghosts, many of whom seemed to be offering him shelter, a place in their homes. Even so, each subsequent painting showed him somewhere else, with different ghosts.

"Who is this person?" asked Maddie, glaring at the latest. "Some leader of yours? Are these some, some chronicle of his rise to power?"

"No," said Wolfsbane. "Just of his quest to return to his family."

"That's what he was doing when he died," added Azalea cheerfully. "It's such a cute little Obsession isn't it? And fascinating. Not many people want to get home that badly."

"This is where he succeeds in doing so," said Clockwork, indicating a picture some distance down the gallery.

Maddie walked up to it. It was of the street depicted in the first picture, but, this time, instead of a disaster, the focal point was a swirling green portal some distance above the ground. The boy was peeking out of it, smiling. The next several scenes looked like they were of the ghost setting up a haunt in his former home.

"I don't understand. Why is this so important to you?" asked Maddie.

"Children are rare," said Clockwork. "They are precious to us."

"They're precious to us as well."

Behind her, one of the other ghosts made a small, polite sound of disbelief.

"They are rarer here," continued Clockwork. "It is not easy for ghosts to have children. Children among the Dead are rarer still." He floated onward, slowly, to the next section.

These paintings seemed to be by a different artist, in a slightly different style. They still featured children, however: a little girl surrounded by an army of dolls, androgynous twins twined around one another, an older boy wearing a chef's hat, a mermaid girl, a young woman with hair made of fire and a neon-pink guitar, a trio of teenagers wearing lab-coats gathered around something that looked disturbingly like a nuclear reactor.

"Obsessions," said Clockwork, by way of explanation. "It is difficult for a child to become a ghost. It is believed that it is harder for a child to attain the state of mind necessary at the moment of death."

"But when they do," said Azalea. "Wow."

"There is a belief," said Clockwork, "that those children who become ghosts are those who would have been listed among human greats, should they have lived. There is truth in this. As with all the Dead, they had enough passion to sustain them beyond death, and they had it as a child. But children tend to be more singular, more focused, in their pursuits than other ghosts."

"You've drawn them almost like people draw saints," observed Maddie.

"That's an interesting comparison," said Astraea. "Is that true?"

"I don't know," said Azalea. "I was dead before saints were really a thing."

"Art is interpreted by the consumer," said Clockwork.

"So the point of this was to show us how much you value children," said Maddie, folding her arms.

"Yes and no," said Clockwork. "It isn't as if this gallery was put together just for you."

"That's true," said Astraea. "This gallery is so that advocates and witnesses can relax and be entertained in between sessions. We aren't going to put anything unduly distressing here. That's what the doors are for." She paused, tilting her head to one side. "Active holding, too, I suppose. I am told that the artwork in there is rather violent in nature."

Maddie frowned. Though it was, in retrospect, obvious that this wasn't something that was here just for them, but that fact was very nearly offensive.

Then it hit her. This was art made by ghosts. Ghosts. They didn't portray tried and tired themes, either. The ghosts had picked their subjects, had made these things, had demonstrated creativity, something she hadn't believed was possible, not really.

She took a deep breath, trying to settle herself.

"Well," she said, instead of screaming. "What's next?"

They walked through the gallery, Azalea taking most of the burden of explication. Then they reached a large painting, one that was easily twice as tall as Jack, and even wider than it was tall. It shone in shades of blue and white, with highlights of neon red, green, silver, and gold. There must have been hundreds of figures in the picture, not all of them recognizably humanoid. Many, but not all, or even most, were children or teenagers. They were what looked like a terraced hall carved entirely of ice, gathered around a tall, snow-crusted, and, surprisingly, decorated tree. A small figure dressed in white stood in front of the tree, raising a flute of sparkly red liquid in a kind of toast. Other characters either looked on, or engaged in their own small vignettes. It looked like some kind of celebration.

"Children's Day," said Azalea. "It's the seventh day after the Solstice. Usually. Some people do it earlier, some later."

"You would call it the twenty-eighth of December," said Clockwork. "The date falls during what many call the Christmas Truce."

"You celebrate Christmas?" asked Jack. "Does that mean that Santa is a ghost?"

Maddie groaned internally, but tamped down on the desire to argue.

"Some ghosts celebrate Christmas," said Clockwork. "Others celebrate Yule, Hanukkah, Natalis Invicti, Yalda, the Festival of Lights, or the Solstice itself. All of us, however, celebrate the Truce, a time of peace throughout the Infinite Realms. This particular celebration took place just last year, in the Lands of Ice."

Azalea hummed, harmonizing with her bees, and floated upwards, closer to the top of the painting. "Here's Lady Tsurara and her attendants," she said, indicating an Asiatic ghost with long, black hair, snow colored skin, and blue lips. She drifted then, picking out other, apparently important, ghosts.

"Daniel and Danielle attended this celebration," said Clockwork when Azalea paused.

"You mean," said Jack, "Danny's in this picture?"

"He is," confirmed Clockwork.

Maddie scanned the painting, looking for Danny, searching for his dark hair, and blue eyes, but came up empty. Then she realized that she shouldn't be looking for her son Danny, the human. She should be looking for her son Danny, the ghost. She should be looking for Phantom. She found him then, braiding ice-colored flowers into the wispy green hair of a younger ghost.

He wore white, like most of the other ghosts in the picture, and painter had rendered his eyes a luminous, icy blue. A green-eyed girl that looked far too much like Danny stood nearby, grinning over a glass of what looked like ectoplasm. She already had several flowers in her hair, and was twirling another between her fingers.

Danny looked happy. Carefree.

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Later, they were led back to their room, the door locked behind them. Both Maddie and Jack sat quietly for some time. The 'field trip' had given Maddie much more to think about than she had expected.

"He was in the picture," said Jack.

"He was."

"So was that girl, Danielle. I think that she must be the clone he told us about."

Maddie nodded despondently, then rubbed her eyes. "This really isn't something that just happened to him, is it?"

"It's been going on for a while."

"No, I mean, it isn't something that is just- that's just been done to him. He's part of it. He's chosen to be part of it." She swallowed, the edges of her eyes burning. "I can't believe we missed all of this."

"He was trying to hide it."

"That's not an excuse. We're his parents. We should have noticed that he had- That he- That he practically died, right under our noses. Did we even notice him going off to that- that party?" Jack didn't answer, but then, he didn't need to. "Are we bad parents?"

"I don't know."