Pleasing To The Eye

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He gestured downwards, into the pit in the center of the room. At the bottom was a white marble sculpture of a man, sitting slumped against the side of the pit.
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Alexander Cushing was a gracious host.

It wasn't necessary to have the art dealer fly all the way to New England. They could have made the exchange through intermediaries, without ever meeting in person. But that felt too cold and impersonal for Cushing, so he invited Gianni Ferraro to deliver the piece in person.

If Cushing was completely honest with himself, he had a selfish motivation behind inviting the man into his home. His greatest problem as a collector of anomalous art was that there were so few people it could be shown to. Of course, Cushing had no interest in the opinion of the general public - the whole point was that it was literally beyond their comprehension. However, Gianni Ferraro had expressed interest in Cushing's collection the last time they'd spoken, and Cushing was interested to hear his opinion after he'd seen it for himself.

Ferraro strolled into Cushing's entrance hall with the confidence of a man at home anywhere. He was a pale man with dark hair, dressed in an expensive black Italian suit, with the jacket unbuttoned over a crisp white shirt. 

Cushing himself was there to welcome him, as two porters carefully carried a well-wrapped canvas into his manor. "Gianni! I am so pleased that you could come in person."

Ferraro smiled warmly back at him. "Alex, the pleasure is all mine. I am very eager to see your collection."

Cushing nodded. "Would you prefer to have some refreshments first?"

Ferraro shook his head. "Perhaps later." He gestured at the covered painting, still held by the porters that had followed him into the hallway. "I would like to ensure this canvas is safely in place first."

Cushing smiled back at him. "You could have just said you were eager to see my collection. I'd understand."

Ferraro laughed. "Well, you have already told me all about it. I need to see if it lives up to expectations."

Cushing walked towards a side door, and one of the two men in suits that accompanied him everywhere opened the door ahead of him, the other following just behind Ferraro, in front of the porters carrying the painting. They headed down the corridor, and entered a room painted white.

One wall was empty except for a door. To the left was a haunting collection of six photographic portraits of women and children, monochrome against a black background and gazing intently at the camera. To the right was a hellscape. 

To Cushing's surprise, Ferraro seemed more interested in the six portraits than in the painting opposite them. He looked at each of the faces in turn.

"They're different every time," said Cushing. "All refugees, or so the artist claimed. Hard to verify, but it seems to check out. It would have ended up as an anomalous object in some Foundation warehouse, or perhaps incinerated by the Coalition, but I managed to get my hands on it first."

Ferraro turned to the opposite wall, and began scrutinizing the painting. The overall style was reminiscent of Hieronymus Bosch, depicting torments worthy of Dante's Inferno in excruciating detail. On close inspection, familiar faces could be seen.

"There I am," said Cushing with mild amusement, pointing at a painted figure strongly resembling him. "Naked and in a pit, the subject of scorn and mockery. I suppose it thinks that's a fitting punishment."

He turned to Ferraro. "You'll be on there too, you know. That's how it works."

Ferraro scanned the painting, then pointed at a pale and emaciated figure, flagellating himself with a whip. On closer inspection the whip was actually a black serpent, fangs tearing into flesh. "That'll be me."

Cushing looked on with amusement. "So it is. Well, I wouldn't ask a personal question, but..."

"I'm my own worst enemy." Ferraro said this with a smile, then began looking around the room.

"The rest of my collection is downstairs, Mr Ferraro. I can show you where I intend to place the newest addition in just a moment."

He noticed Ferrarro was once again looked intently at the painting, then pointing to a specific section of it. "I found them too!"

Cushing noticed him pointing to a pair of muscular men on the canvas, both pierced with arrows fired by demonic archers, frozen in the act of vigorously beating two other dammed souls with spiked clubs. Cushing looked on with confusion.

Ferraro frowned. "You don't recognize them..?" He gestured at Cushing's two bodyguards. 

Cushing finally saw the resemblance. "Huh. I hadn't thought to look for them before... I suppose my whole staff will be on here somewhere." He stepped back, and turned away from the painting.

Cushing headed over to the door, his bodyguard in front opening it and walking down the stairs ahead of them. As Cushing entered his gallery below, he turned apologetically to Ferraro. "You'll understand that my collection is a work in progress."

Ferraro smiled, and shrugged. "Can any collection ever be complete?"

Cushing nodded thoughtfully, and stepped through an open doorway into his basement.

The floor was smooth black granite, in stark contrast to the white walls. The room was rectangular, with a square pit in the center, with just enough space around it to enable spectators to feel simultaneously safe and unsafe. On the wall to the left as they came in hung a framed portrait of an elderly woman, who looked back at them with an expression of extreme distress. 

Cushing nodded politely at her, and her painted eyes blinked.

"Unsettling, isn't she?"

Ferraro entered behind Cushing, then looked at the painting with interest. The portrait turned her head slightly to stare back at him. 

Cushing looked on with amusement. "It's possible that she's merely the illusion of a woman, but I prefer to think she really can see out, and nothing else. She's more poetic that way."

The portrait continued to stare out at him, expression unchanging.

Cushing eventually turned away. "Now, the other exhibit is something you already know. May I present to you - lot twelve!"

He gestured downwards, into the pit in the center of the room. It was just deep enough for a person inside to have no hope of reaching the top, the smooth black granite presenting no footholds. At the bottom was a white marble sculpture of a man, sitting slumped against the side of the pit.

Ferraro looked on with interest, leaning over the pit to get a better look at its contents.

Cushing gestured at the bodyguard who had entered the room last, who flicked a switch on the wall next to the door. A bright spotlight suspended overhead suddenly came on, illuminating the statue with blinding light. There was the loud sound of marble striking granite as the statue flinched, startled by the light, then turned its head away from it, shielding its eyes with its hands. Although carved from white marble, the statue's muscles moved like flesh as it settled into a new position against the side of the pit, facing away from the spotlight overhead.

Cushing came over to the edge of the pit, although not as close as Ferraro. "He's pretty still most of the time, unless you can catch him by surprise. I suppose he doesn't have much reason to move. But he can, when he wants to. He broke two arms and one leg as we were putting him in there."

Cushing said this with an affectionate tone, looking down at his exhibit in the same way another man might regard a particularly exotic pet.

"It was much more interesting at first - he'd pace, and occasionally pound on the walls, or try to climb out. I was actually worried he might damage himself. But he calmed down after a few weeks. It's less exciting, but I sometimes come down here just to watch him. He's so... peaceful."

Ferraro asked, "You ever think about climbing down, to sit with him a while?"

Cushing laughed. "He's 500 pounds of marble. He'd crack my skull with one blow!"

Ferraro smiled. "Buyer beware."

Cushing threw up his hands. "Exactly as advertised. I wouldn't have it any other way."

The two porters had begun to hang the canvas on the wall, in a prepared location on the wall adjacent to the portrait. Ferraro gestured to the empty wall opposite the portrait. "I'm wondering about the other piece you were interested in. It feels like it would have fit into the same collection - did someone outbid you?"

"Oh, you didn't hear?" asked Cushing. "I suppose you did leave early - the other piece I was interested in was stolen."

Ferraro raised a curious eyebrow. "Stolen?" 

"Yes, very melodramatic. Nothing but a empty piece of skin, the tattoo that was on it completely missing. Right under the guard's noses, and of course, no cameras."

Ferraro looked puzzled. "A real mystery?"

Cushing shrugged. "Hardly. They were probably in on it. Paid off." He leaned towards Ferraro and lowered his voice, as if to avoid being heard by his servants. "Personally, I wouldn't put it past Messrs Marshal, Carter and Dark to have it stolen from themselves. The illicit element gives art a certain mystique."

Ferraro looked skeptical. "As if artwork inscribed on flayed human skin is so... mundane."

Cushing smiled. "Mister Ferraro, it was well done. For a tattoo. But I am not easily impressed."

Ferraro walked over towards the covered canvas, which the porters had now placed against the wall opposite the door, still covered by a cream cloth. "Well then, I hope I will not disappoint you. When I came across this piece, I felt it would be a perfect addition to your collection."

Cushing approached, flanked by his two bodyguards, facing away from the pit behind him. Further back, closer to the door and standing well away from the pit, the two porters looked on with interest.

Ferraro frowned. "I was not expecting this large an audience."

Cushing glanced behind him, and gestured to the porters. "You can leave now." They quickly hurried out of the basement.

Ferraro began his preamble once they had left. "Now, the painting itself is oil on canvas, imitating the style of the Dutch marine artworks of the 17th Century. However, I can date the canvas of this specific piece to the 19th century, and so this is clearly a later reproduction - although not without its own artistic merit. I cannot precisely date the brushwork, due to some of the more... original aspects of this specific piece." He paused.

Cushing could barely conceal his excitement.

Ferraro smiled at him as he began to slowly pull the sheet covering the oil painting aside. "When I saw how the subject matter was depicted, I knew it would make an excellent addition to your collection."

The painting he unveiled depicted a small fishing boat in a storm-tossed ocean, beneath a grey sky. The novelty of the piece was the way that it was constantly in motion, wild waves regularly swamping the boat. The crew inside never ceased in their frantic efforts to control the boat, wrestling against the wind and waves for control and bailing out buckets of water, the oil paint of the sea and sky silently swirling and flowing as if it were still liquid.

The most fascinating aspect of the work was that it did not seem to repeat. Each wave, each gale, and each reaction seemed entirely unique and surprising. The small boat was continually on the edge of capsizing, but never quite tipped over entirely.

The overall effect was to immerse the viewer entirely in the small world of constant motion depicted within the frame. A world that was literally nauseating.

Cushing bent over and slowly vomited onto the black granite floor. His bodyguards turned towards him, but both of them staggered, clearly also unwell and unsteady on their feet.

Their portrait on the wall continued to stare at them, expression unchanging.

Gianni Ferraro stepped over and steadied one of the bodyguards by placing his left hand on the man's shoulder. 

Then, with his right hand, he pulled a switchblade out of the inside of his jacket, and cut the man's throat. Red blood splatted across his white shirt and black jacket, as he reached down towards the holster at the man's belt.

The other guard reacted immediately, but even though he was no longer looking at it, the seascape had a lingering effect. He was too preoccupied with the effort of standing upright to be able to take aim with his own pistol fast enough.

The man who called himself Ferraro had carefully avoided looking at the image, and had no such difficulty as he drew the first guard's pistol from his belt. As the first guard's body fell backwards onto the floor, his killer dropped the bloodstained knife, held the pistol in both hands, and fired three shots.

Cushing's second bodyguard toppled over backward, blood soaking his chest as he fell to the floor. The back of his head loudly made contact with the granite.

Cushing, vomit still staining his chin, staggered away in fright, falling to the ground dangerously close to the edge of the pit.

Two more shots were fired, each shot carefully aimed at the heads of each of his bodyguards. Neither would be getting up again.

"Oh God," groaned Cushing, feeling sick with both terror and the lingering effects of the painting he'd been exposed to.

The pale face of the man he'd let into his home looked down at him, the pistol now pointing directly at him. Cushing scrambled back, then realized he was right on the edge of the pit, and froze. 

The man in the bloodstained suit now aimed the pistol at him with only his right hand, and gestured upwards with the barrel. "Get up." 

Cushing struggled to obey. The fact that his eyes were fixed on the man and not on the painting behind him made it easier to comply, although he was still unsteady on his feet. The man was too far away from him for Cushing to stand a chance of rushing him, and clearly had no qualms against violence. Cushing's best hope was to comply, and hope this maniac could be reasoned with.

"Now, whatever you want, I'm sure I can -"

The man took a step closer to him, and thrust forwards his left hand. Cushing flinched, but it seemed the man was merely doing it to expose the skin on his forearm. 

He smiled, the same smile with which he'd greeted Cushing earlier. "Recognise this?" 

Upon the pale skin of his wrist, something moved. It was the head of the black serpent tattoo that Cushing had once hoped to buy, the one that had been stolen from the art auction where they'd met. The man who'd introduced himself Gianni Ferraro was not a dealer in anomalous art, but a thief, a liar and a killer. 

He took another step closer to Cushing.

"What do you want from me?" asked Cushing, a note of desperation in his voice.

In reply, Cushing was shoved into the pit behind him.


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The drop was not far, and Cushing managed to break his fall with an outstretched arm. He also broke his wrist, then multiple ribs as he rolled across the granite. He screamed until he ran out of breath, gazing up as the maniac that had pushed him in now calmly looked down at him.

Another, even paler face loomed over him, and Cushing closed his eyes, expecting at any moment to feel the sudden impact of marble against his skull.

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Nothing happened.

Cushing opened his eyes, and glanced around to see that his marble statue had sat back down on the far side of the pit. Cushing was alive. In a lot of pain, but very much alive.

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"Well, this is awkward." White Crow had honestly not expected Alexander Cushing to survive that. 

When he'd pushed the man in, he'd thought there'd be a poetic sort of justice in letting the man's own prisoner finish him off. By all accounts, the statue was very capable of doing it - they'd had it in chains at the auction when Cushing had bought it. It just didn't seem to be interested.

White Crow began to take aim with his stolen pistol when the basement door opened.

He raised the gun towards the door, but quickly lowered it again as he recognised the new arrivals. It was the three members of the Serpent's Nest willing to assist him.

Tina came in first. Her entire body was made of silver metal, shimmering as she stepped out of the stairway and into the bright light of the gallery. She was wearing a simple white shirt and trousers, without any shoes. Behind her came Midnight, a small black cat, and Mel, a muscular humanoid bull moose wearing jeans and a red vest shirt. Xe had to twist awkwardly through the doorway to accommodate xer gnarled and mismatched antlers. A coil of thick rope was slung over xer left shoulder. 

Tina lacked the lungs required for verbal communication, but as soon as Mel closed the door behind them, she drew White Crow's attention by clapping, making a sound like cymbals clashing. She then pointed at him, the canvas, and the bodies on the floor, signing [You said the painting would incapacitate?] Everyone present knew exactly what she meant. 

Mel the Manly Moose glanced at the canvas behind White Crow, and gagged, raising a hairy hand to xer mouth. Midnight the cat, in a soft feminine voice that didn't seem to come from her mouth, said simply "Mel, we warned you to be careful." She carefully avoided looking directly at the painting.

Tina, as a non-biological entity, had no such problem, and was able to look directly at White Crow, with the disapproving gaze he was so familiar with. He smiled back at her. "It presented an opening." 

Midnight, with a scolding tone, said "We agreed we'd do this without unnecessary casualties." With Cushing and his staff distracted by White Crow's arrival, it had been a simple matter for her to cloak the Serpent's Nest with magic and walk in through the back door. If she'd been in the basement earlier, there would have been no need for violence.

White Crow shrugged, still holding the stolen pistol. "This was necessary." He looked down into the pit in the center of the room, where Cushing lay, breathing heavily, and the marble man sat calmly. He looked up at Tina as she leaned over the pit.

Tina frowned, pointing at Cushing. [Why there?]

"I pushed him."

Mel laughed, but Midnight didn't find it so amusing. "Crow, why?"

White Crow carefully considered his words from the other side of the room. "Well, we can't exactly leave him alive after this, can we? He's done too much."

Tina glared at him, and gestured at Cushing, who was making noises somewhere between gasps and sobs. [You knew the fall wouldn't kill him.] 

White Crow frowned. "Well, I assumed our friend down there -"

Tina interrupted by clashing her hands together again. She turned to Midnight. [I told you!] She gestured at White Crow, and the gun still held in his hand. [He just wants another weapon.]

Mel interrupted. "If we're going to have this argument again, can it wait?" Xe began uncoiling rope. "I could do with some help to get him out of there."

Midnight looked up at the ceiling. "Looks like they got the statue in via a rope and pulley. It should hold the weight for us too. But are we sure it's safe?"

Mel shrugged as xe placed the coil of rope on the floor next to Midnight. "If he's not attacked the bastard in there with him, I think we'll be fine."

With great concentration, Midnight telekinetically raised up one end of the rope. She carefully threaded it through a metal loop on the ceiling, before bringing it back down. Mel grabbed both ends of the rope and gave it a firm tug, before dropping one end of the rope into the pit.

The marble man stared intently at the rope that had fallen next to him. Cushing tried to push himself up, before groaning in pain and giving up. Mel glanced down at him. "You can wait. We didn't come here for you."

White Crow turned to the marble statue. "You know, it's entirely up to you whether or not he makes it out of there." Tina glared at him as the marble figure stood up. Cushing flinched, gasping with pain, but the statue didn't move any closer to him.

He seemed to be unable to speak, but stared expectantly upwards, so Midnight took that as permission and began to telekinetically manipulate the end of the rope in the pit. The marble man flinched as it touched him.

Midnight, in a calm and even voice, said "I'm sorry. But we're going to need to use this to get you out of there." It was hard to read the emotions of a statue, but he stood still as Midnight stared intently at the end of the rope, wrapping it around the statue's torso then having the rope tie itself into a knot.

Mel, head tilted, was looking over at the portrait of the elderly woman on the wall. It stared back at her. "I'll grab that on the way out. Might also be alive."

Tina looked across to the other side of the pit, and made a series of commanding gestures. [Crow, put the gun down, come over here, and help us.]

She noticed he was hesitating, and began walking around the edge of the pit towards him, her metal feet loudly clinking against the granite floor. She was still pointing. [Gun. Down.]

White Crow looked down at Alexander Cushing, then shot him in the side of the head, right above the ear. As Tina reached him, he dropped the pistol at her feet.

The marble man stood motionless, the rope still looped around his torso, staring at the hole in the side of Cushing's head. Tina looked White Crow in the eyes, and clenched her metallic fists as he calmly looked into her silver eyes. He could see his own face reflected in them.

"Tina," said Midnight, quietly. "I'll talk with him." Despite her calm tone, her ears were raised, and her dark fur stood on end. She was obviously nervous.

Tina turned and walked back over to Mel, who was beginning to tug on the rope, testing it was securely attached to the both the marble man and the loop overhead. Xe was deliberately not looking at White Crow and Midnight, and that wasn't just to avoid the cognitohazardous painting behind them.

Midnight padded past Tina, towards White Crow. "You didn't have to do that." She glanced down at the marble figure, still standing silently in the pit. "Not in front of him."

White Crow shrugged. "I don't see why our new recruit would object. Considering the circumstances." He began to walk over towards Mel.

Midnight stood in his way, her golden eyes staring up at him. "He's not a recruit."

White Crow smiled. "Of course. Not yet." 

Standing next to Mel, but still able to hear them, Tina clenched her fists again. 

Midnight looked up at White Crow. She didn't raise her voice, but said sternly, "When we help people like this, we don't expect anything in return."

The pale man looked offended. "Of course! But when they have skills we can use..."

Tina clapped, and Midnight spun round to face her. [I told you,] signed Tina, ignoring White Crow and looking down to directly address Midnight. [He doesn't care.]

Mel sighed, and decided that, if nobody was going to help xer, xe'd have to just do it xerself, and began pulling on the rope. Tina quickly joined xer, and Midnight aided them telekinetically, steadying the marble statue's slow rise. White Crow walked over and reached towards the rope, but Tina glared at him, and he took a step back, raising his hands.

"I care more than you know." There was no reply as the marble man steadily rose out from the pit. "Tina, you need me. I got us in here."

There was no response except a grunt from Mel. Tina, holding firmly onto Mel as xe held up the marble man's weight, reached out with her other hand to pull him over towards them. Once he was no longer suspended over the pit, Mel gently lowered him onto the granite floor with a deep sigh. As Midnight began to telekinetically untie the ropes, the black cat finally replied, "We don't need you. We could find someone else."

White Crow looked at the Serpent's Nest with indignation. "What's this really about? Cushing deserved to die. You know that."

Tina stamped her foot, drawing everyone's attention to the sound of metal striking granite, including a very confused-looking statue. [We're here to help people.] She gestured at White Crow. [You only care about hurting them.] 

His reply came quickly. "There's only one way to protect ourselves from men like him! Back me up here, Midnight!"

The black cat's ears twitched nervously, as both Tina and White Crow looked over at her. Finally, she said, "Violence can be necessary. But Tina has a point." She gestured with one paw towards the marble man. "You see someone you can use." She paused. While her voice remained calm, the arching of her back conveyed her true feelings. "You see all of us that way, don't you?" 

Tina smiled coldly, tapping her own head with a metallic ringing sound. [I thought that was obvious.]

White Crow looked over at the muscular moose that he'd frequently called his friend. "Mel! You know that's not true!"

Xer silence spoke volumes. He'd always been kind to xer, right before asking xer to do the heavy lifting.

White Crow waited for a response for a long time, then shrugged. He turned, and began walking towards the door. 

Midnight took a few small steps toward him, and said softly, "Crow, just apologize. You can change."

He kept walking. "I can do this without you." 

"Crow, stop. I know how that ends."

White Crow opened the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "It ends when we win."

Tina was smiling as he left, while Mel was avoiding any eye contact, but Midnight was still following him.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" Her sudden anger made it clear that she cared.

A wide smile filled White Crow's face. "Some things are worth dying for."

Midnight shook her head. "We're not going to be the means to your own end."

"Fine." White Crow looked over at the marble man. "You want a better world than this one? Just find me." He walked out of the basement, ascending the stairs quickly. The door slammed behind him. He'd find his own Way back to the Library. 

"That could have gone better," said Mel. Xe walked over to the wall to take down the staring portrait.

"It could have gone worse," said Midnight, her ears pushed back and her tail twitching.

[We're better off without him,] signed Tina, and took the marble man by the hand. [Let's go.] 

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[Are you sure?] asked Tina.

Bianco signed back in reply, the white marble of his hands moving rapidly through the motions. [Only if you still think it's a good idea.] 

They stood before a wall of books in the Library, all written in Italian and relating to art history. Both of them were wearing simple white clothing - Tina's preference.

[It's a Way out of here,] replied Tina. [If you still want that.]

Bianco's face was hard to read. He could move his sculpted features, but only with conscious effort. [I want to talk with them.]

Tina nodded, then stepped towards the bookshelf. The Way they were about to use had been created very deliberately, through careful curation of an identical shelf outside the Wanderer's Library. Tina reached out to touch a series of books in quick succession, then pulled out a particularly heavy tome on the works of Leonardo Da Vinci.

The entire bookshelf rotated in the center, opening up a small doorway for the two of them to step through. They were in another library, but unlike the endless expanse of shelves they'd just left, the ceiling here was low, with a window offering a view of the hills of Tuscany.

The Supervisor of Artistic Expression at the [[[hub-madao| Medicean Academy of Occult Art]]] in Florence, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman with brown hair and thick-rimmed spectacles, reached out to shake Tina's hand. "Buongiorno." She turned to Bianco, but observed his hesitancy, and simply made a gesture instead. [Greetings.] She was a little nervous - she wasn't afraid of Bianco, but was concerned she'd upset him if she stared too much.

She turned back to Tina. "Can he understand us?" she asked in English. Both Tina and Bianco nodded. "No problem with me talking then? My signing is slow, and I know you'll interrupt me as soon as you have something to say!" 

Tina loudly clapped her hands together, smiling as the sound of ringing metal faded. She couldn't speak, but she had no trouble making herself heard.

The woman turned to face Bianco, unphased by the fact that he was made from solid stone. "Well then, my name is Laura Garcia! I'm the Supervisor in charge of what we call Artistic Expression here at the Academy. You see, all art has something to say, but some works have more to say than others - it's my job to facilitate dialogue between the art and the people who care for and view it."

Bianco already knew what Ms Garcia's job involved, but her enthusiasm made it sound much more compelling than Tina's matter-of-fact summary.

"Bianco, I want to make it very clear that you wouldn't be an exhibit - we think you'd be a great addition to our staff team. You wouldn't be the only one - we have a sculpture called Victoria working in our American archives, and here in Florence we've recruited a couple of portraits to our staff - one works as a receptionist, while the other keeps an eye on our security cameras when the building is closed. We're thinking of starting you off in maintenance, just to familiarise you with the layout of the building."

Bianco nodded. He wanted to do something practical.

Laura smiled. "After that, if you'd like something more public-facing, we have the occasional guest that need guiding around our exhibitions!" Bianco looked away from her, awkwardly. "Of course, if that makes you uncomfortable, we can schedule your work to avoid contact with guests -"

Bianco shook his head. [I want to meet people.] 

"Well Bianco, if you are interested, we can start by introducing you to the team you'd be working with. It's a very close community here."

[I can't talk,] signed Bianco slowly.

"That's not a problem at all!" Laura said reassuringly. "A lot of our artworks can't talk verbally, so sign language is very useful." [We mostly use Italian Sign Language, so it won't be what you're familiar with, but I'll help you learn.]

Tina had taught Bianco to communicate using a gesture-based language known as "Library Sign", which bore little resemblance to any human sign language. In the Wanderer's Library, it was frequently used by both Librarians and patrons that were unwilling or unable to speak verbally, as well as by magic users interested in non-verbal spellcasting. It was believed to be one of the oldest languages still in use, and contained several obscene gestures with mildly cognitohazardous effects.

Bianco nodded. [I understand.]

"Of course, we'll also teach you Italian, so that you understand what people around you are saying!"

[I understand some already. It's why Tina suggested I come here.]

Laura smiled warmly. "That's great to hear! Who taught it to you?"

[My father. When I was young.]

"Your... father?"

[He sculpted me from marble.]

"Of course! You must tell me more about him!" 

[He died.]

Tina winced. Bianco could be blunt.

Laura paused. "I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive. I was just wondering if we had any of his works in our collection. If we did, I'd love to reunite you!"

Bianco shook his head. [I was the only work of my kind he ever made. Everything else was just stone.]

Laura nodded. "That's not too surprising. Many works in our collections are the product of a single inspired act, impossible for even the artist to recreate."

Bianco looked away from her, embarrassed. Laura smiled nervously. Tina tapped her foot impatiently. [There's something else to talk about.] 

Laura paused, then nodded. "I remember. There's no need to worry about that."

Bianco looked between Laura and Tina, confused.

"Bianco, you don't have to worry about being... sold... again. I know there are some disreputable types in the world of anomalous art, but none of them would dare to touch an employee of the Medician Academy of Occult Art."

Bianco nodded, and turned to Tina. [You think they can protect me?]

Tina looked at Laura. [If they don't, I'll consider it a personal betrayal.]

Laura smiled nervously. [We would not want the Silver Woman as our enemy.] She turned to Bianco. "I promise you, we're more than capable of protecting our own."

Bianco nodded, then turned to Tina. [I should repay you first. For your help.]
  
Tina shook her head. [Live a life worth living. That's all I ask.]

They stood in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Laura shuffled nervously, uncertain of what to say.

Finally, Bianco turned back to Laura. [When can I start?]

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[[[More Cunning Than Any Beast]]] >>
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