clockwise before it settled onto the twelve o’clock position. Then the area at the bottom of the watch, which previously showed the date, displayed what appeared to be GPS coordinates.
“West, one hundred twenty-two degrees, by north, thirty-seven degrees,” Bram read aloud. Then he faced me with another smile. “It seems your father is close to Splendor, only in the Netherworld, of course.”
I dared not believe my own good luck. I’d known Bram would come through and in providing the answer to the problem of finding my father, he’d come through with flying colors, and then some. “Thank you,” I said earnestly.
Bram said nothing more as he stood up suddenly. “If it pleases you, there is one more item I would like to unveil to you before your departure this evening.”
I figured the business portion of our evening was now finished. And that was fine—there really wasn’t anything more I needed to know. “Sure,” I said as I clutched the timepiece in my palm, and warned myself not to leave it anywhere. That was the huge bummer about wearing gowns—there wasn’t a damn place to put anything.
I followed Bram through the dining room and into the wine cellar where I immediately noticed a painting, covered by a tarp, hanging on the wall. Bram strode up to it, but stopped short before unveiling it. Then he turned to face me with a broad smile.
“I do hope this will please you, Sweet.”
He grabbed the tarp and pulled on it gingerly, exposing the portrait he’d had painted of me. At first, I didn’t know what to say or think. Maybe it’s natural to feel shock when you see yourself reflected back at you in anything other than a mirror. But, I could only say that as far as the artist’s ability, he was more than simply talented. The painting looked exactly like me. It was the state in which I’d been represented that threw me for a loop.
SIX
It was a full-scale rendition of me, from head to foot. I was standing on a stretch of grass spotted with bluebells, a forest of pine trees behind me in the distance. The sky was an cerulean blue, interrupted by a few whimsical clouds that looked like white cotton candy. On one side of me was a lake, interrupted by a waterfall that coursed down the face of a craggy mountainside. On my other side, two deer, an owl and a few squirrels looked on curiously. But it wasn’t the Winnie the Pooh surroundings that struck me as completely baffling. Instead, it was the fact that nothing about the painting screamed ANC Regulator or law enforcement in general, which was something I’d expected given the title.
“I thought the painting was supposed to be titled ‘Fairy Law’?” I asked doubtfully, turning to face Bram who stood in silent appreciation of the portrait, his arms crossed against his chest.
“It is,” he insisted in a less-than-interested tone and then proceeded to point to the monogrammed silver plate inlaid at the top of the dark oak frame. The plate proclaimed the “masterpiece” to be The Fairy Law, just as I’d intimated.
The information reinforced, I refocused my attention on the painting, trying to glean some connection between it and the title. It was a little off-putting at first—seeing yourself reflected back at you and in a way that completely defies your own perception of just who and what you are. After a few seconds of trying to make a judgment regarding whether or not I liked the thing, I was left not knowing what to think. I mean, it was me clearly—the artist was obviously a good one because he’d been able to capture everything that made me me pretty well. But, at the same, time, there were definitely details that weren’t so much me. For one, my hair was totally off. Even though my hair is naturally long—ending at just below my elbows—and while I do have some good hair days when it adopts an inkling of a wave, my hair as pictured in the portrait was anything but mine. It trailed down to my butt in
“West, one hundred twenty-two degrees, by north, thirty-seven degrees,” Bram read aloud. Then he faced me with another smile. “It seems your father is close to Splendor, only in the Netherworld, of course.”
I dared not believe my own good luck. I’d known Bram would come through and in providing the answer to the problem of finding my father, he’d come through with flying colors, and then some. “Thank you,” I said earnestly.
Bram said nothing more as he stood up suddenly. “If it pleases you, there is one more item I would like to unveil to you before your departure this evening.”
I figured the business portion of our evening was now finished. And that was fine—there really wasn’t anything more I needed to know. “Sure,” I said as I clutched the timepiece in my palm, and warned myself not to leave it anywhere. That was the huge bummer about wearing gowns—there wasn’t a damn place to put anything.
I followed Bram through the dining room and into the wine cellar where I immediately noticed a painting, covered by a tarp, hanging on the wall. Bram strode up to it, but stopped short before unveiling it. Then he turned to face me with a broad smile.
“I do hope this will please you, Sweet.”
He grabbed the tarp and pulled on it gingerly, exposing the portrait he’d had painted of me. At first, I didn’t know what to say or think. Maybe it’s natural to feel shock when you see yourself reflected back at you in anything other than a mirror. But, I could only say that as far as the artist’s ability, he was more than simply talented. The painting looked exactly like me. It was the state in which I’d been represented that threw me for a loop.
SIX
It was a full-scale rendition of me, from head to foot. I was standing on a stretch of grass spotted with bluebells, a forest of pine trees behind me in the distance. The sky was an cerulean blue, interrupted by a few whimsical clouds that looked like white cotton candy. On one side of me was a lake, interrupted by a waterfall that coursed down the face of a craggy mountainside. On my other side, two deer, an owl and a few squirrels looked on curiously. But it wasn’t the Winnie the Pooh surroundings that struck me as completely baffling. Instead, it was the fact that nothing about the painting screamed ANC Regulator or law enforcement in general, which was something I’d expected given the title.
“I thought the painting was supposed to be titled ‘Fairy Law’?” I asked doubtfully, turning to face Bram who stood in silent appreciation of the portrait, his arms crossed against his chest.
“It is,” he insisted in a less-than-interested tone and then proceeded to point to the monogrammed silver plate inlaid at the top of the dark oak frame. The plate proclaimed the “masterpiece” to be The Fairy Law, just as I’d intimated.
The information reinforced, I refocused my attention on the painting, trying to glean some connection between it and the title. It was a little off-putting at first—seeing yourself reflected back at you and in a way that completely defies your own perception of just who and what you are. After a few seconds of trying to make a judgment regarding whether or not I liked the thing, I was left not knowing what to think. I mean, it was me clearly—the artist was obviously a good one because he’d been able to capture everything that made me me pretty well. But, at the same, time, there were definitely details that weren’t so much me. For one, my hair was totally off. Even though my hair is naturally long—ending at just below my elbows—and while I do have some good hair days when it adopts an inkling of a wave, my hair as pictured in the portrait was anything but mine. It trailed down to my butt in
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