The Colorman by Erika Wood

to suck light toward it, even bending the white of the card toward its deep purple glow.
    â€œAnd before anyone asks,” Morrow added crankily, “yes: modern labs can synthetically reproduce many of these,” he paused, “…colors. These earthly tones and plenty not of this earth. Not interesting to me, however. And not very interesting to most artists who want to capture the plentiful magic of the world around them through the myriad lenses they have available to them. Chemical hues might resemble the original thing quite uncannily,” he paused and shot a glance toward Rain. “Quite uncannily,” he said it again. “But when used, when pushed and pulled and combined with other hues, their inferiority becomes obvious. They are simply not the original thing…” he paused again. “Not the same thing at all no matter how uncannily…”
    Morrow trailed off and continued along to the other side of the room.
    Rain dashed behind him. Absurdly, it felt as though he were running from her.
    â€œUh, excuse me,” Rain said, finally catching up to him. “How do you fake a mummy?” Nervous laughter bubbled from a few people in the group.
    â€œBitumen,” Morrow said, not looking at her. “Uh, wrappings, herbs and a dead body from the poorhouse or an alley somewhere. Bitumen is the key: it’s a kind of tar. Hydrocarbons from a distillation of petroleum in the case of the real mummies from Egypt. At one point, the real ones were mostly gone,” he explained. “This was during the eighteenth century, when there was a nice trade in mummies. People couldn’t get enough of them.”
    Awkward murmurs from the group interrupted his digression. “It produces that stunningly translucent rich brown,” Morrow said to them as if this would make them all understand.
    â€œOne more thing,” Rain said, before he could move on, “you said ‘alchemical’ earlier. What is that exactly?”
    â€œWhat do you think it is?” Morrow asked back abruptly.
    â€œI guess I thought it was false chemistry.”
    â€œAh, yes, an attempt to create gold?” He averted his gaze.
    â€œA sort of magic?” Rain offered.
    Morrow still avoided looking at her. He pinched his nose with his fingers impatiently. It was a gesture similar to one of Karl’s.
    Morrow strayed from her while answering. “Alchemy is simply the application of fundamental processes that underlie all chemical principles. Heat…” Morrow indicated the kiln, Bunsen burners, ovens and forges, “…pressure, hydration…” He led them into an enormous, vault-like room. A greenhouse of sorts filled with a grid work of pools. “And time,” he said.
    They looked at the pools. A couple of workers slowly stirred and poked at them.
    â€œWhat are these?” Rain asked. Morrow’s gruffness inspired some kind of eager honor student within her.
    â€œThey’re…it’s stand oil. Oils and fats that will become the bases for the pigments. The stabilizers…” Morrow interrupted himself, pinching his brow again. He appeared to be wilting. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to leave you here. I’m…”
    Morrow left the small tour group standing in this enormous greenhouse. Rain watched him go and then walked along the aisles. The pools were dense and slick surfaced, and appeared as a series of small, populated ponds. The workers moved slowly around the shallow pools, stirring and poking delicately.
    An assistant took questions from the group, which slowly dispersed. Rain slipped away, wandering through rooms they had already toured.
    Eventually, she found herself before a spiral staircase under the high, window-paned offices. She could see James Morrow standing on the landing, still and quiet, his back to her.
    â€œExcuse me?” she called up to him.
    James turned and saw Rain below