Ink & Quill

Chapter 13

~ Jaxon ~

There are no replacement parts among the maintenance supplies, so I wait around until most of the students and professors have left, then strip what I need off an identical window in an empty classroom. Around 6 pm, I return to Ava Blackwell's office.

She greets me with a show of surprise, as if she hadn't expected to see me again so soon; the easel in the center of the room, with paints and canvas at the ready, tells another story.

She notes my gaze and lifts a shoulder in a self-conscious shrug.

"I'm an optimist," she says, smiling. "As a fellow artist, you understand. When the muse calls, we must answer."

It's almost the same thing she said earlier, and once again I'm flattered that she finds me worthy of inclusion among her kind.

Flattered and wary.

As a precaution, I'd crafted myself a simple protective amulet to guard against unwanted influence, but either Professor Blackwell isn't using any, or my charm isn't working.

I return her smile. "This shouldn't take long. You'll be painting in no time."

Crossing the room, I lay out my tools and get to work dismantling the window crank. Blackwell follows and watches with apparent interest, leaning a hip against the far side of the sill, arms folded over her buxom chest. I try not to notice, but her blouse seems to have even fewer buttons than it did before.

"You're good with your hands," she comments as I finish unscrewing the rusted parts and set the new in their place. "Do you ever work with three-dimensional media?"

I know she means stuff like wood, stone, clay—any kind of art that exists in three dimensions—but I pretend ignorance and keep my attention on my work.

"Oh, uh...no. I'm not good with computers."

She laughs. "Neither am I; neither are most Crafters. I mean art, Jason: carving, molding, chiseling—welding, even. You seem like a man who would enjoy the more...physical...mediums."

I shrug. "Nah. I just draw. Pencils and charcoals. I like to keep it simple."

"Simple tools for a simple man, hm?" She chuckles softly and reaches over to brush something from my shoulder. "Ever thought of going professional?"

"Doubt I'm good enough for that," I say, ignoring the warm ghost of her unwanted touch and twisting the last screw into place with a bit more force than necessary.

Blackwell lifts her hand and waves it dismissively. "What is 'good enough?' Who decides? All you can do is put your work out there for the world to see, and let the world judge."

"Guess that's what I'm afraid of," I say as I test the crank, opening the window and closing it again, before opening it once more. "Well, that should do it."

I turn away and start packing up my tools.

"I think you have nothing to fear," Blackwell says, reaching around and leaning against me as she tries the crank for herself. "If the artist's goal is to share the vision in their heart, then you have that gift."

Finished packing, I step away from her and retreat a bit, turning my attention to the art on the walls once more. "You can tell that much from one sketch?"

She follows me and stands at my side, observing me observing her work. "Yes. True art is a window to the artist's heart, and you revealed a glimpse of yours in that girl you drew. Imaginary or not, you are in love with her."