The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

Chapter Seventeen

I always like looking at modern architecture. It's so effortlessly stylish, like the women that shop in Sephora and Nordstrom. That's what I expected of the Solar Lacquer Art Gallery, a bright building with angular sides and plenty of glass windows. Instead, the museum looks like a giant, crumbling, gray-brick house. Rusted iron pillars rise above the oval entrance, and I have to wonder why they bothered putting up terracotta windows that lacked glass.

"You'd think some of the artists might chip in and help restore this place," I mumble.

"They probably don't care," Emi says. "After all, I'm sure many of them have been dead for a long time."

"The building is rundown enough to bring back Picasso," I say. "He wouldn't want his babies to live in a dump."

"It isn't a dump. This place has historical intrigue. I was reading about it last night."

"Turn it into a tourist attraction then."

"What else do you think an art museum is? Personally, I think it's a smart use of space."

Her car door opens, ending the conversation. We jog up the sandstone-colored steps leading to the door. The pink-ombre ruffles on Emi's skirt swish from the movement, in time with the click of my new heels. The skirt and the houndstooth pants I currently wear were too cute to pass up when I went shopping. Besides, we couldn't wear the same clothes every day. That'd be weird.

Entry costs twenty dollars per person. It's a steep price, yet Silverenn's treasure is probably worth far more. Probably. Every so often, I must remind myself that it really will be worth it, that it's not some sick prank by a mob boss.

I stop by a pillar in the front hall, scanning the many diverging paths. Footsteps clack on the tile as a woman in a black uniform walks past.

"Excuse me, do you know where En Route to the Bay is?" I ask her.

The woman stops beside me. "I'm sorry, I've never heard of it before. Do you know what type of artwork it is or what period it was created?"

"No."

"That's unfortunate. Aside from special art exhibitions, which we get every few months, all of the works are organized based on their type."

"Would you mind telling where each hall leads?"

"Not at all." The woman fires off a bunch of terminology I'm unfamiliar with, aside from sculpture, mural, and paintings. I think those are the important ones, though. When she finishes, Emi smiles and thanks her.

"Did you understand what she said?" I whisper.

"Yeah. The 2D stuff is on the left, 3D on the right."

"That's it?"

Emi's hand latches onto my elbow. "Let's head for the paintings first."

It was a bad idea. We spent an hour reading the title of each one, though we might've shaved off twenty minutes if Emi hadn't gotten so absorbed in them.

"I haven't been to an art museum in years," she kept repeating.

Officially, I've decided that Emi doesn't leave the house enough. She's too absorbed in her music. I'll have to fix that once we find the treasure. No matter what, she will relax and enjoy herself. In excess, even medicine can become poisonous.

At eleven, we finally cross over to the 3D section. Statues and reliefs on display stands decorate the hall, which curves into a circular room. In the center, a gray-stone man stands with his hands on a canoe. It looks like real wood until I step closer and realize it's scored rock. The man is equally detailed. Beads of sweat trickle across protruding blood vessels in his temples. By his feet, a plaque reads En Route to the Bay.