The Society of the Eleventh Hour

Mother-Daughter Conversations

Morgan and I have been trying to not mention Viktor Burkhardt's interesting choice in furnishings for the better part of an hour. (The house that the rest of the family lives in was eccentric, from what I remember visiting a long while ago, but nothing like this. Certainly not.) I turn to look at her— like, 'Are YOU seeing what I'm seeing, or...' and she stares back with an equally alarmed expression. We've been doing this back and forth just about every time Viktor looks away from us.

It's the most hideous sitting room I've ever been in, and I've had to endure the Beaufort's signature gaudiness for nearly my entire life. I don't even know what to point out first— be it the various taxidermied heads of forest animals or the nudist paintings that stare glassy-eyed at us from the walls.

"Do you sense magic?" I whisper, when the host finally leaves the room to put on another kettle for a late-afternoon espresso.

Morgan nods, slowly.

"...faintly. If you could distract him for a few minutes, I could find it easily."

When the host returns, I'm ready with an excuse.

"Are you a painter, Viktor?" I ask, tentatively.

He looks at me like he thinks I'm a bit stupid.

"Of course!" He smiles. "I created all of the paintings you've seen in the home."

"Uh, yeah, wow! I was wondering if I could take a look at your painting studio, if you have one. I've taken an interest in working with oil myself and would like to see how a professional deals with  all the chemical risks." I cringe, hopefully imperceptibly.

Viktor agrees, a touch over-enthusiastically, and drags me up two flights of stairs. Good luck, Morgan! And please, for the love of the GODS,  work fast!

I burn nearly fifteen minutes feigning excitement and fascination at even the most basic aspects of his studio's setup, all for the sake of ensuring that Morgan will find the damned evidence in time. I think I am just a little too insistent, because at one point his smile seems to fade away into something more strained.

"Lucia, I know what you're doing. Your friend is rifling through my personal belongings illegally, correct?" Viktor asks, tone cold and detached.

I laugh, nervously.

"What? No way!"

"It's fine if you are. I'm not a murderer, so I am confident that you won't find anything." He smiles, placidly, turning towards one of the splotchy walls.

There's oil paint everywhere, because the guy keeps his studio like a complete snob, and it reeks of something almost like gasoline.

I take a risk, because I feel almost certain that I'm right.

"If you're not a murderer, why did you buy Libitina's Tears from the illegal market?"

Viktor is taken aback. He didn't think I could figure out exactly what it is that he had... but I was feeling pretty damn lucky.

"It's not something someone like you would understand," he mutters, under his breath.

I scowl.

"Why don't you try to explain, first, before deciding that you know what I think beforehand?"

Viktor gives me one hollow look.

"It's not alway easy to find models for my paintings. I'm not such a charismatic guy, you see. I don't— don't give me that look, Lucia, I don't knock people unconscious before I paint them!" He snarls, self-righteously. "Diluted tears are a fantastic way to get someone drunk but still capable of saying yes. I'm not a monster."