CHAPTER THREE

I finish the first day’s assessments shortly after lunchtime. Celeste is a very bright young woman and her schoolwork ranges from above average to brilliant. She doesn’t struggle in any subject, but based on her academic history, I can see that she has a great deal more affinity for mathematics and science than for literature and history.

I am surprised by that. In my experience, artistic people are generally not great mathematicians. Often, this is due simply to disinterest in the subject rather than a lack of competence, but Celeste is the first artistically gifted student I’ve seen who possesses a near-genius level understanding of math. She has already completed the highest levels of math offered at the high school level and is ready for multivariable calculus, a course typically offered to college math students in their third semester.

I am grateful for the online resources available to teachers now. There is no way I'd be able to teach her this information on my own knowledge. I was a middling math student at best, and I've not yet encountered a student who requires instruction in such high-level calculus.

Literature, history, and the science that doesn’t rely directly on mathematics will be far easier for me. I have a great fondness for literature and history and an armchair fascination in science. Her knowledge of science likely far outstrips mine, but I will be able to guide her toward avenues of interest to her.

Academically, she will do quite well. Her mathematical skill alone will be more than enough to earn her entry to any STEM school in the nation. If she does as well in her final semester as she has so far, she will have little trouble earning a grant or scholarship to help her complete her education.

Socially, however, she is as stunted as she is brilliant academically. That is the area of her education that I must work hard to improve. The old saying that it’s not what you know it’s who you know holds true, even in staunchly academic fields. She must learn to interact with others if she is to succeed.

I must get her to open up to me first, though. I will be pushing her outside of her comfort zone socially, so she must at least trust that I am doing so with her best interests in mind.

So, when her schoolwork is finished, I ask if she’ll join me for some afternoon tea. She seems stunned by the request, more evidence that she’s not used to others taking an interest in her. Eventually, she accepts, a little warily, and I lead her downstairs to the kitchen.

“I’ve never had tea before,” she confesses to me as I set the kettle to boil.

“Tea is one of God’s greatest gifts to man,” I say with a smile. “I confess that I enjoy coffee more, particularly in the mornings, but no Englishwoman could call herself such without at least some fondness for tea.”

“Do you believe in God?”

The question brings me up short. I intended the comment as a pithy saying more than a statement of faith, but she wouldn’t know that since she has limited experience with conversation.

“Well… I believe that there are forces that work for good in the world and forces that work for evil. To the best of my ability, I ally myself with the forces working for good.”

She nods. Her face still hasn’t changed expression since I first saw her, but at least she’s talking now. “I believe in God.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Devils exist for sure, and if they exist, then God must exist.”

That's a lot less wonderful. I consider how far I should probe, but after all, she's reaching out to me. If she closes the door, I won't force it open, but as long as it's open, even a crack, I'll reach through. "Why do you say that?"

She frowns slightly, the first time her face has moved. “Because there’s so much evil and pain in the world. There wouldn’t be so much if there wasn’t something causing it, right?”

“I find that people are more than capable of causing evil without help from devils,” I reply. “Likewise, people are capable of great kindness without urging from a God.”

She gives me something that just might be a smile. “I’m glad that you think so.”

“I know so,” I reply. “Now, would you like toast with jam?”

She nods, and the movement is so innocent that it sets my heart aglow. There is a child behind that shell, after all. I finish the tea and toast, and we sit to eat.

“Why did you decide to leave England?” she asks.

“Oh, I moved here when I was a child,” I reply. “My father received a very lucrative job offer and moved the family to Boston when I was eleven years old.”

“Do you like America better or England?”

“Both places have excellent qualities. The English countryside is breathtaking, and the American cities are just as breathtaking in their own way.”

“Are people nicer in England?”

I sip my tea to hide the way my lip curls upward. “People are people everywhere. There are good people and there are bad people.”

She nods. “I would like to visit England one day.”

“We shall plan a summer trip. I’ll take you to see the places I loved most when I was a girl.”

“Oh, Dad would never let me go. He says it’s dangerous outside of the house.”

I feel a slight chill, though I can't explain why. "Why does he say that?"

She shrugs. “He says people vanish.”

This is the second time she’s brought up vanishing. “What does he mean by that?”

She looks out the window toward the ocean and doesn’t answer. When she speaks again, she says, “The tea is really good.”

My curiosity is burning. I am desperate to know what this vanishing point is and who has been lost to it that it should so seriously have affected both Victor and Celeste.

I don’t push any further, though. Celeste has closed the door, and if I hope for it to open again, I must not pound on it. “Thank you. It’s Earl Grey. It’s my favorite.”

“Are you supposed to dip the toast into the tea?”

“You may drink it any way you like. But no, that’s not how it’s usually done.”

She takes a bite of the toast, then sips the tea. “Do all English people drink tea?”

“Everyone I’ve ever met.”

She nods and sips more of the tea. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

It might be my imagination, but beneath the flat politeness of that statement, I detect a hint of real gratitude. I smile at her and say, “Thank you, Celeste. Tea is far better when drunk with a friend.”

There's no mistaking the smile that comes to her lips now. It's small, barely there, but they are all the same. A moment later, she catches herself. The smile vanishes. She finishes the last of her toast and takes a hearty sip of tea to wash it down. "I'm going to go draw now," she tells me.

“Of course. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She nods, then rushes up the stairs. I watch her, the smile still on my face. She is unsure and a little frightened, perhaps, of how quickly she opens up to me, but she has responded well to my overtures. That’s all people really need is kindness.

I finish my tea and clear the dishes. As I wash them, I hear a cry of frustration above me. It’s faint, but noticeable. I pause and listen. A moment later, it comes again, followed by a muffled thump.

I set the dishes in the sink and shut off the water. More noises filter down, so I head to the stairs and climb slowly.

As I climb, the noises grow steadily louder. When I reach the second floor, I realize the voice is male. This is a relief to me at first. If Celeste had retired to her room to have some sort of mental break, I would be greatly concerned for her health.

That relief fades when I reach the third floor and hear the anger in Victor’s voice. My first impression of him is good, but now that I think back, my very first impression of him is his rude greeting when he opens the door and doesn’t realize who I am. His awkward charm after that greeting endears him to me, but what I hear now isn’t endearing at all.

I reach the fourth floor. It ends in a small landing with a single door. I pause in front of this door and listen.

“Damn it, it’s not there! It’s not there!”

This is followed by a heavy sigh and the sound of footsteps as Victor moves around the studio. “It’s not just reality we must capture, Elias! Reality is a facade. The true essence of art is underneath. I must strip reality away and get to the truth!”

I feel a confusing array of emotions at this. On one hand, this impassioned rant is par for the course with artists, particularly successful artists. The stereotype is accurate in this case.

On the other hand, the nature of his comments disturb me, especially after what Celeste has told me about him keeping her inside. To say reality is a facade and art must capture essence is perhaps trite, but not alarming.

To say reality is a facade while neglecting your daughter and also refusing to let her leave your home for fear she might vanish is very alarming. It is not the behavior of someone who is well. After my tea with Celeste, I don’t believe she is unwell, but her father’s behavior is clearly affecting her. She looked out at the “vanishing point” with an almost religious somberness.

“I have to capture the essence ,” Victor mutters. “I have to transcend reality. I must, or I will vanish like the rest.”

I can’t ignore this any longer. I screw up my courage and knock on the door.

He instantly goes silent. No speaking, no moving. I tense a little, but there’s no other reaction. I clear my throat and call, “Victor? Are you all right?”

There’s a half-second of pause, then heavy footsteps. I backpedal and nearly slip down the stairs, only just catching myself on the banister.

The door flies open, and Victor stares at me. I flinch at the sight of him. This is not the awkward but charming artist I meet last night, nor is it the irritable homeowner who greets me wondering who’s interrupting his rest. This is the face of someone caught in the grip of an anxious mania.

His eyes are wide and bloodshot. His hair—unkempt when I first meet him—is now wild and damp with sweat. The lines in his forehead are sharp cracks, and his lips work as though muttering something silently, even while staring at me.

He seems to loom over me, towering like one of his statues downstairs. “What are you doing here?” he barks. “I told you the studio is off limits!”

“I… I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Get out of here!”

He slams the door, causing me to flinch again. I turn and rush down the stairs, not stopping until I reach my room.

I sit on the bed and catch my breath, staring at the door, as though if I turn away, Victor might come bursting through, claws and fangs extended like a vampire.

My first impression is shattered. The peace I hope to find here vanishes in a puff of smoke. It’s clear to me now that there is a rot in this house, one that may be greater than I can heal.

I remain where I am for over an hour before I have the courage to head downstairs. The living room is empty, and I return to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes. Behind me, the statues loom, their mocking judgment echoing in my ears.

Leave now , they seem to say. Before you vanish.