Chapter 7 Manipulator
I was running through the woods, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breath harsh and ragged. My feet pounded the earth, which flickered and glitched beneath me like a broken reel of film. The trees around me bent and twisted as if they were painted across a vast, trembling canvas. Ahead, through the haze, stood a small wooden house. Its outline quivered, its edges trembling like brushstrokes left unfinished by a distracted hand.
I reached for the door, and the world glitched again. Suddenly, I saw a hand, pale and slender, holding a brush dripping with blood… or perhaps red ink. My breath caught. I lifted my gaze to see who held it, but the figure vanished, and before me appeared dozens of canvases, each bearing a blurred, half-finished painting.
I stepped closer, desperate to see them clearly, but they flickered and disappeared, dissolving like smoke. My pulse roared in my ears. I turned sharply and froze. Before me stood a massive canvas veiled beneath a heavy cloth. I hesitated, then gripped the edge and pulled. Beneath it was a painting of my own face… half-done, eyes hollow, lips still ghostly outlines. I was crowned with ivy.
My heart stopped. Who could have done this?
Then, behind me, came a faint, shivering whisper:
“Help… please. Save us. Save her.”
I spun around and there was Mel.
Her face was pale, her hair matted with blood, and her body trembled as she reached toward me.
I gasped, stumbling back then—
I jolted awake, my head snapping upright from the desk in the library. My heart hammered against my ribs. My forehead was damp. The soft rustle of pages surrounded me. Everyone was quietly bent over their books, immersed in study, oblivious. I’d fallen asleep… again.
I pressed a hand against my temple and sighed. “What kind of dream was that?” I muttered. “Why the forest?”
I closed my eyes for a moment—
“Double L!”
I flinched, already knowing the voice. I lifted my head to find Oliver standing before me, clutching four enormous books, his grin as bright as ever. Heads turned, brows arched; Mrs. Campbell, the librarian, peered over her spectacles.
“Did you forget you’re in the library, Oliver?” she said sharply.
He flashed her his easy grin. “Sorry, Mrs. Campbell.”
Satisfied, she returned to her work, and the room resumed its hush.
I raised an eyebrow. “What are those?” My voice was low and tired.
He thumped the books down onto the table. “Latin books,” he declared proudly. “They’ll help us translate the manuscript.”
He slid into the chair across from me, flipping open the first one. “Here… Wheelock’s Latin. Perfect for beginners. Grammar, exercises, even some ancient quotes.” He set it before me, then lifted another. “And this one’s 501 Latin Verbs, as the name says, it’s all verbs. Very helpful if you plan on reading anything longer than a prayer.” Another book landed in front of me. “Then there’s Lingua Latina per se Illustrata, old-fashioned Latin immersion. It’ll help if the manuscript’s written in archaic phrasing. And the last one…” he held it up like a prize “Gravenmoor Latin Course. Student-friendly and…”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupted, waving a hand. “Enough. We’re not going to use all of that. It’s just one manuscript.”
He smirked. “You might need all this. You don’t know what’s hidden in that book. And to understand it, you need to be fluent… or close enough.”
I dragged my fingers through my hair and sighed heavily.
“What’s the matter, Lexie?” he asked, his tone softening. “You look exhausted. Studying all night again?”
Before I could reply, he leaned across the table and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. I jerked away, startled. “I’m fine.”
He chuckled softly. “I’m just concerned, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Thanks.”
Silence lingered, gentle and awkward. He focused on the open book, scribbling notes, while the echoes of my dream still clung to me like cobwebs.
“I… can tell you anything, right?” The words left me before I could stop them.
His head snapped up. “Of course. We’ve known each other forever, Double L. You can tell me anything.”
I hesitated, lowering my voice. “I’ve been hearing whispers.”
His expression darkened, curiosity flashing in his eyes. He leaned closer. “Whispers? What kind?”
Before I could answer, Mrs. Campbell’s voice broke the moment.
“Miss Lambert, your art teacher requests you.”
I blinked. “Ms. Gladys? Why would she want me?”
Oliver shrugged. “Go on. I’ll get started on the first page for you.”
I sighed in relief. “What would I do without you, Oliver?”
He grinned. “What are friends for?”
I rose from my seat and made my way to the studio.
\[The Art Studio\]
Ms. Gladys was standing before a line of canvases, her posture rigid, her sharp eyes fixed on one particular painting.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Gladys,” I said, lingering at the doorway. “You asked for me?”
“Come in,” she said curtly. “Lambert, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded once. “There’s a problem… not a large one, but a problem nonetheless.”
She lifted a canvas from the corner and turned it toward me. My stomach sank. It was my painting from the last class.
“That day, I was too occupied to look at the nonsense you submitted,” she said dryly. “Now that I’ve had the pleasure… I can see why you didn’t beg for a critique.”
I forced a thin smile. “Ms. Gladys, I’m not exactly talented in art. My focus is literature.”
Her gaze sharpened. “This is an art academy, Miss Lambert. Every student participates in the visual arts. You’ll have to meet the standard, whether you like it or not.”
I pressed my lips together. “Yes, ma’am.”
She handed the canvas to me. “Amend it. I’ll expect it first thing tomorrow morning.”
I stared down at the terrible painting. Even with Adrian’s earlier corrections, it still looked like the work of someone painting with her eyes closed. When Ms. Gladys left, I slumped onto a stool, defeated, and began redrawing from scratch. Adrian’s advice echoed in my mind, ‘start with shapes… circles, squares, the palm before the fingers.
Each attempt grew worse. Frustration clawed at me until I tore one sketch after another. The deadline loomed, and I couldn’t afford another failure.