Excerpt
Between Flowers and Bones
1
Georgia landed on her feet next to Vincent, who stood gawking at the swirling clouds flowing over the landscape. He acted like this was his first time inside a painting. Like they hadn’t been training this whole past week. Sure, her second cousin was a newbie compared with her--he’d only discovered their family’s ability to Travel into paintings over spring break--but . . . gawking? Still, it was better than him sulking with one of the frequent headaches he’d been getting since he and his mom arrived at Gramps’s ranch in late June.
“Coming?” she asked, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. “It’s not like we’re on a mission or anything.”
Ever since Vincent had accepted his role as a Restorationist Artist, he’d been all wide-eyed wonder. She couldn’t explain why it bothered her so much. But she almost wished she’d never left the door unlocked for Vincent and then his six-year-old sister, Lili, to wander into The Starry Night. The Vincent she’d first met had wanted nothing to do with art. She’d been so desperate for a friend that when he’d stumbled into the painting that first night, she’d thought it was the best accident ever. Yet somehow she felt even more alone now than before.
“Give me a minute,” Vincent answered, throwing out his arms for balance as the olive-green landscape shifted beneath them. “I’ve just never been in a painting this abstract before. I thought Georgia O’Keeffe was all flowers and bones.”
“Flowers and bones” wasn’t the worst summary of many of O’Keeffe’s paintings, but Georgia wasn’t about to admit that Vincent was right. Not with the way this past week had gone.
“Obviously there’s more to her than you thought.” Of all the paintings by her namesake, why did Gramps own this one?
Blue and white swirls that reminded Georgia of marshmallow cream slowly spiraled through the sky, spilling over onto the uneven landscape, which alternated between black, olive, and white. The ground undulated beneath her feet as she carefully hopped over a river of deep burgundy. She’d fallen into it once and wasn’t about to do so in front of her cousin.
“Look, I’m surfing!” Vincent called as he bounded ahead of her and slid along a white wave of ground toward the left of the painting. She was too annoyed with him to admit it looked like fun.
Musical laughter sounded behind her, and she turned to see that her mom had joined them. Mama’s eyes smiled as she watched Vincent, and Georgia felt a spark of . . . Was that jealousy? She pushed it down, focusing instead on her strategy.
“Come on, Georgia! This is fun!” Vincent called, as if he had no idea that he wasn’t on her list of favorite people right now.
Somehow, despite acting like an excitable new puppy all week, Vincent had managed to impress everyone--her parents, Gramps, and even his mom--with his amazing Gift. It must be nice to be an Artist with such powerful control of the painted world surrounding them. But he’d be a lot easier to get along with if he had a normal Gift like the rest of the Restorationists in their family. A Restorer like Gramps. Or an Appraiser like her parents. Or even another Navigator like herself and his mom. With Vincent the Artist around, no one seemed to appreciate Georgia the human map. Georgia, who’d been training and studying her whole life to be the best Navigator ever.
A gentle squeeze on her shoulder brought her back to reality. She found herself facing the gray boundary to the Corridor. How long had she just been staring at it? Her mind had been so full, she didn’t even remember walking to the painting’s edge. She turned and looked into Mama’s dark brown eyes.
“Lead the way, mija.” Mama nodded at Georgia, and a swell of confidence filled her.
Georgia tucked a stray strand of her short red hair back under her headband. She didn’t want anything distracting her from their mission. She would prove herself an important member of this team. She’d studied every possible route and knew exactly where to start their search. Her parents had worked for years without an on-mission Navigator, relying on Georgia only in the planning stages. But she would show them how much better things could be if she were on every mission.
Vincent gave her a cheesy thumbs-up, which soured her mood again. She wasn’t ready to feel friendly toward him right now. She took a deep breath and stepped through the wall into the Corridor.
Inky blackness surrounded her as she stood waiting for her eyes to adjust. Endless bright windows of possibility stretched in either direction: the nine hundred or so paintings Georgia O’Keeffe had created in her lifetime. Georgia had been in the Corridors of hundreds of artists, but visiting her namesake’s Corridor felt like coming home.
Corridors may not have sounds or smells of their own--the only thing Georgia could smell was the faint whiff of dried clay on her overalls. But somehow the missing sensory input made her mind feel like it was opening up, like an intricate pop-up book. Every bright window led to a painting, which led to a home or museum, which led to more paintings and more Corridors. Her mind’s eye peered down the hallway, endless routes and choices presenting themselves. Of course, she couldn’t see every route, only the ones through paintings she’d studied or visited with her parents, which they’d done ever since she was little. But that covered most of the major museums. She’d never bothered to count, but the number of paintings she could locate was in the tens of thousands. Navigation didn’t seem like a superpower compared with being an Artist or Tracker, but it was her Gift, and she was good at it. She just had to steal her parents’ attention away from Vincent long enough for them to recognize it.
“The best place to start would be the O’Keeffe Museum in Santa Fe,” Georgia said. This would be a piece of cake. She knew each of the 277 paintings in that museum. She didn’t typically bother with memorizing the collections of smaller museums, but she made an exception for O’Keeffe. Not only did they share a first name, but the fact that O’Keeffe had been a potter, too--at least later in her life--also made Georgia feel a special kinship with her. “The closest gateway is Back of Marie’s No. 4 painted in 1931.” Maybe adding the date was a little over the top. “It’s just over here.” Georgia began walking down the Corridor, assuming the others were following, their footsteps swallowed up by the Corridor’s silence.
“I think I see something.” Vincent’s voice stopped her.
She turned to see him still standing in front of the painting they’d just exited. He hadn’t even bothered to follow her. Mama, who had been following, hurried back toward him.
“What is it, mijo?”
Georgia bristled at her mom’s use of the term of endearment. She knew mijo--short for mi hijo--didn’t have to literally mean “my son,” but she couldn’t help feeling replaced after the way Vincent had stolen her family’s attention this past week.
Vincent pointed in the opposite direction from where Georgia had been leading.
“It looks like Luminescence,” he said.
Georgia squinted, but she couldn’t detect the shimmering that would surround a painting recently Traveled through, except around the one they’d just come out of.
In addition to his extraordinary Gift as an Artist, Vincent always seemed to be able to spot Luminescence from a much farther distance than anyone else. Which was pretty annoying. Especially to the person attempting to navigate a mission.
“We should check it out, then,” Mama said, giving Vincent’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good work.”
Georgia followed, dragging her feet. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong about the O’Keeffe Museum,” she muttered.
A few minutes later, they stood in front of a painting glimmering with Luminescence. Georgia recognized it as also belonging to the O’Keeffe Museum--which proved she’d been right, by the way. Mule’s Skull with Pink Poinsettias was the “flowers and bones” type of painting Vincent had been talking about. Desert landscape, giant skull, flowers floating in the sky, and all a bit surreal.
“Let’s be ready, yes?” Mama said.
Vincent pulled a paintbrush from the leather satchel over his shoulder and squirted a dab of brown paint onto it. Technically, Georgia should grab a palette knife or something, but why bother? When the only living Restorationist Artist was right here, what did she really have to contribute inside a painting? She was useful only as a guide--and apparently not even that today.
“Let me go first,” Vincent said, as if this were now his mission to direct. “The Luminescence is bright, so he’s probably still in there. I bet he’s behind that giant skull. Wait a bit before you follow. That might throw him off.”
“Ten cuidado,” Mama said and then kissed Vincent’s head of curly brown hair. “If there’s a problem, jump to the museum. But hide the paintbrush. I know you’d never harm a painting, but a museum guard might get the wrong idea.”
Vincent nodded, then reached his free hand toward the glowing image and disappeared.
