Inheritance, Part 7 - Easel

Rowan carefully opened the book. The first thing she saw was that it was indeed a book, despite the fact that even when it was open you couldn't see the pages on the outside edges like you did with a normal book. She tipped the book a bit to check that. The edges were oddly smooth, like a stone that had been in the water for a long time.

The second thing she saw was that she couldn't read the text in the book. At first she thought it was something completely foreign, with even the letters unfamiliar, but she realized after a moment that wasn't true. The letters were the normal letters, though the words they formed were unfamiliar. Despite this it seemed there was something odd about the letters, but Rowan couldn't put a finger on what it was. It was as if the letters felt foreign despite the fact that she could look at every one of them and recognize them as the same letters she used every day. It seemed to her that if she wanted, she would also be able to read the words out loud without any difficulty, even if she had never seen or heard anything resembling them.

The third thing she saw was that it was it was all in her mother's handwriting.

She stared at the page. So did the others.

"Oh, look," Kelly said, running her fingers through her hair. "That's text I can actually read."

Rowan turned her eyes to a bit on the margins of the page. There was more text with her mom's handwriting, this time in a familiar language, like she had added a comment next to the actual text. For the brush, it said.

"The brush?" Aksa asked.

"The paint brush, maybe?" Rowan answered quietly.

Siina nodded. "You said your aunt said she painted, right?"

"Don't..." Rowan cleared her throat. It felt tight. "Don't call her my aunt, ok? I don't think I'm ready for that." The others nodded. "But yeah, she said my mom used to paint when she was young."

"But what is it?" Aksa asked. "What for the brush?"

"Maybe it's a spell?" Kelly suggested.

"For the paint brush?" Aksa asked. They all thought about it for a moment. Then she added, "But what does it do?"

"Only one way to find out," Siina said grinning. "Do you think she still has some of her art supplies here?"

They set off searching again. About a quarter of an hour later Kelly broke the silence again.

"I think I got something."

They gathered around the box she had found. It wasn't very full, but the only things in there were paint brushes, paints, and a small wooden easel that was folded in on itself to take up less space. Siina unfolded it while the others went through the other things. The brushes were old, but seemed well made and not likely to lose any of their hairs anytime soon. There were some acrylic paints that had dried so they could probably not be used again, but the watercolors seemed fine enough, since they were dry by default. There was also an assortment of both charcoal and colored pencils, and some sponge-like things that Rowan didn't know what to do with—having never been that interested in that kind of art—and some old, paint-stained palettes.

"Well, let's see it," Kelly said, holding up a brush for Rowan. She looked at it doubtfully and hesitated.

"I don't know what to do to it," Rowan said. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to make happen."

"You say the words, obviously," Siina said, " And then we see what happened."

Rowan sighed and took the brush and held it in front of her. She looked at the book and read. First two lines, then three. The words felt weird in her mouth, slippery and fleeting. When she fell silent she was left with a feeling she had understood something vital about something, but couldn't quite figure out what it was.

They all stared at the paint brush. Nothing happened.

They kept staring. Nothing kept happening.

"I guess just saying the words isn't enough," Rowan finally said. "Or maybe I said them wrong. Or the wrong words, there are a lot of them here."

"Oh, well," Aksa said.

~x~

It was late when Rowan heard the front door open. She heard her father talking with Letitia for a while, then they went their separate ways to sleep.

She had been going through her mom's pageless book, sitting on her bed and leaning against the wall. It was filled with text in the same language the thing for the brush had been written. The margins were full of notes from her mom, but they were notes a person wrote themselves: they were nonsense unless you knew what the person was talking about.

She was just about to go to sleep herself when she turned the page and found something different.

Rowan, the margin said. She froze, and quickly read the rest of it.

If you are reading this, I guess I must be dead. In that case, this spell is for you. There are some of my old art supplies in storage. You will need a brush, and an empty canvas, and my old easel.

Rowan stared at the page. Then she was moving, so fast she almost tripped over her own feet springing from her bed towards her door and the attic.

She stood the easel near the attic window and set on it the only blank canvas in the art supply box. Then she picked up one of the paint brushes and felt the words on the page rolling over her tongue.
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The next topic is Shine.

~matu