It Started With a Heist

Chapter 16

EMMA

With an intent look, Professor Singh, the head of the Department of Education at the Museum of Modern Art, leaned closer. "Ms. Lawrence, a cornerstone of public engagement, is understanding how art affects people. In your view, what impact does art have on museum visitors?

I took a moment to think of an intricate answer. My gaze traveled to the opposite wall, past my interviewer. There were a few replicas of famous paintings hanging on the wall. There was Degas' The Ballet Class, Rembrandt's The Night Watch, Vermeer's Girl With a Pearl Earring, and then Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon. Each painting represented different techniques and eras and told its own story, a tapestry of human emotion and history.

But I couldn't look away from one painting: Saint George and the Dragon. The scene was a chaotic ballet of opposites. Saint George, in shining armor, looked determined as he skillfully wielded his lance. Below him, the dragon, a mythical creature of evil, writhed in fury. Its scales were a deep, iridescent green and its eyes burned with primal hatred.

Good versus evil. Such a simplistic narrative. I almost scoffed at it.

Yet, after everything that went down last week and knowing someone died because of a chain reaction I caused, I couldn't help but see myself in the dragon.

My life had been a series of cunning maneuvers, deception, and artful lies. Every con I pulled, every identity I adopted, and every life I manipulated added another scale to my metaphorical armor. I was the dragon, fierce, relentless, perhaps even remorseless, embodying the very essence of evil.

But who was my Saint George?

Naturally, my thoughts drifted to Jake. He possessed a fierce determination, much like the valiant knight depicted in the painting, to rid the world of the looming evil. In his eyes, I—or rather, the thief of the Met—was the monstrous entity that needed to be defeated, for I represented all that was corrupt and tainted. Jake saw me as the ultimate foe, the epitome of all that was wrong in the world.

And perhaps there was some truth to that. Maybe this was who I was. Chaos in its human form, leaving a wake of destruction behind me. Maybe there was nothing to be proud of in being the great Laverna, after all. Her legacy was all about lies and manipulation, bringing nothing but pain to those unfortunate enough to be her marks.

Just a few days ago, I got a call for an interview for my dream job—an associate educator for public engagement at the MoMA. I was over the moon at first, thinking that the life I had always wanted was finally within reach.

But then a little voice in my head started to doubt everything and told me that maybe I didn't deserve to be happy, that good things weren't meant for me, and that my past mistakes were too much to overcome. And even though the voice was so feeble, I could still hear it in my head, loud and clear.

Still, there were other voices in my head as well. Voices that told me that I was never the kind of person to just give up and let go of everything. I still had plenty of fight left in me. And as long as that fire was burning within me, I should never stop my pursuit of happiness, safety, and maybe even a sense of normalcy.

After all, the dragon in the painting was not yet dead. It was writhing, clawing, refusing to be subdued.

I finally looked down and met Professor Singh's gaze, forcing a smile. "Art, Professor, is like a time capsule. It doesn't just capture a moment in history, but also the emotions, anxieties, and triumphs of a specific era. Just look at that," I said, gesturing toward the Saint George replica.

"Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon. It's not just a knight slaying a beast, is it? It's a story painted on canvas. A story that reflects the very anxieties of the Renaissance itself."