Mirror

Chapter 4: The Art of...Art

And this—Yarrow?—this the stream

Of which my fancy cherished

So faithfully a waking dream?

An image that hath perished?

O that some minstrel's harp were near,

To utter notes of gladness,

And chase this silence from the air,

That fills my heart with sadness.

-Wordsworth

Marquera rolled the idea around her head, familiarizing herself with it. The offer was not unpleasant, but it was thoroughly unexpected, and it required thought. After a moment she looked up, her brow furrowed. 

"Mother, this is...an important decision. Could I have some time to answer?"

Her mother frowned a little.

"How much time, 'Quera?" She sighed, her blue eyes, so like Marquera's own, brightening with annoyance.

The girl blinked a couple of times. This was...unusual. Her mother rarely became annoyed; she was a very sweet-tempered woman.

"A few days, at least."

"A few days!" Her mother echoed She actually scowled, and alarm now dominated Marquera's feelings. "You must think quickly. Registration closes in three hours."

Now it was Marquera's turn to echo in disbelief. "Three hours?! Why did you not come to me sooner?"

The woman snorted. "That is irrelevant. She really was in a bad mood. "Decide quickly. I will come get you in three hours if you have not told me yet."

Marquera paused. Come get her? That sounded like she was leaving.

"Mother?"

"What is it, child?"

"Am I...leaving?"

Another snort. "Of course not. Just to your room."

If Marquera had liked her bedroom any less, she might have protested. As it was, she was very fond of the place, and found it both peaceful and energizing, a strange but effective combination. Glad that her mother had mentioned it, she stood and walked up the wooden stairs to the attic.

To some, the word "attic" might conjure up images of dust, cobwebs, and dirty windows, but this room was quite the opposite.

The adorably slanting walls were painted a light shade of grey—unusual, but refreshing. The sloped ceiling was pale blue, and though there was no overhead light, the shutters were thrown open, and warm sunlight flooded the room.

The boards on the floor were scrubbed shiny, and a silver-threaded rug decorated the corner, where a huge, squashy, bright green armchair, decorated with horrible yellow flowers sat, out of place with the other, much more delicate, features of the room.

Next to the chair was a bookshelf, stuffed with a variety of books: ranging from the popular, new books like Idle, by Jaidynn Decking and My Windowsill by Lane Fenc to romance novellas from the 21st century like Cordilae, Blue & White, and Textbook Example, to old Science Fictions like Ender's Game* and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxay*. There were even some works in Latin and Greek.

Marquera slouched down in the armchair and rubbed her temple. Do I go, or do I choose not to? The answer should be obvious; she has always wanted to be an artist, and an opportunity to go to the University of Artistic Advancement was like getting a silver dance ticket: very, very unusual, and a great accomplishment. A few months ago she would have accepted it without thought.

But now...it was strange. She hated math. She hated mechanics, and engineering, and science, and physics, and all of those boring things. But just last week, she had seen a feature film about EM, and it had intrigued her. She had thought about it almost constantly since then. "Electrical Manipulation is a delicate art," she remembered the man in the film saying, "and should not be underestimated." Marquera was not tempted to underestimate it—more to disdain it as something best left to math whizzes and geeks.

But...there was that fantastic element of creation involved. Certainly, she would get that from art...and yet...she could not seem to decide. She excelled in many forms of art—music, painting, sculpting, dancing—but she had never tried her hand at these things, these sciences and...

She paused.

Was not math an art?

*Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these books.