Free The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) by Olivia Wildenstein

sound silly…I sound like Mom. Always talking out loud to herself. I bat my lashes to dispel the sudden moisture caking my eyes and find myself staring right into a camera. Shoot. I strap on a confident mask that quickly decomposes when a rush of excitement booms out of an adjoining gallery making the camera crew race out.
    I lean my head back and close my eyes. Slowly, I tap my skull against the wooden headrest, hoping I can knock the answer into my brain.
    Can bees produce light?
    Can honey produce light?
    Or pollen? Pollen is yellow? Could pollen be considered light?
    What makes some bugs light up?
    “Think synonyms,” I hear someone tell me.
    I snap my lids up to find Brook sitting next to me.
    “Trying to get me eliminated?” I ask, my heart bumping around my ribcage. The gallery is empty save for the two of us.
    “No,” he says quietly. “Synonyms are the foundation of a riddle. It’s a fact, not a clue.”
    After a minute of silence, curiosity gets the better of me. “Who solved theirs?”
    “Believe it or not…Daisy.”
    “Daisy?”
    “I mean Maxine.”
    “No, I know who Daisy is. I’m just surprised—I thought it would be your brother.”
    Brook’s eyes darken. “He’s still searching.”
    “He’ll get it soon enough.”
    “He is pretty obstinate,” Brook continues.
    “I can tell.”
    “This is his chance to get what he wants.”
    I smirk. “If he wins, will he be allowed to attend the Masterpiecers or does he just get the hundred grand?”
    “He’ll be allowed to attend.”
    “Won’t that destroy the school’s policy?”
    “It will complicate it,” he says as I stare at the Jackson Pollock in front of me. The paint splatters remind me of the last quilt I sewed. I used splatters of silk and velvet instead of paint. “Is your sister also artistic?”
    “No. Not in the least.”
    He’s looking at the Pollock too. “You don’t talk about her.”
    “I came to compete in an art show, not to discuss my family.”
    “Fair enough.”
    “Now can you please leave so I can concentrate?”
    “I’ll be quiet.”
    I’m about to tell him that it’s his presence I find troublesome, when I hear footsteps. My pulse skyrockets. I leap up and away from Brook before anyone can assume I was cheating.
    Chase is standing in the large doorway.
    Brook rises slowly and walks over to him. “How are you holding up?”
    “I thought the contestants weren’t supposed to speak with judges or people from the audience,” Chase says curtly. The vein on his temple lobe throbs.
    “I can ask how you’re doing.”
    “Is that what you were asking Ivy? How she was doing ?” His accusatory tone makes me livid.
    “Yes.” Brook pushes a shiny lock of black hair off his forehead. “I wasn’t giving her any clues, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
    No one speaks and no one moves. The large gallery suddenly feels oppressive. I pretend to examine a painting when I hear loud applause.
    “Another winner. You two better hurry up,” Brook says, brushing past his brother.
    I walk off in the opposite direction. There’s no way I’m spending any more time cooped up in a room with Chase. Plus my painting’s not here. There are no light sources in any of the pieces hanging on the wall. As I cross the entire south wing, I start the unscrambling process anew.
    Bees can’t produce light.
    Blood can’t either.
    What’s synonymous with bees? Besides bugs and honey.
    Pollen…honeycombs…buzz. I keep buzz in mind. Filaments buzz.
    Or maybe it’s a painting that was buzzed about.
    Maybe it’s a painting that was killed for!
    My pulse quickens because I think I’m onto something. I commit this thought to memory then move on to the verb.
    What’s tantamount to shaped?
    Formed. I try it out in the riddle.
    My luminaries were formed by bees and blood.
    Ugh! It doesn’t make more sense. I think up more synonyms. My brain halts on the verb molded .
    My luminaries were molded by bees and blood.
    My nose