Free The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) by Olivia Wildenstein Page A

wrinkles at the idea of a painting fashioned with blood. A few years back, a painting was made with excrement, so maybe there’s one made with blood and dead bees. I check the label affixed to the wall in front of me. It’s a Dubuffet created with plaster, oil, tar, and sand. Tar…weird. I didn’t know artists used tar. The next painting is a combination of acrylic and wax. I get this niggling in my skull and read it again. Wax . Bees make wax.
    I check the work associated with the plaque, but can’t find anything resembling a light source. It’s a painting representing waves or squiggly lines. Not my painting.
    A shift in the air alerts me to a presence. It’s Nathan. His forehead glistens with sweat. Either he’s been running or he’s nervous. From the way he fidgets with his belt buckle, I decide it’s the latter. Another round of applause erupts somewhere in the museum. I tick off my fingers. Three. I think of what Lincoln said, about us chasing the same painting and start wandering off toward the din. Just in case. When I get to the gallery, I find J.J. beaming in front of a Persian rug. Yeah …I don’t think our riddles are linked.
    “Ivy? Did you solve yours?” Dominic asks. He’s standing right next to the graffiti artist.
    Josephine and Brook watch me, and so does the audience. One of the cameras is poised on my face.
    I put on a smile. “Almost.”
    Willing my knees not to shake, I walk out of the gallery and look at all of the paintings made with beeswax. I now understand the sneakers. The museum is a maze. I begin jogging, grazing the walls so that I can read the insignias without stopping. When I spot the word wax again, I stop to examine the subject matter: a self-portrait with no source of light. But still, I don’t move. I study it and something clicks. It’s textured, like the Dubuffet! Of course. That’s what wax does. It makes my quest easier now, as I only stop in front of paintings that have relief.
    A loud clamor resonates. Four. There are two spots left. I pick up the pace. There’s a painting that takes up an entire wall. It’s huge. And has tons of texture and color. I desperately try to locate something akin to luminaries or blood. But unless blood is neon pink and luminaries are dandelions, it’s not it. My stomach lets out an angry growl that mirrors how my mind is feeling.
    As I rip through yet another gallery, I hear a new commotion. Five! How is everyone done and not me? Their riddles must have been easier than mine! One spot to go. One spot. One. My rubber soles pound the floor. I cross Nathan’s path. His eyes are as bright as his cheeks. He’s running with a purpose. That’s when I begin to lose hope. I’m tempted to trip him, but that’s not going to help me.
    I watch him disappear into the adjacent room, his footsteps ringing like a ticking time bomb. I suck in a breath and focus on the artwork around me to snuff out the ticking. Nothing resembles a freaking light source. There’s a painting with a bunch of geometric shapes, there’s another that looks like some blown-up Japanese calligraphy, there’s a white flag, there’s a—
    I twist back toward the flag. It’s white, but textured. And there are stars on it. Stars are light sources, right? I dash to the plaque, heart crashing against my ribcage. Encaustic oil, newsprint, and charcoal. Many had to die to unite America. I have my blood and my luminaries…
    “What the hell is encaustic?” I say out loud.
    “Wax.”
    The only other person around is Chase, and he’s staring at another painting. Did I imagine his voice?
    “Wax?” I repeat.
    He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me. Maybe it was some ruse to make me fail. Chase would never help me. Would he? I stare at the flag and think that it fits my riddle.
    A noise rises not far away. Nathan’s stupid sweaty face pops into my mind and I sprint toward the clamor.
    It has to be the flag.
    “I got it!” I yell the second I enter the