Beast called Missy

Beast called Missy had the pestle in both hands before they’d finished asking what it was for. Thessaly Quarrington, a Raccoon with powder up to the elbows, had simply put it there and tipped a lump of rusty stone into the mortar.

“Small circles,” Thessaly said. “Lean, don’t bash. You’re not angry at it.”

The Colour Mill was one long room of shelves, and every shelf was jars. None of them said red or blue. They said Under the Third Bridge and Gutter, Kiln Lane and The Old Well, Bottom Bit. Beast called Missy had already asked about six of them, and Thessaly had answered every one, pleased, as if nobody had asked in years.

The stone cracked, then crumbled, then began to go soft. Their palette toast sat at the edge of the bench, five little spreads round the rim and a thumb-hole in the middle, going cold beside a cup of Underpainting that smelled of burnt sugar. Their small suitcase sat on the stool and nudged their knee every time they moved.

“How long does it take?” they asked.

“Till it stops being stone and starts being colour,” Thessaly said. “You’ll feel it go silky. Then the oil, then the jar. Long as it needs.”

Outside, the sun was climbing toward the high windows of the big hall across the square. Beast called Missy watched it and felt their stomach drop. On the road in there had been another newcomer, and somewhere along the dark stretch the quiet one had gone quieter still, and paler, as if their colour were a coat they’d left behind. Beast called Missy had settled them in the arcade by the Portrait Steps and said, “Back by the end of the Good Light. Promise.”

The sun was a hand’s width from the windows.

“Can I come back and finish later?”

Thessaly shook their head, not unkindly. “Stop halfway and it goes chalky. A rushed colour’s a spoiled one.”

Beast called Missy looked at the mortar. It was the first thing here that was theirs. Then they looked at the sill, because they couldn’t help it. One jar stood there alone, its label turned to the wall.

“Whose stone is that?”

“Grind,” said Thessaly.

So Beast called Missy ground, and the sun slid another finger closer. Then they stopped thinking and opened the suitcase.

It was empty except for the lining. The mortar fitted inside with room for the toast. Thessaly’s eyebrows went up.

“I’m not stopping,” Beast called Missy said, and they didn’t. They hooked the suitcase over one arm, kept the pestle going in small circles, and backed out the door with the lid propped against their chest.

The street was all shut doors, and they didn’t knock on any of them. A tired Bull in an inky apron, just off the night shift at the Inkworks, held a gate open and watched them go past grinding, and said nothing at all, which was polite of them.

It was a long way to the Portrait Steps with one arm going round and round. The stone under the pestle was starting, just starting, to feel silky. Or maybe it was chalk. They couldn’t tell yet, and they walked faster.

Behind them, in the Mill’s window, Thessaly had lifted the jar from the sill and was holding it close, label still turned away, watching them go.

The sun touched Critique Hall’s high windows just as Beast called Missy reached the foot of the Portrait Steps, still grinding.

So they were late. Not by much. But a promise doesn’t come in sizes.

The Steps were full of pale Beasts, one to a stair, waiting the way tired people wait. At the top stood a Cat with a stick of chalk, and behind them on the wall was a long list: a painter’s name, then a sitter’s, row after row. At the bottom sat a brush crate with its lid scribbled all over with names, and hardly any brushes left inside.

Beast called Missy went past all of it and into the arcade.

The quiet newcomer was on the bench where they’d left them, under a row of hooks. Nine of the hooks were empty. The newcomer was paler than this morning, pale enough that the bench showed a little through their sleeve.

“You said the end of the Good Light,” they said.

“I know,” said Beast called Missy. They sat down and took their friend’s hand. It was cold. Neither of them said anything else for a while, and that was worse than if they had.

Then Beast called Missy got up and climbed the Steps.

“Vesna Kade,” said the Cat, before they could ask. “Eighty-one hands signed. More faces than that. Are you a painter?”

“No. I want to paint my friend. The one on the arcade bench.”

“A quick one holds nothing,” Vesna said. “A whole day holds. Can you sit a whole day?”

“Yes. How does it hold them, though? And why does it have to be a day? And is it true you ask for a key every morning?”

“A hand and a day,” Vesna said. “No questions about the key.” They chalked a name beside arcade bench and pointed down the Steps. “Juno. Squirrel, green scarf. Sit with Juno.”

At the crate, a Beast with paint in their eyebrows handed Beast called Missy the last decent brush and chalked their name on the lid. “Bring it back,” they said. “It’s the last good one we’ve got.”

Juno set up the easel in the arcade, looked at the mortar riding in the open suitcase, and raised an eyebrow. “Is that silky or chalky?”

Beast called Missy rubbed a pinch between finger and thumb. They honestly couldn’t tell. A rushed colour’s a spoiled one, Thessaly had said, and this colour had been rushed down half a town. If it was spoiled, it would be spoiling their friend’s one day of care. If they didn’t use it, the first thing they’d made here would sit in a jar and mean nothing.

Beast called Missy tipped in the oil and mixed it.

“For the cheeks,” they said. “Where the colour went.”

So they painted. Juno did the outline of it, quick and sure, and Beast called Missy did the warm parts, slowly, and in between they talked to their friend about everything: the jars with places for names, the Bull who’d held the gate, the toast with the thumb-hole, which they split three ways at noon. The Hum went on under the stones, tight and steady. At noon Vesna walked down the arcade counting hooks aloud. “Nine,” they said, and walked back up. More walkers came in off the road all afternoon and sat down on the Steps.

The newcomer didn’t talk much. But sometime after the shadows turned, they started watching the brush instead of the floor.

At dusk the streetlights came on all round the square, one after another. Across the way, Critique Hall’s doors stood propped open, but one had begun to swing in the wind off the road. Beast called Missy looked at the empty suitcase, then walked over and wedged the door wide with it, so anyone coming in off a dark stretch would see the light from the far end of the street.

When they got back, Juno was lifting the Likeness onto a hook. In the lamplight the cheeks looked warm. Or chalky. Beast called Missy still couldn’t tell, and they stood beside their friend’s bench and watched it.

At the edge of the square, under the last streetlight, Thessaly stood with the jar from the sill held in both hands, label still turned to their chest. They were watching the arcade. After a while they turned and went back toward the Mill without crossing over.