The email subject line read: *Proposed Program: “Cursed or Consecrated? Stories Objects Tell.”*
Halpern had added “cc: Programming; Education; Development” as if he were tossing a grenade into a crowded room and walking away whistling.
Isla stared at it, torn between horror and admiration.
She clicked it open.
_Reyes,_
_Claire Thompson at the Hammond floated this idea after your last visit. A joint public talk / panel on the ‘afterlives’ of medieval objects—how they acquire stories, how institutions handle claims of miracles/hauntings, etc. She suggested you co-present._
_The board likes it. The public program folks are salivating. Development thinks it could be a ‘fresh way to engage younger donors.’_
_Do you want it?_
_H._
Do I want to stand in front of a room and talk about cursed chalices while dragons and crack-things listen?
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
Maya would say yes in a heartbeat.
Leona would see it as strategic.
Sister Agnès would mutter about vanity and then help anyway.
Cael—
She couldn’t even begin to guess how he’d feel about humans turning his scars into lecture material.
She hit reply.
_I’ll do it,_ she typed, before she could overthink.
_When?_
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
Maya: *just heard about your cursed object TED talk. i call front row.*
Isla groaned.
How did rumors travel that fast?
She poked her head into Halpern’s office.
He looked up from a stack of paperwork.
“You said yes,” he said, as if it were a foregone conclusion.
“I said ‘when’,” she corrected. “Tentatively. Maybe.”
“Close enough,” he said. “Three weeks. Thursday night. We’ll do it in the small auditorium. Less pressure.”
“Less pressure,” she repeated faintly.
His mouth quirked.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You talk better than you think you do. People like hearing about your… obsessions.”
She huffed.
“You mean my rants about provenance,” she said.
“Among other things,” he said.
She hesitated.
“Do you think it’s… wise?” she asked. “To… spotlight… the weirdness. Now. While we’re still… figuring it out ourselves.”
He sighed.
“Wise?” he said. “Probably not. Necessary? Probably yes. The board wants to control the narrative. If we don’t tell a version of this story ourselves, someone else will. A sloppy one. With worse special effects.”
She thought of sensationalist headlines.
DRAGON IN THE BASEMENT!
CURATOR SUMMONS DEMON WITH ART HISTORY DEGREE!
“You think this will… inoculate us?” she asked. “ ‘We’re joking about curses, therefore we are in control of them.’”
His smile was wry.
“I think it gives us a platform,” he said. “To say, ‘Yes, these objects have power. Yes, people have told stories about them for centuries. Yes, institutions have mishandled that power. We’re trying to do better.’”
She bit her lip.
“I don’t know how to do better when the ground is literally unstable,” she said.
He shrugged.
“You stand anyway,” he said. “You talk anyway. You admit you don’t have all the answers. People respect that more than you’d think.”
Her throat tightened.
“Fine,” she said. “But Claire owes me a drink.”
“I’ll tell her,” he said.
As she turned to go, he added, “Reyes—”
She paused.
“You’re doing good work,” he said, gruff. “Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
Her eyes stung.
“Thanks,” she said.
***
Planning the talk became a weird refuge.
Compared to dragon politics and crack warding, arguing about slide order and font legibility was refreshingly mundane.
Claire came over for a planning session.
They sat in the staff lounge with laptops open, half-eaten muffins between them, and argued about whether to lead with the Hammond crown or the City Museum chalice.
“Crown,” Claire said. “Hook them with the shiny.”
“Chalice,” Isla said. “Start with smaller stakes. Build.”
Maya, who’d invited herself as “representative of the general public,” waved a muffin.
“Start with the story where someone almost died,” she said. “Millennials love trauma.”
“Absolutely not,” Isla said.
She compromised by opening with a less-lethal object.
A reliquary fragment with a long, convoluted history—traded, stolen, “miraculously” recovered, misattributed, re-attributed.
“Maybe we don’t say ‘cursed,’” Claire mused. “We say ‘contested.’”
“ ‘Cursed’ gets butts in seats,” Maya said.
“ ‘Contested’ keeps donors from emptying their seats,” Isla said.
They brainstormed titles.
_Miracle or Mislabel?_
_Stories in Stone and Silver._
_Cursed Objects and the People Who Love Them._
“Last one,” Maya said.
“Never,” Isla said.
They settled on: *Cursed or Consecrated? Stories Objects Tell.*
Leona sent a few suggestions of her own.
“Maybe don’t use my full name in the program,” she said dryly when Isla asked if she wanted to sit on the panel. “My bosses get twitchy when I talk too publicly about curses.”
“You have bosses?” Isla said. “I thought you *were* the boss.”
Leona’s mouth quirked.
“Everyone answers to someone,” she said.
Sister Agnès declined a panel spot.
“Too many microphones,” she said. “I’ll sit in the back and hiss if anyone says something theologically stupid.”
“That’s… comforting,” Isla said.
Cael listened to her practice her opening in the coal room.
“You’re talking to… humans,” he observed.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s the point.”
He smiled.
“For now,” he said.
She threw a balled-up gum wrapper at him.
He caught it effortlessly.
“Jerk,” she muttered.
“Liar,” he replied.
She paced.
“ ‘When we talk about cursed objects,’” she recited, “ ‘what are we really talking about? Objects don’t get up and walk away on their own—’”
“They do,” he cut in.
She glared.
“—but we tell stories about them that make them feel alive,” she went on firmly. “We project our fears, our desires, our guilt onto them. We say ‘this chalice is cursed’ when what we mean is ‘this chalice reminds us of things we’d rather forget.’”
He tilted his head.
“And dragons,” he said.
“What about dragons?” she asked.
“You will not mention them,” he said.
“That depends,” she said. “If someone asks about ‘dragons in medieval imagination,’ I can’t exactly say ‘no comment.’”
He frowned.
“I do not like… being imagined,” he said.
“You prefer being… real?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
She softened.
“I’ll be careful,” she said. “You’re not… my story to tell. Not all of you. Not yet.”
He studied her.
Satisfied.
“Good,” he said.
“You want to come?” she asked on impulse.
He blinked.
“To your… talk,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “In human form. In the back. No fire. No heckling.”
He huffed a laugh.
“I do not heckle,” he said.
“You *absolutely* heckle,” she said. “Just… in my head.”
He considered.
“I will… listen,” he said. “If the cracks are quiet.”
Her chest warmed.
“Okay,” she said.
Maya texted an hour later: *you inviting your tall problematic lizard to the cursed talk?*
Isla: *yes. and stop calling him a lizard.*
Maya: *jealous?*
Isla: *of the lizard joke?*
Maya: *of how much i want to climb him like a tree*
Isla: *MAYA*
Maya: *relax, i have standards. i’d ask for consent first.*
Isla threw her phone onto the couch and buried her face in a cushion.
Her life had turned into a very specific brand of farce.
***
The night of the talk, the small auditorium filled faster than Isla had expected.
Students.
Museum members.
Curious locals.
A smattering of older donors in tasteful scarves.
A group of Goth teenagers in varying degrees of black eyeliner and excitement.
Maya snagged a front-row seat and waved obnoxiously.
Tim stood at the back near the exit, arms folded, scanning the crowd.
Jay hovered by the AV booth, ready to pounce if the projector misbehaved.
Sister Agnès sat three-quarters of the way up, hands folded, eyes sharp.
Leona leaned against the side wall, half in shadow, tablet tucked away.
Isla stood backstage, heart hammering.
Claire squeezed her arm.
“It’s just a room,” she said. “Full of humans. Fragile. Curious. Probably at least half of them are here because of the flyer art.”
The flyer art featured a chalice with subtle question marks drifting off it.
Maya had complained that there should have been flames.
“Deep breaths,” Claire said.
“I cataloged a bloody sword this morning,” Isla said faintly. “This should be nothing.”
Claire smiled.
“Exactly,” she said. “You talk to swords. You can talk to people.”
The program coordinator poked her head in.
“Five minutes,” she whispered.
Isla wiped her palms on her skirt.
She pulled out her phone.
A text from Cael blinked on the screen.
*Cracks quiet. I will listen. Do not fall.*
Her lips curved.
*I’ll try,* she typed back.
She glanced into the dim auditorium.
Caught sight of a familiar silhouette at the very back.
Barely visible.
Leaning against the wall.
Watching.
Her heart steadied.
She stepped out onto the stage.
The lights weren’t as blinding as she’d feared.
Faces blurred at the edges.
Resolve sharpened in the center.
“Good evening,” she began, voice only a little shaky. “Welcome to ‘Cursed or Consecrated: Stories Objects Tell.’”
A ripple of chuckles at the title.
She exhaled.
“This is not going to be a ghost tour,” she said. “Sorry.”
More laughter.
Good.
“We’re not here to confirm or deny that your great-aunt’s rosary makes the lights flicker,” she went on. “We’re here to talk about why we tell those stories. Why certain objects feel… charged. Why institutions like this one have to grapple with the weight of those stories when we put things behind glass.”
She clicked the remote.
The first slide appeared behind her.
A reliquary fragment.
Gilded.
Delicate.
“Meet Object 274.16.1,” she said. “Fragment of a reliquary shrine. French. Fourteenth century. Donated in 1916 by a gentleman who told us it had saved his grandfather from a lightning strike. Twice.”
She let the murmur ripple.
“Do I believe that?” she asked. “Not literally. But I believe the grandfather believed it. I believe he held this thing when the sky cracked and felt less alone. I believe that story stuck to the metal as surely as the tarnish. And when we took it into our care, we took the story too.”
She talked.
About Schmiedler.
About stolen saints.
About objects that had seen too much.
About the language people used—blessed, cursed, haunted—and what it revealed.
Claire talked about the Hammond crown.
About donors who wanted miracles.
About visitors who asked if taking selfies with relics was sacrilegious.
Maya nodded vigorously at that.
Leona, from the shadows, watched everything.
At the Q&A, the questions ranged from thoughtful to absurd.
“Have you ever seen anything actually… move?” a teenager in a Misfits shirt asked, eyes wide.
“Once,” Isla said before she could censor herself. “In grad school. A statue… rocked. Just a little. Enough to make me drop my notes.”
The room leaned in.
“What did you do?” someone else asked.
“Took notes anyway,” she said. “And then made a note to check the nearby subway schedule.”
Laughter.
“What do you *personally* believe?” an older woman in pearls asked. “Do you think objects can… hold… something?”
The room hushed.
Isla glanced at Claire.
At Sister Agnès.
At Tim.
At the shadow that was Cael.
“At minimum,” she said slowly, “I believe objects hold us. Our fingerprints. Our breath. Our intentions. If enough people for enough time tell a thing, ‘you are sacred’ or ‘you are dangerous’ or ‘you saved my grandfather,’ that… matters. It shapes how we interact with it. How we care for it. How we pass it on.”
She paused.
“I also believe,” she added, “that there are… forces… we don’t fully understand. That sometimes floors shake for no good reason. That sometimes candles go out when they shouldn’t. That sometimes people feel things in their bones they can’t explain. I don’t think it’s my job to tell them they’re wrong. I think it’s my job to listen. And to make sure that in our listening, we don’t do more harm.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, applause.
Not thunderous.
Steady.
Claire bumped her shoulder as they bowed.
“You killed it,” she murmured.
“I didn’t even mention dragons,” Isla whispered back.
“Progress,” Claire said.
Afterward, in the milling crowd, donors came up to shake her hand.
Students asked for reading lists.
One teenage girl with purple hair and chipped black nail polish hovered until everyone else had drifted away.
“Dr. Reyes?” she said.
“Yes?” Isla said, bracing for either conspiracy theory or internship ask.
“I just wanted to say…” the girl looked down at her boots. “Sometimes when I’m in the medieval gallery, it feels… easier to breathe. Even when everything else is… hard. Like… the saints get it? Hearing you talk about listening to them made me feel… less crazy.”
Emotion punched Isla in the chest.
“You’re not crazy,” she said softly. “The saints have seen some shit. They’re good listeners.”
The girl laughed, watery.
“Thanks,” she said. “For… saying it out loud.”
She melted back into the crowd.
Maya swooped in.
“You were *amazing,*” she declared. “I laughed, I cried, I considered dedicating my life to artifact preservation.”
“You already come in and yell at my bosses,” Isla said. “You’re halfway there.”
Tim appeared at her elbow.
“Proud of you,” he said.
Her cheeks warmed.
“Stop,” she said. “You’re going to make me cry in front of donors.”
He squeezed her arm.
Leona drifted closer.
“Good balance,” she said. “You told enough truth to be useful without setting off any fire alarms.”
“High praise,” Isla said.
Sister Agnès gave her a firm nod.
“God can work with that,” she said. “So can stone.”
When the room finally emptied, and the staff started folding up chairs, Isla slipped to the back of the auditorium.
Cael waited where she’d seen him.
Half in shadow.
Hands in his pockets.
Expression unreadable.
“Well?” she asked, heart doing that stupid skittering thing.
He stepped closer.
“You made me… visible,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“I didn’t say—” she began.
“You spoke of things that… crack,” he said. “Of forces you do not name but do not deny. Of… listening. That is more visibility than my kind have had in centuries.”
She relaxed a fraction.
“You’re not… mad,” she said.
He shook his head.
“I am… impressed,” he said.
Heat rose in her face.
“You’re biased,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
He lifted a hand.
Hesitated.
“Consent?” he asked, for the second time that day.
Her chest tightened.
“Yes,” she said.
He cupped her cheek.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw.
“You were… beautiful,” he said.
“Stop,” she said, voice shaky.
He smiled.
“Never,” he said.
Behind them, on the stage, the reliquary fragment on the slide glinted.
In the coal room below, the hoard purred.
The crack-thing sulked.
For now.
Always, for now.
But for this moment, in this room, under these lights, with these people, Isla felt… enough.
Seen.
Heard.
Held.
By humans.
By saints.
By a dragon.
By the objects she’d given her life to.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
It was hers.
***
End of Chapter 27.
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