Chapter 17
And I do just that. When we return to the gallery–in Brian’s car rather than Arthur’s–1 go in the back entrance.
they’ll keep 1 explain the situation to the gallery staff, who, to my surprise, all express their understanding. They assure me that the my identity confidential, which I appreciate more than they realize. One of the staff even helps me adjust the lighting so that my face is harder to make out
wing the seminar.
By the time I step out onto the stage, the crowd is none the wiser. It seems they’ve come to the conclusion that the artist “Flora” is not the same person as the woman from the pictures, and the woman who was here before.
I’m safe. For now, at least. I just need to get through the remainder of this trip and return to Bo’Arrocan, to Miles, before anything else happens.
With that, I begin my talk, pulling up the slides I prepared. My collection for this show is a series of portraits depicting humans and wolves intertwining. It’s meant to represent bridging the gap between humans and werewolves, baring ourselves in our most primal states–humans in the nude, werewolves in their wolf forms.
The star piece, which comes up on the second to last slide, portrays a nude human woman embracing a wolf pup. The pup is cradled in her arms like a baby, and is suckling from her breast.
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It elicits a few gasps and murmurs, which makes me smile. This is the reaction to this piece that I was intending; shock, intrigue,
and maybe even a hint of disgust.
“Perhaps some of you are offended by this piece, titled ‘Wet Nurse‘,” I say as I pace the small stage.
“Perhaps your first instinct is to believe that this human woman is committing a sin by feeding her breast milk to a wolf pup. Perhaps others believe that the human woman is nothing more than, as the title of the painting implies, a wet nurse for the
werewolf’s child.”
The crowd murmurs, a few nodding in agreement.
“But,” I continue, “that is not so. This pup is the human woman’s child–the product of a human and a werewolf. And I hope you can look at this piece and see it for what I see: something beautiful and natural. A woman caring for her child.
“The child is no different from her in her eyes, and the mother is no different in the child’s eyes. The child is the flesh of her
flesh, the blood of her blood. The mother is the child’s source of life, the hand that feeds, the womb that carried him. Notice how
he does not bite at her breast with his fangs, but rather suckles calmly. They fully trust one another.”
When I’m finished speaking, the room is momentarily silent before I allow questions. A woman’s hand shoots up at the front, and
I call on her. I almost wish I hadn’t.
“Given the nature of your collection, do you have any thoughts on the recent scandal involving the Alpha President and his human fated mate? Do you think it’s immoral for her to get involved with the Alpha President when he’s already engaged to a
werewolf?”
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+20 Bonus
I suppress a groan. Of course this would come up..
But I manage a smile and say, “I believe that the woman in question may be a victim of a discriminatory culture. Perhaps, instead of scrutinizing the woman’s choices, we should focus on the root cause of the issue.”
The reporter tilts her head. “Can you please clarify what you mean by the ‘root cause“?”
“Well,” I say, “it’s no secret that equality between humans and werewolves has long been a point of contention. Perhaps issues like that of the Alpha President and his alleged fated mate wouldn’t come up if we weren’t living in a society that subscribes to such an antiquated social hierarchy.”
“Do you believe that the Alpha President also views humans as lesser?” another reporter abruptly cuts in. “And that it is his inaction as a leader that has stagnated our social progress?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Yes,” I reply firmly, my lip curling bitterly. “Yes, I do believe that.”
The crowd murmurs, reporters jotting down notes and audience members glancing at one another. But they’re not disagreeing
with me. Not yet, anyway.
After the seminar, I’m leaving the gallery when the curator suddenly runs up to me. “Iris,” she says, grabbing my arm with a
grin. “That was fantastic.”
I blush a little. “I hope my statement at the end wasn’t too inflammatory,”
You’re
The curator shakes her head firmly. “No. If anything, we’re all impressed by your boldness, coing to make some big
