Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
As the sprinkle of rain threatened to rev up to a late spring downpour, Tom and I increased our pace.
"I can't believe it's been almost a whole year." I sighed.
"It seems like yesterday," he replied.
"And forever. In a good way."
"Aye."
Tom had just asked me what I'd like to do for our one-year anniversary. It was still a couple months away, but time flew so quickly and he didn't want the date to pass by without planning something special.
"I don't know," I said. "Something quiet would work just fine."
"Well, I don't disagree, but I think I'd like to mark the occasion with something less quiet."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. I'm thinking. Let me know if something comes to you, something you'd really like to do, a place you'd like to see."
"Surprise me," I said.
"Aye?" he said doubtfully. "Sure. Why not?"
"I'm a wee bit clueless when it comes to such things. I would hate to disappoint you."
I laughed. "Not possible."
"I guess we'll see." He slowed his steps, so I did too. "I think we're here."
The rain wasn't going to cease anytime soon, so we hurried down the close and counted doors.
We looked up at the building, at its medieval architecture, something I'd become used to seeing all around Edinburgh. "I guess this is it?"
"I think so."
We looked back at the door we'd stopped in front of. "It's not much to go on, but it seems to fit," I said.
The majority of the Hidden Door Festival was being held in an old, much larger, long unused building on Dalkeith Road. But this event was a special, invitation-only offsite experience. The "auxiliary annex," as it was described in the festival's program, belonged to artist Ryory Bennigan, and I had been intrigued since first reading about it.
Ryory, an elusive man who was often discussed amid Edinburgh artist circles—well, lots of different Edinburgh circles—didn't like to show his work. While that might seem counterintuitive, Ryory himself had explained—
I admit that I am compulsive and have enough money not to care what anyone thinks about my life's obsession. I shall continue to immerse myself in my art, which is, frankly, where I live, not what I do.
His mysterious ways, along with how he used his body as a canvas, had been the building blocks of his reputation as a local celebrity, more than just an elusive man rarely seen in public. No one really knew where his money came from, and his ancestry was frequently the subject of speculation. Even my boss, the well-connected Edwin MacAlister, didn't know much about Ryory's history, and he was keyed in to almost everyone in Scotland, especially in Edinburgh. He made the history of the place he loved, as well as its people, his business.
When Ryory was spotted walking the streets of the city, maybe once or twice a year, cameras couldn't be opened fast enough. Pictures tagged with #ryorybennigan quickly became viral, unbeknownst to him because he was, as he claimed, "not a user of social media." Everyone wanted to see what Ryory looked like now—how he'd changed. Could they spot the differences?
The Hidden Door Festival was a yearly pop-up artistic event, always held in a place that had been left empty for whatever reason. Much of the event was musical, giving local singers and bands opportunities to introduce their music. Some of the festival was literary, filled with essayists and poets; some were exhibits—paintings, sculptures, any sort of artistic creation, really.
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