Sarto The Last Supper

Sarto The Last SupperSarto Disputation over the TrinityBeardsley Aubrey BeardsleySarto The Annunciation
570] He had been in his hideaway less than two minutes, listening to his heart mimic runaway horses, when he heard something other than the stampede in his chest. Footsteps. Ascending to the gazebo.More likely than not, it was Mr. Truman, looking for him. Mr. Truman. Not Moloch. Not a child-eating beast with baby bones in its teeth. Just Mr. Truman.On a tour, the would be a bad time for an asthma attack.Fric almost screamed out loud at himself for being so stupid as to think such a stupid thought at a dangerous time like this. Stupid, stupid, stupid.Only in movies did the asthmatic kid or the diabetic kid, or the epileptic kid, suffer a seizure at the worst of all possible moments. Only in movies, not in real life. This
at least something that passed for it.footsteps circled the platform, first moving toward the concealed panel, then away. But then toward it again.Fric held his breath.The footsteps halted. The tongue-and-groove planks creaked overhead as the man above shifted his weight.Fric silently poured out the staleness in his lungs, silently eased fresh air in, and held this breath, as well.The creaking stopped and was followed by subtle sounds: a faint brushing, a soft scrape, a click.Now