Atlas
THE WATER SMACKS AGAINST the sharp rocks below, and I watch in fascination. The white crest of each wave promises a pain I am wholly unfamiliar with, and the smell of salt in the cold air is harsh and unrelenting.
But the sound: it calms me. My fingertips have long since numbed, and my teeth shatter in the early November air. It’s better out here.
Out here, nothing can touch me. And not only can nothing touch me, but I cannot enjoy the wrongness of being touched.
“Then they should really install a gate,” I counter, turning around to face him.
Atticus is dressed impeccably, just as he always is. A carbon copy of our father, forever readying himself to take over Chastain Castle and all of its riches.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Atticus stops as he reaches my side, looking me up and down. “You’d be warmer if you stopped wearing all of these sheer garments.”
Where Atticus took after our father, I quite enjoy taking after our mother. I like soft, delicate things and looking pretty. I do not crave exerting masculinity or dominating a room the way the other men in this estate do.
I want to be cherished, caressed, and adored.
“But I look so pretty this way,” I say.
Atticus’s normally stern, grumpy expression fades into one of soft admiration.
“Yes, darling Atlas, there is a reason Mother favors you.” His cold hand raises to gently touch my cheek.
No warmth seeps into me, not in this cold morning air, but his brotherly affection does. And it’s nice.
“What are you doing out here? Have you been sent to fetch me?” I ask him as I lean into his touch just slightly.
“No, not to fetch you,” he responds, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone affectionately. “To check on you. Are things… are you overwhelmed?”
I know what he’s referring to. He’s the only one to whom I tell in such great detail when I become overwhelmed with my… condition.
Atticus appears unconcerned and uninterested to most people, but he is ever the doting brother. Whether it’s in relation to our little sister or to me, he is nothing if not protective and involved.
“No,” I tell him honestly, even as I wish I were. “I’m waiting.”
He nods, turning his hazel eyes in the direction of the Pacific Ocean as it turns violently below us.
“If I could fix this for you, if it could be me, I would do it,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves and the wind.
I know this; he tells me all the time. He can’t help himself, as if I must be reminded in fear of the small chance that I forget that he loves me.
“Atticus,” I start, and his eyes leave the ocean to meet mine. “Everything will be fine. I can handle it.”
“Oh, Atty,” he murmurs, sliding the hand on my cheek back and into my hair, where the curls wind around his long fingers.
“None of that,” I interrupt, hating the pity in his eyes. “Let’s go play with Abigail, hm?”
At this, Atticus’s hand falls away, and his face hardens.
“She’s with that attendee.”
My brother is not fond of new faces or outsiders who try to get too close to our family. I assume it’s mostly because of my condition, as he wasn’t like this prior to my eighteenth birthday, but I also think his increasing protective streak plays a role.
I, on the other hand, am very interested in this new attendee. In his jet-black hair and dark brown eyes. He’s incredibly handsome with his thick muscles, sharp jawline, and his Greek-like nose.
“Oscar told me you shook his hand,” Atticus continues, giving me a pointed look.
“And?” I counter in disinterest, not willing to hear his griping.
He speaks anyway. “You know better, Atty. That man doesn’t know us, and you certainly can’t trust him.”
“It’s not that serious, big brother.”
“But it is. What if he’d noticed something was off? What if he gets curious and violates your privacy? If he were to see you in such a compromising position, I think I’d—” he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath.
“It’s fine,” I repeat with emphasis, watching the war raging in his eyes slowly soften the longer he stares at me. “I’ll be careful.”
Only I haven’t been. Not really. When I shook his hand, the attendee, Julian, noticed something was off almost immediately. He felt the heat in my body, the burning sensation that transfers from me and into others every time they touch my skin.
I believe that if I were to let him in, even just a bit, he would dissect me and my condition in a matter of moments.
But… would that really be so bad?
“I can see it in your eyes, darling,” Atticus states. “And the answer is no. He is not to be trusted.”
With a defeated sigh, I nod, and my brother gives me a soft, loving smile.
“I’m going in,” I say, wrapping my arms over my chest. “The chill is getting to me now.”
“Sure, go get some tea. I’ll come see you after I meet with Father.” Atticus pats my shoulder before we both begin the trek inside.
We take the main staircase, both of us choosing the east extension to reach the second story, even as both sides put us on the landing.
But Atticus is heading to Hall E4 to enter our father’s study, and as I hear the sound of the grand piano, I decide to sneak into the music room in Hall E3.
Abigail isn’t the only Chastain who plays, but she is the most frequent to do so, and Atticus said Julian was with her.
I pretend to head toward Hall W4, only doubling back once Atticus turns the corner toward the study and is no longer in my line of sight.
The soft melody of the keys escapes from under the large oak doors, and from underneath the sound, I can hear soft speaking.
“Do you like this one, Julian?” I hear my sister ask.
“It’s beautiful, Missus Abigail,” a deep, warm voice responds.
His voice. It sends shivers down my spine.
I open one of the doors quietly, slipping inside.
Julian is across the room, my eyes instantly finding him, and I watch for a moment as he dusts the mantle of the fireplace in the far right corner.
“Atlas!” Abigail shouts, and I turn to face forward, watching as she twists on the bench of the grand piano to face me.
“Good morning, my star,” I greet her, approaching the bench to lay a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re wearing your favorite dress.”
I know Abigail well—in fact, all of the family knows each other well. We’re very close.
“Julian picked it out,” she says, beaming up at me.
My eyes lift and return to the other side of the room, where Julian stands, staring at me.
“Did he?” I ask her, my eyes never leaving his.
“Yep! Then he told me he can tell we’re related, that he never thought I was adopted!”
I can’t help it—my little smile shifts into a wide grin at her words.
Our last attendee, the one who was fired, told my little sister that she was adopted, or the daughter of adultery, because of her bright blonde hair and vivid green eyes. In reality, she looks exactly like our paternal grandfather, and my parents have never cheated on one another.
Needless to say, that woman was fired faster than Atticus could open his mouth to curse at her. And now Julian is here as her replacement, and he seems to be… nice.
“Well, of course,” I say, turning back to my sister. “You look just like me.”
Abigail cackles, throwing her arms around me as she stands up on the bench. “No, I don’t, Atty. But I’m gentle like you.”
I raise a brow, tickling her sides. “Gentle, huh?”
“That’s what Julie said.” She shoves my hands away as she responds, giggling wildly.
“Julian said that I’m gentle?” My eyes flicker back to his, and he turns away abruptly, a blush coating his sharp features.
“Yep, and brave like Papa.”
I nod sincerely. “Yes, that is true. You are very brave.”
Abigail’s room is closest to the entrance of the west tower, and not once has she been frightened. Not that she truly understands what is happening.
“Julian,” Abigail says, jumping down from the bench and skipping over to him. He kneels before her, all of his attention focused on her sweet face. “Must you keep cleaning? Can’t we play a game?”
“Uh,” he starts, glancing at the feather duster in his hand. “I think Mr. Oscar would be sad if I didn’t finish my work, little miss. What if we played after dinner?”
Abigail agrees politely; she was always taught not to beg. And with that confirmation, she pats his cheek and runs out the door and off to do god knows what.
That leaves the two of us in the music room, which is feeling smaller by the second. Julian slowly rises to his feet, and he clears his throat.
“Young Master Atlas,” he says. “I’m sorry; I’ve yet to check on you; your sister has kept me busy. Is there any attending you need?”
I can think of some ‘attending’ I need.
But I don’t say that; instead, I shake my head softly.
“No, thank you. I can dress myself,” I joke.
Julian flushes red once again, his head bobbing furiously. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“For what?”
He seems startled by my question, and he looks around nervously. “Uh, I’m not sure. It just felt right to say.”
“Well, I’ll let you clean,” I say, releasing him from the awkward tension brewing between us.
His body relaxes as he smiles gently. “Thank you.”
“I’ll call for you,” I add. “The next time I need help getting dressed, I mean.”
With his face flaming once more, I leave the music room, an unbearable heat burning in the pit of my stomach.
Maybe Atticus was right; having Julian here might not be a good thing. It seems my symptoms are acting up again.
“Darling,” my mother’s sweet voice calls to me. “Come sit, yes?”
I pause in the hallway, the door of the drawing room open wide, revealing where she sits on the chaise in the center of the room.
“Hello, Momma,” I greet, sitting next to where her feet are pulled up and tucked under herself, her silky black dress clinging to her frame beautifully.
She reaches out and touches my blouse, and I realize that since I hung my coat when I re-entered the estate earlier, I’ve been walking around in this pink, sheer top in front of Julian.
What did he think of that?
“My pretty boy, how are you?” she pries, her soft blue eyes staring at me with admiration.
“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”