CHAPTER SEVEN #2
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls of the large room, all stuffed with thousands of books.
More than anyone could possibly read in their lifetime.
In the center, a patchwork quilt of mismatched rugs sat beneath multiple overstuffed leather sofas and chairs.
The high ceilings were adorned with intricately carved molding, surrounding another chandelier, this one unlit.
The greatest poets could only be so lucky to find themselves in a place such as this, and somehow, a man like me had managed to stumble inside.
“Whoa,” I whispered beneath my breath, reaching out to slide one of the ancient books from the nearest shelf, wishing I could feel its leather-bound spine against my skin.
The space reminded me of a moment long ago, when Anna and I had gone to the library one day after I picked her up from her elementary school. That memory was brought even more to life when I looked across the large room from where I stood to see a picture window with an upholstered seat built in.
But the window seat I remembered was small, whereas this one was huge, the size of a bed, and I thought, There would’ve been plenty of room for both of us on this one.
Sheer curtains framed the seat, illuminated only by the light coming in from outside, and in the gloom, I imagined a young girl sitting on the seat with a stuffed bunny in her arms, her black hair falling over her shoulders as she bent down to read the pages of her ballerina book.
“What’s that?” I remembered her asking, looking over at the book in my hand, opened to the page about historical plague doctors.
It’s me, I imagined saying now, over two decades later. I’m that doctor now, Anna. But I still can’t do a thing about the sickness that infected the man who hurt you.
And how cruel was it that I’d been able to save us all from every other person who hurt us … but I couldn’t do a damn thing about him?
I hung my head and gave it a quick shake, casting aside a girl who didn’t matter now, nor would she ever again. I couldn’t focus on the past when I had to find Gerald … unless I found Leonard first, and with determination, I turned to leave this space and move on to the next.
But something caught my eye, stalling my exit, and I turned again to catch the movement of long black hair between the curtains surrounding the window seat.
I froze on the spot as a girl—no, a woman—came into view.
The room was so dark that I hadn’t noticed her at first, and for just one second, I thought I’d imagined her to life.
Anna! I wanted to call out just to see if she’d respond.
But before I could say anything ridiculous to this random stranger, she asked, “Are you a fan of Robert Louis Stevenson?”
For a moment, I questioned if she was talking to me at all, and I glanced behind me in case we weren’t alone. But we were—there was no one else here—and so I took a step toward her and cocked my head.
“What?”
She nudged her head toward the book in my hand, the one I’d nearly forgotten, and said, “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Are you a fan?”
“Oh,” I replied, keeping my voice hushed, gruff, and—I hoped—disguised, as I lifted the book and finally took a peek at the cover. “Actually, I’ve never read it.”
I knew the basic premise vaguely enough. A respected doctor by the name of Jekyll with his sinister alter ego, Mr. Hyde. I couldn’t tell you much more than that though.
And as I turned it over to study the intricate etchings in the leather, the woman on the window seat said, “It’s a good one. You should read it sometime.”
With a nod, I slid it back onto a nearby shelf and said, “Maybe I should.”
“Personally, as far as the classics go, I’m much more a fan of Jane Eyre.”
“I can’t say I’ve read that one either,” I admitted, my eyes transfixed on the window seat and her illustrious form.
She acknowledged me with a thoughtful humming sound. “Not a reader or just not a fan of the classics?”
I shrugged nonchalantly, raising my eyes to the tallest shelf for the briefest moment, but not caring much to turn away from her.
“I like reading,” I told her, keeping my responses brief out of habit and self-preservation.
But what was this strange feeling inside me, telling my body to move closer and urging my mouth to talk longer?
“Well, since you snuck in here like you were trying to run away from something, I’m going to assume you’re not a fan of crowds.”
I found myself smiling, and that was also strange.
“No, not really,” I replied.
I approached her slowly, almost apprehensively, like she could’ve been a wild animal.
Small and sweet by appearances alone, but unpredictable and deadly all the same.
By the light of the moon streaming in through the large window, I saw she was wearing a long black gown, her feet hidden and tucked beneath her on the seat.
Her hair matched the dress—sleek and a deep onyx in the lack of light, the color of raven’s wings.
Her alabaster skin glowed like ethereal twilight, her dark eyes sparkling in the shadows, and all at once, I was aware, as if for the first time, that I possessed a heart, as that thumping, bleeding organ took off at tremendous speed.
Wow, was the only word I could manage to think of at the sight of someone too beautiful to be in the presence of someone like me.
She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. An aurora borealis against a cold, dark winter sky.
I’m staring. I need to stop staring.
I steered my gaze toward the window to look out over the expansive grounds, lit by expertly placed lighting to give the illusion that it wasn’t a backyard but instead a painting.
And though it was stunning, more so than any garden I’d ever seen, it couldn’t hold a candle to this woman sitting before me in this treasure trove of darkness and literature.
“Neither am I,” she replied, and I had to quickly remember what it was she had said to me in the first place. “Honestly, I hate parties altogether. You’d think I’d be used to them by now, but …” She let her voice trail off as she turned her attention back toward the window.
I swallowed and dipped my hands into my pockets. “There are so many people out there; I doubt anyone would notice if you left,” I said in that same low, gravelly tone.
I felt stupid. It was odd and unnatural to speak in that voice.
Something told me I could trust her, and I wanted to trust her, even though I’d only just made her acquaintance.
But that didn’t change the fact that she was here at my father’s birthday party, and I didn’t know my father to associate with anyone good by nature—and I supposed that included me.
“Oh, believe me, they would,” she murmured. I could make out her reflection just enough to witness her eyes drop as a forlorn silence fell over the space. “I’m actually surprised nobody has come in here yet, looking for me.”
I remained standing, looming over her with my hands in my pockets.
Being in her proximity had cast a spell over me, causing me to forget every reason for my snooping.
Gerald, Leonard, reasons for the invitation …
yet all I wanted in this moment was to be here with her—and I hadn’t even had the pleasure of smelling her hair or touching her skin.
I didn’t even know her name. But being in her vicinity seemed like enough.
Somehow, it felt like all I deserved. To be near her and nothing more.
“Did Gerry invite you?” she asked, still facing the yard.
Gerry.
My eyes narrowed with suspicion beneath the mask’s cover.
She meant my father, of course. But I’d only ever known him as Gerald.
I had never heard a single person refer to him as Gerry in my life.
It felt too casual, like she knew him intimately, and the possible depths of that intimacy ignited a red-hot, jealous, sickening rage in my gut.
“Yes,” I replied, keeping it simple.
She turned from the window to appraise me then. I wished there were more light in this room. I wished her face weren’t heavily shadowed, while the outline of her form was illuminated by the outdoor lighting, reminding me of someone far holier than I ever could be.
“What are you supposed to be?” she asked after a moment, hesitation in her voice.
She couldn’t see it, but I smirked at what I could make out of her confused expression. There was a hint of familiarity in the quirk of her lips and the furrow of her brow, and I found it endearing.
What is your name? I wanted to ask. And how would it sound next to mine?
“You’ve never seen a plague doctor before?”
“Oh, I know what a plague doctor is,” she replied, her voice lilting on the edge of flirtation, “but I thought they wore robes and hats. Not … three-piece suits and … hoods.”
“I couldn’t do much about the hood. It came with the mask,” I explained, holding in a chuckle. “But the suit is personal preference.”
I wished I could see her eyes better as they danced over the place where my face was. My heart skipped several beats; my nerves buzzed with electric life.
Is this how Shawn felt when he met Shelby? I wondered stupidly. Did he feel lucky just to be alive at the same moment as her? Did he relish in sharing the same air?
“What do you like about wearing a suit?” she asked.
I took another step toward her and pulled one hand from my pocket to rest my forearm against the crown molding bordering the window seat, leaning toward her in a casual stance.
I could see more of her now, and it took every bit of self-control to keep my lungs steady when all I wanted was to gasp and die at her feet, breathless and robbed of air.
Never before had I desired the attention of a woman, yet it felt like a sin to have been given the opportunity, and all my mind could focus on was how unworthy I was.
“People respect a suit,” I said.