Chapter 9
Phaedra walked along the narrow gallery, her hand trailing on the smooth, ornately carved railing, her eyes captured not by the abundance of shelves lining the walls around her, but the row of tall, iron-latticed windows pouring gray light into the room.
She had felt their pull the moment she had entered the library, calling her attention away from the treasure within, as if what they would reveal were much more ephemeral, something to be witnessed only while the feeble rays of day would allow it.
She peered through the pearls of moisture clinging to the cold glass, and was met with darkness. Mist clung to the caved in remains of the west wing, its pale tendrils curling around the jagged frame like an echo of the smoke that had once crowned its demise.
Phaedra knew it unkind to linger, to stay and watch, imagining the horrors that had brought about the tragedy. Yet she could not move, her whole being transfixed by this fragile display of loss and sorrow.
So much had perished there. So much that never had the chance to bloom, to grow into the things they were meant to be. And the ache of this stolen potential was somehow worse than the sudden ending of what had already been.
She drew in a breath, and turned away from the window, pulling her darkening thoughts from the depths they so eagerly yearned to descend into.
She followed the curve of the gallery, her fingers brushing against the neatly lined spines on the shelves, her gaze catching on ornate designs weaving over the rich leather bindings.
Again within her control, her heart slowed in awe at the exquisite collection around her.
The library was vast, speaking loudly of the family’s fortune, and, noting the many titles in languages Phaedra couldn’t even guess at, to the extensive travels of the late Bartholomew Hawthorn.
She wondered where he had procured them from, wondered what other marvels lay hidden in other rooms of the house. And what unfortunate pieces had been proudly displayed in the west wing, only to fall victim to the fire—to be lost forever.
Phaedra frowned at this renewed grim turn of her thoughts, and peered over her shoulder at the tall windows. The wreckage outside was now hidden from view, but she could still feel it there, just beyond the wall, like some great hunkering beast drawing every thought into its orbit.
With a sudden urge to prove this gloomy theory wrong, she shot out her hand, seizing a small book on the shelf beside her.
She pulled it down and turned it over between her fingers, noting the crumbling lines of a gilded lily on the front, its petals open below the embellished title faded to illegibility.
The cover was worn, speaking of frequent perusal, the soft pages opening, as if marked, to a clear location—a poem titled “Captivation of You”.
Phaedra cocked her head, the title familiar in the way of old memories pulling at the frayed edges of consciousness. As if she would know it, but not how or from when. As if she could hear the voice reciting the lines, but could not recognize who the voice belonged to.
She flipped back to the beginning of the book, searching for its title and author, hoping that either would give her a clue.
Henri Desiderre - Cupiditas
Neither did. But it seemed to be a collection of love poems, and on its first page a dedication.
To my beloved Mariana,
may your heart always open to mine,
for only within you, I am whole.
Bartholomew
Phaedra stared at the words, the image of past lovers coming alive within them.
It almost felt as if they had never truly ceased to exist but merely slumbered, waiting for someone to invoke this incantation—this testimony to their love—that it might bring them back to life.
She could almost hear the words rushing out on a heated whisper, breath cascading onto flushed skin as lips descended to drink in the ragged gasp of surrender.
The door of the library creaked open, and Phaedra sucked in a breath, snapping the book shut. She quickly pushed it back into its place, her body stiff, her mind battling with the shameful sense of voyeurism forced upon it.
She peered over the railing just as Nathaniel walked in. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Mercer. I—” He halted, looking about the room.
“I’m here,” she called, the steadiness in her voice feigned.
He looked up, his pale brows smoothing, and a smile curled into the corner of his lips.
And as her eyes fell lost to the pursuit of its slow curve, she saw it.
The danger beneath its charm. The subtle edge honed just fine enough to make it cut.
And, under the right circumstances, she knew the blood it could draw would be more than she would be prepared to lose.
“Anything to your liking?” he asked, cocking his head.
“I…” She knew there could be no hidden meaning behind those words, no possible way he could deduce the turn of her thoughts, yet it took all her power to stay the flush threatening to ignite in her cheeks.
“Your collection,” she managed to force out. “It is marvelous.”
“It was my father’s,” he said, his smile slipping, and Phaedra felt a sudden sense of alleviation, as if some invisible chain had been let fall from around her chest.
“Of course,” she said.
“Come, have a seat.” He motioned to the space below her.
She pulled back, collecting the sketchbook and box of charcoals she had previously deposited on a side table, then descended the stairs with quick steps.
A fireplace stood hidden beneath the shadow of the gallery, one she had spared no notice of when she had entered.
Two curtained windows stood on each side, and Nathaniel moved to pull the heavy drapes open, allowing the bleak afternoon light to spill onto the two plush chairs standing before the hearth.
And onto the section of wall above the empty mantel, stripped bare of shelves and frames to display a small yet wondrous piece of that ethereal wallpaper.
Phaedra sank into a chair, her fingers numb to the velvet touch of its cushioned armrest, her eyes fused to the undulating pattern on the wall.
The green was so rich, so deep in this light, she felt like she could fall into it.
Drown in it. It made her ache with a longing she could not immediately place, the fractured shards of a memory shuddering with every thump of her heart, heavy against her ribs.
A hollow yearning for something she might once had thought possible, something fate had dangled in front of her eyes only to rip away, leaving her bare, broken, and alone.
Needles prickled over her skin as her eyes shifted to Nathaniel, the light coming from behind him blurring the lines of his form, making him look so much like the man who had gifted such a cherished book to the woman he had loved.
She wondered if he would be different. Wondered what it would be like to hear those words in his voice, to feel the warmth of his breath on—
“Are you well, Miss Mercer?”
Phaedra blinked, the features of the young man before her finally solidifying. Yet for a moment, she could not speak, the feeling of the world tipping on its axis braiding her thoughts with glaring vertigo.
His brow creased, and he turned, following her gaze that had involuntarily shifted to the window behind him. There, in its corner, a fragment of the wreckage peeked through, its blurry darkness swallowing up the meager light around it.
“Oh,” he said. “I see. It is not an easy sight.”
Phaedra shook her head, not knowing if it was to acknowledge his words or to mean her thoughts had been entirely elsewhere… Only to be dragged back once again under the shadow of the tragedy.
“If you would prefer, we can move to another—”
“No!” she exclaimed, her eyes shooting to his, then balked at the urgency—the panic—in her own voice, at the way her whole body tensed at what was nothing but a polite proposal.
She pulled in a breath, commanding calm into her obviously fraying nerves.
Then with what she hoped was a more collected tone, she said, “No. Here is fine.”
“Very well.”
If Nathaniel had been surprised by her strange outburst, he did not show it. He sat into the chair opposite her, and motioned toward the supplies gripped in her hand. “Thank you for indulging me.”
Phaedra looked down into her lap as if she had forgotten what was there. “Oh. Of course.”
She forced her fingers to loosen on the items, then took a pencil out of the box, and deposited the rest on the low table between them.
She sat back into the chair, the soft closeness of its cushions easing the stiffness in her muscles, and she let out a slow breath before finally raising her eyes to Nathaniel.
He watched her with a curious expression, then said, “Before we begin, I wish to assure you that I do not have any expectations regarding your sketch. Whatever you are drawn to depict, I shall leave up to you. Even if it somehow feels irrelevant to what I am reading, please do not hesitate to put it to paper. And you do not need to show me the sketch once we are finished. All I ask is that in the end, you condense all your observations into one painting.”
She nodded. “I can do that.”
“Then let us begin.”
He reached into his pocket, producing a small leather-bound parcel secured with string.
Placing it in his lap, he unlaced it with the care reserved for things most precious, and opened the wrapping to reveal a small book.
It looked weathered, the binding charred and flaking, the pages darkened and fragile.
As if it had, by a miracle, survived a fire.
“This was my sister’s journal,” Nathaniel said, and her eyes flew to him, air stilling in her lungs. But he did not return her gaze, his own softening eyes focused on the relic held so gently in his hands. “It is the only thing I have left of her.”
His fingers hovered over the once-soft hide cover, as if he wished to stroke it but dared not, worried that even such a delicate touch would damage it beyond repair.