Chapter 12
When Matilda knocked on her door the next morning, Phaedra was already dressed.
The anticipation of what would come next had seeped into her dreams, guiding her steps along green hallways pulsing with the heavy beat of her heart, moving her ever closer to the door she still could not reach.
But as her eyes had sprung open to the first light of dawn, it had not been the fright of nightmares singing in her blood, but the flutter of excitement for the things yet unraveled.
Falling back to sleep had been out of the question.
Yet despite the nervous twitch of her fingers, eager to finally pick up her brush, she could not bring herself to leave her room just yet. She knew there was one more thing she must do—or rather, let happen—and she awaited the arrival of the maid with mixed emotions.
She knew it superfluous to have the girl attend to her hair each morning, indeed remembered her vow not to allow it again. Yet she could not help this strange urge that had overcome her, shifting her seemingly so solid convictions as if overnight.
She could not explain why the very thing she had previously thought so intrusive now seemed a necessity, but it felt important to look the part she would be taking. Even if she did not wholeheartedly agree.
So she sat before her vanity, allowing the girl free reign of her locks, as her own fingers toyed with the corner of the pad before her.
She could feel the impossible pull of the sketch beneath the cover, and her hands moved multiple times to open the pad before her mind caught up with them.
And each time she smoothed the cover back into place, her heart racing from the betrayal of trust she had almost committed.
Although Nathaniel had not explicitly stated that the sketch itself should be kept a secret, there was no doubt to the confidential nature of what they were undertaking, and even the idea of a breach—even if involuntary—of that intimacy sent a hollow clang through her frame.
Matilda, unaware of Phaedra’s struggle, worked with the same vacant yet blithe expression, her deft fingers weaving Phaedra’s hair into a braided crown on the back of her head. A few curling strands were left to frame her face, adding softness to the otherwise regal style.
Phaedra watched her reflection come alive in the mirror, a feeling of confidence stirring within her at the sight.
The image felt foreign yet familiar, as if displaying an alternate life in which she had been dealt a more fortunate hand.
A life in which every choice was her own, and every consequence not only earned but welcomed.
It showed someone who was not afraid. Someone who would not be denied. Someone ready to conquer and claim.
She stood, the imagined power of who she saw pulsing through her and into the room, the emerald walls vibrating with it before reflecting it back into her in an endless game of mirrors.
Unafraid. Undenied. Conquer and claim.
Nathaniel.
“Mr. Hawthorn is in his study, miss.”
Phaedra turned to the maid, her brows knitting. But the girl had already moved on, her back turned as she went to tidy the bed.
“Thank you,” Phaedra muttered, uncertain. She grabbed the pad from the vanity, and stepped out the door, the strangeness of the comment slipping from her mind as she walked through the verdant hallway.
When she arrived to the breakfast room, she was met with the good news that her supplies had arrived and been deposited in the ballroom. Excitement surged through her, and the thought of sitting through a meal suddenly felt unbearable, with or without Nathaniel.
She glanced at the assortment of dishes laid out on the table, and with a hasty yet assured decision, she gathered some fruit and a steaming cup of coffee on a tray. Then, with a polite smile and a nod, she left the room to the astonished stares of the servants.
She sped through the halls, unwilling to give herself the chance to pause and heed the call of the many things of beauty around her. She wondered how much time she would need to be entirely accustomed to the magnificence of it all.
That Nathaniel was so dismissive, she could come to understand.
His seemingly unembellished tastes, underlined by such unpleasant history within the house, were more than enough to offer an explanation.
But she could not understand how the staff managed such a display of indifference, their formality, the way their eyes never strayed making them feel less… alive.
She could not help imagine what their reaction had been to the disaster.
How they would have moved to help, and, when that had proven futile, to clear the charred remains of their masters.
She wondered what they knew about Nathaniel’s suspicions and the way he endeavored to unearth any underlying secret.
And whether they, in turn, knew anything of substance about the tragedy or the time leading up to it.
Things that would be left out of Ana’s journal simply because she had not been aware.
She turned the last corner and stopped before the doors of the ballroom, her brow furrowing.
She knew Nathaniel had questioned the staff himself, but she could now imagine things omitted from the testimonies, due either to shame that they would know something they should not, ignorance that it could be important, or a lingering sense of loyalty to people who were no more.
And of course, there was always the possibility that in the end, their venture would come to nothing. That there would be no secret, no truth to Nathaniel’s doubts. Only the fancy of a guilt-ridden soul.
With a sigh, she turned the brilliant knob and pushed open the door, carefully balancing the tray in her hand.
Her steps rang out as she traversed the marble dance floor, the sound echoing into the wide vault of the ceiling.
She set the tray on the mantelpiece, then turned to survey the parcels stacked around the table.
They were many and varying in size, and as she set about opening them one after the other, she found Nathaniel had spared no expense.
While Phaedra was used to working with quality materials—had indeed made it a point at the start of her career, lest her art pay the price she would not—what she had before her were supplies unmatched in their superiority.
The wax was smooth and thick, the vials of pigments pure and rich, the various instruments made with the best craftsmanship one could find.
She traced her fingers over the containers, over the brushes, knives, and tools now neatly arranged on the table before her. Here lay the perfect foundation to create something truly memorable. The rest was up to her skill.
She unwrapped a large mahogany panel, surprised not only by the repeated superior choice in material, but also to find it already prepared, in need only for a final sealing before the first layer of wax could be applied. This would speed up her work considerably.
She lifted the panel onto the easel, her chest heaving from the unexpected exertion.
“Right,” she breathed, then turned toward the mantelpiece to retrieve her pad from under the plate of fruit.
She flipped it open and placed it onto the table, examining it with what she hoped were fresh eyes.
A shaft of warm yellow light fell upon the drawing, the gray clouds of the previous days finally parting beyond the window.
Phaedra smiled at the charm of this heavenly display, as if the skies themselves had a vested interest in their endeavor.
She followed the path of the light concentrating on the figure of the sister standing motionless, transfixed by the magnificence of the fabric before her.
Everything else seemed to fall into shadow—the room, the furniture, the very form of her parents, their presence of no consequence, their strange dynamic nothing more than a backdrop to her wonder.
Phaedra cocked her head. She supposed that could have been indeed the case, at least from what she could surmise from the single entry Nathaniel had shared with her thus far.
Ana’s person did feel as if caught inside a bubble, her perceived invisibility in the eyes of her parents—or at least of her father—creating a barrier around her, leaving her to exist in any way she chose fit, without the knowledge, judgment, or even perception of the outside world.
But as she would weave her own existence inside that cage, its walls would separate her in another way as well.
She herself would not notice the things happening around her, in this inconsequential framework to her own fantasies.
Yet, there was a story there too, in those shadows.
Phaedra’s eyes narrowed as she studied the two figures frozen on the cusp of leaving the room. It almost seemed as if they would step out of the frame, the urgency of the departure evident in the lines of their bodies—lovers reunited, fleeing into privacy.
The words of dedication in the poetry book flashed through her mind, the breathless adoration that resonated in the very ink staining the page, and Phaedra suddenly knew she was correct in determining their destination.
Yet, there was something else hiding in the fringes of her mind, something Ana’s words had alluded to without being aware of its meaning.
Something on the paper before her, straining at the edge of the blinding light clashing into fathomless shadow. An expression of almost—
There was a sound, and Phaedra lifted her head to the doors on the other side of the room, then froze, mesmerized by the beauty that had invaded the space without her noticing.