Chapter 20
The reinforced notion of having stepped into the scene of the journal never made it into Phaedra’s conscious mind, her every thought consumed by the sight before her.
Nathaniel had been right. The green she had used in her painting had indeed been entirely wrong. And as she stared at the contents of the package in her lap, she wondered how she could ever have thought that it would not make a difference.
The parcel held a length of cloth decorated with a pattern so delicate she could mistake it to be but the glimmer of the light dancing across its surface, the fabric soft and smooth under the tentative touch of her fingers.
But it was its color, one that seemed to radiate in the semi-darkness of the library, that made her unable to look away.
She had never seen anything quite like it before. It pulled at her gaze as if it wanted to be the only thing to behold in this world, the only thing worth looking at, its shimmer pulsating in tandem with her very own heart.
But as she watched it in rapt fascination, she slowly became aware of a muffled sound somewhere in the distance, and it took her a few moments to realize it was Nathaniel, speaking to her.
She raised her head to him, but her eyes were reluctant to follow, to leave the glorious sight that felt almost debased by such mundane packaging.
“… and when I finally found her, she seemed unable to understand what I was asking. Even after I showed her the letter of receipt proving that she must still have some of the fabric in her possession, she still hesitated before agreeing to search her stores.”
Phaedra furrowed her brows. “I’m sorry… whose stores?”
Nathaniel opened his mouth, his confusion rivaling hers.
Then his eyes dipped to the open parcel in her lap and her hand molding to the soft surface of the treasure within.
His lips pulled into an amused smile. “Do forgive my rudeness, Miss Mercer. For here I am, prattling on with my tale, without giving you the proper time to get acquainted.”
Phaedra felt her fingers curl into the folds almost protectively, yet she did not allow her gaze to follow his, not at all certain she would have the strength to lift it again.
Her voice was a mere breath as she said, “It is exquisite.” Then she cleared her throat, hoping the act would bring some clarity to the fogging of her thoughts as well. “You were saying?”
“Right.” He straightened. “The dressmaker my father hired. When I finally convinced her to go and check, she came back from the storage room a changed woman. She suddenly remembered everything as she lay down the cloth on the counter. Remembered my father, how he himself had brought in the fabric and the measurements of my mother. Fawned over the man who had been so very much in love with his wife, that he would perform such a menial task otherwise delegated to mere servants.”
Phaedra froze, the world—even the thing of sheer beauty breathing beneath her fingertips—fading as word after word of the afternoon’s study resurfaced before her eyes. She forced herself to blink, then to pull her hand out of the box, the dormant dread awakening in the pit of her stomach.
Because despite his derisive words, Nathaniel did not know the truth of it. Did not even suspect. And the thought of blackening his already tarnished memories seemed to burn through her like acid.
She did not want to do this. Not yet. Not until it was necessary.
She pulled in a breath as she folded the package closed, the lure of the fabric intensifying as if with the knowledge of being shunned. But as it disappeared from her sight, another thought emerged from beneath the turmoil of her guilt.
She sat up, placing the parcel on the table between them, as if the distance would release her attention back to where it was needed. “Your father, he had a dress made… for your mother?”
Nathaniel nodded. “That is what the dressmaker said.” But then his brows furrowed, uncertain from the look of confusion on her face. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the dress—in the end, at least—belonged to your sister. In the portrait it is her and not your mother who wears it.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re right.
How did I miss that?” He raked his fingers through his hair, and Phaedra found her eyes following the movement.
But before her imagination could conjure images of her own fingers gliding through the golden strands, she dropped her gaze, forcing herself to think instead.
“What do you suppose happened?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But maybe my sister can tell us.” He pulled his jacket open to retrieve the journal from his pocket.
“Shall I fetch my sketchbook?” Phaedra offered, rising from her seat.
“No need,” he said, motioning to the table between them. “I have it here.”
Phaedra followed his gaze, surprised to see the pad and charcoal next to the parcel. She raised a brow. “Did you know we would have reason to continue tonight?”
“Not… exactly. Although I must confess, I am eager to read on. But it was your painting that convinced me that we may have a chance.”
Phaedra sank back into her chair. “My painting?”
He nodded. “When I was looking for you after my return, I went to your studio, and saw that you were finished with the first piece. So I was bold enough to take some supplies with me in the hope that we may move on to the next entry.”
The end of his statement lifted into a question, and even though she herself would not claim her painting entirely finished, Phaedra found she did not want to deny him his request. After all, there would be no reason to waste time, and she could certainly work in tandem, adding the finishing touches as she started on something new.
“All right,” she said, pulling the pad onto her lap.
He flashed her a grateful smile, then opened the journal carefully, mindful of the dry and delicate pages. “This one was written a few days after the first. The paper is charred in some places and the words seem cut off at the end, but I am hoping it will be sufficient.”
Phaedra nodded, and he began to read.
—-day, the 20th of October, 1879
Nobody knows I had a hand in this. And as I —- —— at the wonder enveloping my body, I feel I do not care. Not for Mother’s apathy, nor for Father’s potential fury or what he may do with it. Because it is mine now.
And as I sit here in near darkness, sleep pushing down on my every nerve, I find myself unable to part with it just yet. I know I eventually must, but I also ——- —— - —— prolong this time in any way I can.
— ———- - —- - ——- to my skin, like medicine to a disease I never knew ailed me. Everything around me seems to fade out of focus, this color—this wonder—the only thing of worth in this entire house.
- —- — fingers reluctant to leave its folds, my eyes barely able to lift from its radiance to pen these lines, and I find myself grateful for the mirror before me that would grant me glimpses of it in the periphery of my vision.
And I wonder anew if it was mere luck or rather the stroke of destiny that led me to Mother’s chamber that day when ——— —— ———— —- ——————- so he may take them to the dressmaker himself.
Although I should be ashamed of the envy that washed over me, both for his exquisite gift and his willingness to make the trip himself, I am not.
Nor am I ashamed of my decision, for seeing the detached look on Mother’s face, one of almost dejection toward a gift she should be more than grateful for —- —- — ————— —- — ——— — - —- —— ——— —- - — —— ———- ———- ————- — — —- ——- This time it made me angry.
Indignant. Outraged by her sheer ungratefulness.
So when I told her that I would be nothing less than ecstatic in her place to receive such a gift and she muttered the words:
— Then take it.
…I did just that.
I offered to deliver the note to Father, secretly exchanging it to one containing my own measurements.
And when the dress finally arrived today —— —- ———- — ——— —— - —— ——- ——- ————— I claimed it myself from the delivery boy, and took it to my own room instead of hers.
And when I finally opened the package, it was clear I had made the right choice.
That the agony of the wait had been worth it.
For it was indeed agony to part with it.
To imagine someone else touching it, cutting it, piercing it felt almost painful, even as I understood its necessity.
It left me restless, as if my very soul had been ripped free of my body, and I felt no hunger, no fatigue, only — ———— ——- ———- — ——, my fingers trembling with shuddering anticipation to touch it once more. To know it safe where it belongs.
Even now I cannot imagine, cannot bear to think that someone else should ——- - - - ——— It was always meant to be mine. I know it as I know the lines of my face and the hue of my thoughts. And I know that would it ever come to it - - ——- — ——— — ——— ——— — —- ——
Phaedra looked up, the sudden silence jolting her back into the flickering darkness of the library. The shape of her surroundings slowly solidified around her, and even though her mind broke from the imagined scene, her body was still held tight, trapped in a state of disorienting turmoil.
Because she knew that feeling. That pull.
Recognized the tyranny of its hold over sanity and rational thought.
Knew what it meant to be so overcome that she would do anything not to lose the thing—the person—that had elicited it.
To endure anything so that it—he—would stay.
She knew the thorned chains that would mask their chafing into the heedless grip of longing, and knew the aching void left behind once the truth had been allowed to break them.
She knew what it meant to have barely a sliver of her heart left while—
“The rest of it is destroyed,” Nathaniel said, his voice soft, his movements slow as he closed the journal.
Phaedra’s jaw clenched as his fingers brushed over the once smooth surface of the binding, and she wondered if the ragged edges of that void could be soothed by so gentle a touch. “Do you think it would be enough?”
She raised her eyes to his, to the green that seemed near black in the darkness, and for a moment she almost let herself hope that he would see through her. That he would indeed discern the turn of her thoughts, and the blight of her past, and would—
She stopped herself, the pressure in her limbs too much to bear.
Because this was not the answer. And he was not the cure. Whatever had been before, she was long free of it. And this, however strong its grip, however surprising that it still held, was but an echo of what once had been.
She was free.
She pulled in a breath, and forced her eyes to the pad in her lap, easing her fingers from the creasing paper. She traced the dark lines of her sketch, each stroke bringing calm to the restless pounding of her heart, merging slowly into the steady anchor of renewed purpose.
Her voice was almost devoid of tremors when she said, “Yes. I shall start tomorrow morning.”