Chapter 23
Footsteps fell like hammers in the dark, and Phaedra ran. Walls flew by, their dreary colors draining until all that remained was a verdant pulse, urging her on with every beat.
Yet the steps came ever closer, ringing out now just behind her, the billowing darkness rushing before her the only sign that this time, she might just make it. Escape into the room, and lock it behind her. Fall into the emerald light waiting to set her free.
She gasped as hot breath streamed over the prickling skin of her neck, the thud of footsteps so close it could have been the sound of her own frantic feet. Gritting her teeth, she trained her eyes on the door.
She was almost there. A few more steps and she would be safe. Away from the menace pounding as if through her very bones. Away from whatever horrid thing he would have her do this time. Because this time she would make it.
The heat of an outstretched hand fell over her back, and still she hoped—believed—it could happen. That she could—
Phaedra woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Sunshine cascaded over her in golden waves, yet she could still feel the icy grip of the phantom hand landing on her shoulder, the heavy steps echoing into the high space around her.
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, her head pounding with every footfall. Then they stopped.
“Miss Mercer?” The voice came as if through a fog, then the steps resumed a more hurried pace. Nathaniel dropped to his knees beside her, his hand grasping her arm in breathless alarm. “What happened? Are you alright?”
It was the distress in his tone that finally dispersed the remnants of her dream, and Phaedra blinked up at him, the ache in her head moving into her neck and shoulders.
“I… Where am I?” she croaked, her voice hoarse, as if long unused. As if she had been sleeping for a very long time.
She straightened, surveying the sun-drenched room around her, and was surprised to find herself in the ballroom, sitting by the fireplace. She slumped back into the cushions, her eyes fluttering closed. “I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”
“Almost noon,” he said.
There was something so tender in his voice that Phaedra felt the need to open her eyes, to witness its trace in his expression before it could disappear. Then her gaze dropped to his hand still folded around her arm.
“Forgive me,” he muttered, carefully lifting his fingers from her sleeve. “I did not mean— I’m sorry if I startled you.” He pulled his hand into his lap, but did not get up. “I was worried. You did not come to dinner last night, and no one saw you this morning, and…”
He trailed off, his earnest expression almost too sweet, too devastating to behold.
“I’m sorry I made you worry,” Phaedra said, her voice tight against the strain in her throat. “It seems I have been too caught up in my work.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, his eyes moving toward the painting on the easel.
He pushed to his feet, and Phaedra moved to follow, her stiffened muscles protesting her attempt to rise. Without looking away, Nathaniel offered his hand, and she took it gratefully.
His lips tilted in a smile as he said, “It’s perfect. More than I ever could have imagined.”
She turned to follow his gaze, then staggered as sudden vertigo shifted the earth from under her feet. Her hand gripped his, but it was his arm around her waist that saved her from the fall.
“Miss Mercer!”
His alarmed voice came as if smothered, but Phaedra could only squeeze her eyes shut, her head wanting to split from the pain, the dizziness pulling and pushing on her body like a massive wave.
So she held on to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, her forehead falling to rest against the taut muscle of his shoulder.
She pulled a breath into a chest that would not expand, and waited for the world to settle around her. If it ever would.
Because what he had said was right. It was perfect. Even if she did not remember finishing it.
Despite her body’s reaction, the thing on her easel was the most beautiful thing she had ever made.
The most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
The fabric, radiant in the blinding light, fit snugly onto the form in the painting, the composition giving the impression of an actual person sitting in the confines of the panel, real and alive.
The pounding in her head returned, this time radiating through her entire body.
But only when she felt the previously withheld breath cascade down her cheek and over her neck, did she realize it was not her own heart thundering through her, but his, its beat heavy against the palm of her hand resting on his chest.
She swallowed against the knot lodged in her throat. She could feel his touch burn into the lines of her waist, the press of his body sending a shudder down her own, and she knew that she would only need turn her head so their lips would meet.
“I’m fine,” she heard herself say. She pulled away, the cool air of the room rushing in to displace the heat of his chest against hers, and she took a step back, testing her balance. “I am… merely tired. I think I need to go back to my room and lie down.”
“Of course,” he said, and Phaedra could not help but notice the strain in his breath, or how his hands were slow to leave her, perhaps still unsure that she could bear her own weight. Perhaps. “Would you need me to—”
“No,” she interjected, before she could change her mind. “Thank you.”
She turned away without looking at him, or anything else, until she was safely out the door.