“I would, actually.” I ambled over to a canvas sitting on an easel, a cloth thrown over it. I was careful as I removed the covering to reveal a painting that contrasted with the nature scenes littered about the room. This one was mostly black, shadows coiling around trees and empty fields, although it gave me the uneasy feeling that something was looking out from that emptiness. I turned to another veiled canvas and peered at a dried-up riverbed, trees bare and lifeless as a moon bathed the scene in cool blue.
“Are these his most recent works?” I asked.
Maxwell frowned as he took the pieces in. “I haven’t seen them before. Emmett has been very secretive about his works lately. I’m not sure why. It must be because he’s experimenting with a new style.” He rubbed one of his arms, as if to warm it. “I’m not sure I approve.”
“Perhaps he knew you wouldn’t,” I suggested, stepping closer. The detail was striking; I made out an owl resting in the grasp of a twisted tree branch. The paintings actually reminded me quite a bit of the time I’d spent awake during such hours, when the world was still. There was something romantic about the loneliness of night, and these paintings spoke to that. “I think he’s onto something with these, honestly. They may be less joyful, but he’s capturing the essence of night in a profound way.”
“Is he?” Maxwell stooped to examine the paintings closer. I turned and brushed my shoulder against his, growing still at his closeness. I watched Maxwell’s eyes drink in the paintings, scrutinizing every inch of canvas; I did the same to his face, as if to memorize it. He wasn’t the beauty Ambrose was, and yet … I felt drawn to him nonetheless, a pull that was hard to shy away from.
“There was never denying his talent,” Maxwell said at last, straightening. “But I prefer sunny scenes.” He seemed to be aware of our closeness all at once, and his eyes lingered where our shoulders touched. Even though we were separated by fabric, it was like something thrummed between us there. Maxwell must have felt it too, I thought, but then he slid away casually as if nothing had occurred.
Zachariah seemed to miss the encounter, stepping back from one of the grim paintings and cocking his head, studying it. “At least he moved on from immortalizing Isabel. These are more captivating by default.”
I swallowed hard, blinking to refocus on my surroundings, on what I was doing here. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and paused as I met my own gaze in a mirror slightly tarnished from neglect. It was still an odd sensation to behold my reflection after years of walking by mirrors with only emptiness looking back, a void to match a soul growing weary of the decades passing, one after another. I’d had only the reactions of my victims to reflect what I was. And they had informed me that I was a soulless monster.
I took a shuddering breath then tried for a smile, watching my lips curve upward, dimples deepening to lighten my visage. I really was tremendously handsome. But without this face, this body, I was just left with … what I had become. I needed to see this shell to remind me that I was more than cruelty and perverse pleasure.
Stop overthinking things,I chided myself, looking around for a distraction from the mirror. My eyes fell on one last canvas still covered in cloth. I snatched the veil off with little ceremony, exposing a graveyard at night, fog reaching ghostly fingers toward the observer.
“He did have a phase where he devoured penny dreadfuls,” Maxwell said, suddenly at my side again. “Perhaps he was inspired by those ghastly stories.” He shrugged. “Cecelia would likely approve.”
Zachariah snorted. “That she would.”
I pointed out a gravestone at the center of the painting. It had words splayed across it. “Together in the next life,” I read aloud.
Maxwell snapped his fingers. “That’s what this is about. Father acquired several books on reincarnation recently. He’s been interested in it, as a dying man.”
I sighed. “Of course, death is on your brother’s mind, what with your father so close to dying.” What had Cecelia said last night? That the family had already started the grieving process?
“I suppose this was a wild-goose chase.”
I gestured to his earlier paintings. “I don’t know. Isabel spent a lot of time with him. We know she’s holding something back. This only confirms that if anyone has the answers, it’s her.”
Maxwell scowled. “I don’t see Isabel being forthright about anything.”
“No,” I said, frowning. “I don’t either.”
We locked the studio after us, then ensured Beezle didn’t sneak out of Emmett’s room between our legs as we secured the door to his bedchamber. I ambled down the staircase after the other two in silence, contemplating the bloody mattress and the mysterious note, before Zachariah turned to Maxwell with a mocking bow. “I will bid you both good day, to make my appointment.” He met my eyes as he straightened. “Theywill likely appreciate me, at least.”
I crossed my arms, grinning. “I appreciate your need for attention.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Maxwell bit his lip, which did little to hide his smile as Zachariah flounced toward the doors. “You do like attention,” Maxwell told me.
I shrugged. “More like I’m accustomed to it.”
We made our way to the library, where I wanted to peruse the texts on reincarnation Maxwell had spoken of. Melbourne and Cecelia were already in the room, the latter with a stack of books on a table before her, while Melbourne drummed his fingers impatiently on the back of his chair. He brightened when he noted our arrival.
“Well, look who it is,” Melbourne greeted us. “When we were placed as far from you as possible at breakfast, I thought it might have been a slight.”
“No slight was intended, I assure you,” Maxwell smiled.
“Cecelia,” I greeted. “We were just talking about you.”
“Is that so?” she asked, raising her eyes from her books skeptically. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be insulted?”
“Because you know me too well already,” I sighed, shaking my head. Maxwell slapped my shoulder good-naturedly and I winked.
