Page 201 of Sinister

The words hang heavily between us, and I am torn between several emotions—suspicion, understanding, even compassion.

But the former prevails as I scan my surroundings. It’s so similar to my dreams, from the big ceiling to the ornate furniture and homely environment. But if I dreamed about this . . . then there’s something else I must check.

I take off with single-minded focus, circling the room and examining the bookcase carefully, recalling the hidden rooms from my dreams.

I run my fingers along the edges, pushing and prodding until—sure enough—I find something.

There, concealed within the bookcase, is an entrance.

As I pull it open, I’m met with a smaller, shadowed room.

I stare at it, stunned.

The details from my dreams may have been fuzzy, but the evidence before me is not.

Painting supplies.

All kinds of canvases scattered around—each and every one of them empty.

Yet as I step closer, inspecting the supplies more carefully, I notice how old they are. Some of the paint colors have been discontinued for decades. Others are infamous in art history for containing poisonous compounds.

And yet they’re all still here.

It’s not that someone bothered to bid on these at auctions or snatch them from estate sales. No—these supplies have been here all along.

“Sin, what is this?” I whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me.” I turn to him sharply. “What is this?”

He exhales slowly. “It seems to be an art room of sorts.”

“Yes, but why is it here?” I press.

“Petra, I don’t know, I swear.” And, for once, I believe him.

The air is thick and stale. Dust coats every surface, even the hinges of the door. No one has opened this place in a very, very long time.

“How did you know it was here?” he asks, moving to stand beside me.

I hesitate before answering, the words tasting strange on my tongue.

“ I dreamed about it.”

“You dreamed about it?” He blinks in surprise. “Was this another one of those dreams from the past? Was someone else there?” He asks a barrage of questions that makes my head spin.

“Yes, it was a dream from the past,” I answer slowly. “I . . .”

“So you were here before? With whom?”

“I don’t know, Sin. It’s all a confusing mess in my mind. But somehow, I knew this room would be there.”

He opens his mouth as if to ask more before closing it. I don’t understand why he’s so insistent about me being here with someone else. At the same time, I also don’t understand why I don’t straight up answer his question and tell him the truth—about dream-Sin and our Victorian love affair.

Yet the more I stare into his eyes, so familiar, so achingly beautiful, I have to confront one of my deepest fears. I don’t trust him. Not fully, anyway. If I did, I would have gladly told him everything.

But as it stands, I don’t know what to believe anymore.