Page 205 of Sinister

We walk down a winded hallway, and I’m surprised that I don’t recognize any of the paintings in here, nor do I see any familiarity in the technique. There are three on one side and four on the other, all seemingly painted by the same hand.

“What about these? Who are these by?” I ask as I stop in front of one of them.

It’s of a naked man posing like a Greek god, his skin bathed in sunlight coming from behind. He is standing on a grey podium of sorts, his body gleaming, his sinewy muscles painted with such precise rigor.

The painting, however, is unfinished. It stops just above the chest. Pity, it is quite a striking study in anatomy mixed with Romanticism sensibilities.

I move to the next painting. It depicts a lone book in the midst of a sprawling library. The next one shows a wide-open window and a piece of paper breezing in the wind.

The only painting done by the same artist that seems to be finished depicts a sea of people moving forward while one lone person stays behind, alone with the shadows that coil around her into a protective cocoon.

“I’m not sure.” He leans closer to look for a signature. “It’s not signed.”

“That’s a pity. They’re beautiful,” I add. “Especially this one.” I point to the last one.

“That one is my favorite, too.”

“I wonder what the name is.”

“Symbiosis,” he states. My brows go up, and he shows me a small, scribbled script in the corner. No artist name. But there is a title. Strange.

“Symbiosis? That is an odd choice for a name. What do you think it means?”

He’s staring at the painting, his hands behind his back. He has a wistful expression on his face. “Because this person—” he points to the lone figure —“does not need the world to survive. She only needs her faithful shadow to shield her from everything.”

“She? How do you know it’s a she?”

He shrugs. “That’s what it feels like.”

I accept his explanation without much thought. But something lingers in my mind, an impression forming that I am unable to properly phrase or make sense.

We continue our tour, inspecting more of the hidden treasures inside these rooms—wood-paneled walls, more vintage furniture, and elaborate tapestries give the place an air of grandeur, a stark contrast to the cold stone corridor that led us here.

Eventually, we enter a room that leaves me momentarily speechless. It’s a bedroom, but one that has been clearly designed with a woman’s taste in mind. A delicate canopy bed is placed in the center of the room, and its frame is intricately carved with floral patterns. Soft, opulent linens have been laid over it.

“Wow,” I exclaim. “This is such a quaint room, Sin! Did you set it up, or was it this way when you found this place?”

“No, this room was already arranged like this when I stumbled into the underground bunker,” Sin replies, his eyes twinkling with pleasure at my excitement. “Wait until you see this!” he says and opens the wardrobe.

Inside is an array of colorful dresses from the 1800s, an eclectic mix of styles, ranging from loose-flowing gowns with empire waistlines and simple silhouettes to corseted gowns with colorful shawls and fitted jackets.

All the costumes are historically accurate, and I’m astounded at how fresh the colors look.

While I scan the row of well-preserved fabrics, Sin fingers a yellow gown with red floral patterns, his eyes roving over me with a hungry expression.

“Would you try this one? For me?” he asks with a sheepish look on his face.

“You sure? All this looks so expensive, and also quite sensitive,” I reply with a sigh of my own. “What if I damage the dress?”

“You wouldn’t,” Sin replies with a smile. “And even if you did, I don’t think anyone will mind. Besides, I think it would look amazing on you. Anything and everything looks amazing on you.”

“Oh, stop it,” I reply with a blush, but of course, his flattering words please me. I hesitantly take the dress off its rack and feel the soft fabric beneath my fingers. “What if it doesn’t fit me? You know, because of . . .” I point to my stomach.

“It has a high waistline. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

I don’t question how he’d know that, and I try not to imagine him rummaging through the closet of a random woman.

But he’s right. The waist is high enough that it would not be too tight over my stomach. It doesn’t seem to be a Victorian dress, though. Rather, it resembles more mid-1910s Edwardian silhouettes.