Page 22 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“It’s—” she started, the sudden urge to explain herself overwhelming. She wanted to clarify her process, to tell him she is not even remotely close to being finished. To remind him that he knew very well how her style was different to every other painting in the house, because it was he who had chosen her.

But he cut her short, his one word of assessment rushing out of him on an exhale. “Marvelous.”

The word seemed to dispel whatever force had previously claimed hold of him, and he stepped closer, his eyes roving over the panel, seeking out every detail—every shadow to every light, every shade bleeding into the next.

Phaedra watched him, his rapt wonder loosening the tightness in her chest. But the cloud of her uncertainty lingered even as she stepped to his side. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Hawthorn, but it is far from finished.”

“Yes, I can see that, but…” He tilted his head as he examined the lines etched into the painted door frame. “But already the details, the textures, the way the colors blend into each other…” He let out a quiet breath. “It is almost… ethereal.”

She shot him a glance, her pleased smile from the honesty of the reaction faltering over a dawning realization.

It felt as if a shade had been removed from her eyes, and some uncomfortable notion had finally softened among her thoughts. It molded itself better to her understanding, its jagged edges dulled by the simple fact that it was not true. Not in the way she had first understood it.

Nathaniel Hawthorn was not unaffected by beauty. And his cold dismissal of everything around him was not because he could not appreciate what he saw, but rather the circumstance of how it came to be here. And the person it had belonged to.

And as she looked at him now, it felt as if he had finally shed some disfiguring cloak, allowing him to stand in a form that was more true to who he was. One without the need to confuse or misdirect. To hide or to protect. One that could indeed take in the wonders of this world and be moved by it.

She watched the emerald of his eyes as it shifted, stirred by emotion and darkened by the flutter of his lashes, and for a moment she wondered what it would feel like to be beheld like that. To have those eyes, that worshiping gaze directed at her.

A blush moved into her cheeks as she registered the errant direction of her thoughts, and she snapped her head forward, a silent yet exasperated breath escaping her. Then, with a self-assurance she did not entirely feel, she cleared her throat.

“It is the medium,” she said. “So very unnotable from a distance, but once offered the chance to be studied closely… It can take one’s breath away.” She studied the panel, her own eyes moving over the diffused strokes. A tentative smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “It is precisely this effect—this wonder of the beholder—that drew me to it in the first place. Seeing it then for the very first time, understanding how each piece is unique and unrepeatable… It made me realize two things. One: that it would take nothing less than pure force to remove me from its presence.”

Nathaniel chuckled, a quick, low sound that sent a thrill through her. But her unexpected delight at being its cause was short-lived as she realized how seldom she had heard him laugh before. How even his smile rarely seemed genuine, but a fragile thing laced with the shadows of more unpleasant emotions.

She did not notice she had been staring until Nathaniel prompted, “And the other?”

She turned back to her painting. “That I would not rest until I had mastered this craft.”

“And did you?” he asked, the warmth of his amusement folding over them like a halo, driving away the chill of her descending melancholy. “Rest, I mean. Because it is clear to me that you have achieved your goal.”

“Well, Mr. Hawthorn, being an artist yourself, I am sure you know you can never truly master anything.” She shot him a smile, but froze at the sudden shift in his expression, all remnants of good humor erased from his features.

“What is it?” she asked, but she could barely get the question out before his own followed.

“How did you know?”

They stared at one another, and Phaedra watched as something sharper rose to mingle with his stunned surprise. Suspicion. Distrust. A wall erected where none had been before.

“I…” She hesitated. How had she known? The words had come so naturally, she never thought to examine their origin before saying them. And as she looked at him now, it was clear she had been right. But how? “I do not know.”

It was clear he did not believe her, but she was thankful for his reluctant silence that allowed her the chance to unravel the history of her assumptions.

“You’re a pianist,” she said, carefully testing the words.

He nodded, wary.

“Could I have known that?”

His brows shot up, and Phaedra saw that it was this question that finally dispersed his doubts. He tilted his head, piqued interest rushing in to take the place of his earlier reservation.

“I… am not sure. I doubt you could have learned it from the staff.”

Phaedra shook her head. “No, I would have remembered that. Could I have seen it in one of the paintings?” But she knew the answer even before she had finished the question. And yet…

“No.” His response was quick and certain. “There is only one painting with a piano, and that is of my mother.”

“Yes, but…” Phaedra clenched her eyes shut, something snagging at the edges of her memory. She raised her hand, trying to recall the image, the woman with long auburn hair cascading down her back, posture held stiff as her fingers glided over the keys. The room was light, the furnishings few yet masterfully crafted, and there, near the wall⁠—